º
§
§
§3.

*::::s Lº
| JITUTIQUINTVſiflº º ||||||||}|{{ſº}
#ETTTTTTTTºlſº §IIITTTTTTE; Hi
|Fºº-ſi
; : 3 E yºA. E. H.
| | | E . y- Hº
li LIBRARYºyof the Hà
: ; Hº { ÉÉ
#|,INIVERSITYOF MICHIGº |H||
# UN 4 …~ VIIIG É i
#| So sºrtºtººs: J = #:
# 3 H - …nº ºf #:
t #3 - ) ſ fi
i W. - W. %3 £5.
' H \ º, º 2. %
Hy * #.
|#S #
; : ZºZº. |
HEY: #
#||8 #
- E|{ º R #:
# 3. #.
### *: -r; - - ----- #
: 3 E -- *: ić. #:
HäTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTIſ: #
it. Fººf






lmag. Woy.
#... ." . "
i * .
f's
Ç.

L I T T E L L 'S
L I W IN G. A. G. E.
C 0 N D U C T E D BY E. L. ITT E L L.
E PL, U R IB U S U. N. U M .
These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the
chaff thrown away.”
*
W O L. X I.
OC TO BE R, N 0 V E M B E R , D E C E M B E R , 1846.
B O S T O N :
PUBLIS H E D B Y E. L. ITT E L L A N D C O M P A NY.
PHILADELPHIA, M. CANNING & Co., 272 Chesnut Street.
NEW YORK, WILLIAM Taylor, Astor House.
PARIS, O. Rich & Sons, 12 Rue Pot de Fer.
* STEREOTYPED BY GEORGE A. CURTIS.
-,-,-,-，-，-，-- +→. +→ → → → --***** - -*** -*
4v. 99 ºvá.
rºyº
| 4:2- tº 5.5 pſ:
2.92, tº 4%.
Sºo -4--S a ..
*
f
INDEX TO WOL. XI. OF LITTELL’S
Astronomy, Two Systems of, 54
Arago, M., . . . . . 14
Alamo, Defence of,
. . 175
Arracacha Plant, . tº 200
Algeria, Past and Present, . 219
Alligators, . . . . . 229
Antiquities, Manufacture of, 304
Apostolical Loosing and Bind-
ing, . . . . . . . 473
Austria. . . 544
Buckingham Palace, . . . 22
Boone, Daniel, . . . . . 23
Body's Use to the Mind, 99
Beef from Russia, ... 108
Bats and Field Mice, . 177
British Association, Meeting
of, . . . 185, 305, 353, 399
Brazil, Foreigners Dying in, 197
Bache, Lieut., . . . . ~239
Bostock, Dr., . . . . 240
Bloodshed and Bibles . 296
Banking in Prussia, . . 319
Bible and Home, . . 320
Bourbonian Mania, . . .391
Blood, Mrs. Willard on, . . 442
Buchanites, . . . . . 445
Biblical Legends of the Mus-
Sulmans, . . . . . . . 446
Bonaparte Letters and De-
spatches, . . 585
Bedford Cºrrespondence, . 622
Cards, Letter Envelopes, &c., 25
Carpet Bag, Philosophy of . , 98
Cracow, and the Treaty of
Vienna, . . . . . . 102
Cotton, Gun, 120, 303, 440, 476
Cholera, . 149, 441
Canada, Government of, . . 149
Memorial from, . . .324
Commercial Movements in the
East, .
Campbell,
. . . . . . 165
Lord, and Miss
0|England, Condition of,
Electric Telegraph, . 196, #
20
European Politics, . . . 317, 537
Emigrant, The, . . 379, 517
England's Colonial Empire, . 33
Fuller, Miss S. M., Papers on
Literature and Art, . 65, 344
Free Trade, 196, 197,284, 348
Frozen Sub-soil, . . . 242
Fox, Henry Stephen, . 252
French Historical Memoirs, 373
Fuller, Scraps from, 448, 461,
473, 521, 536, 567
France and England Quarrel,
539, 541, 543, 583
Germany, Price of Land in, 200
German Emigration, . . 202
Galvanic Currents on the Heart,
284
Greece in 1843–44, . 557
Harvew on the Circulation of
the Blood, . . . .
IIochelaga, . 178, 379
Homicidal Impulse, . . 270
Highlands, §. Sports of, 322
Hunt, Leigh, . ‘. . .368
24
60
97
Infant S. ools, Author of, .
Ivanhoe, Continued, . i
Ireland, Progress of, .
's Weakness
En g-
land's Opportunity .. 102
’s Confusion, . . 542
Italian Organ Boys, . . 200
Iron in Siberia, . 200
Industrial Schools, . . 284
Italy, 348, 621
Jenyn's Natural History, . 181
Jacquard, the Silk Weaver of
Lyons, # . . . 205
Strickland, . . . . 1974Jesuits, . . 276-
Copyright, International. . Kafir War 162
y iº i. i. º ſº
Convict Ships, . . . . . . #. #. Wm.; . . . . . . 304
Currents of Air and Ocean, 200 '. on the Filmºn
Corset, Use of, . . . 203 3 * tº º º
Church in the Catacombs. 397. Lover, Samuel, . 95-
Clarkson, Thomas, 298, 438 Life Insurance, . 195
College Celibacy, . . . 397
Constantinople in the Fourth
Century, . . . . . . 428
Cottar's Sunday, . . . 487
Cologne, Cathedral of, . 568
Duke and Opera, . . 96
Deluge, The, . ... 109
Druidical Temples, . 159
Death, New Sign of, . 184
Dark, Seeing in, . . . 241
Dost Mahomed Khan, . 249 |
Denmark, . . . . . 317
Diplomacy, . . . . . . .480
D'Arblay, Mad., Diary and
Letters of, . . . . . . . 48
Eland Hunt, ... 108
Louis Philippe and Family, 199
Lacing, Tight, . . . . 200
Literature for the Colonies,
248
Le Verrier's Planet, .
. 332
57
. . . 85
110,247,291,
293, 390, 392, 542, 534
Montgomery, James,
Montaigne, . . .
Mexican Question,
Methuen's Wanderings in
South Africa, . . . . .
Monte Video and Buenos
Ayres, . . . &
M'Kennev's Indian Memoirs, 160
Mice in Germany,
Maize, .
º 135,321, 32.
Murder and Mummery, .
LIVING AGE.

Middle Ages, Truths and Fic-
tions of, . . . . . 209
Microscope, Commercial Value
of, . . . . . . . 248
— and its Revelations, 449
Music Book, The, . . . .352
Monthly Periodicals, . . 440
Murder, Training to, . 482
Mexican War Plan, . . 534
Mole, The, . tº . 614
Novel Importations, . ... 101
North Pole, The, . . 171
Nuisances, . . . . 196
Nothing is Useless, ... ...: 345
News of the Week, 288,377,474
National Mistake, . 341
Nugent, Lord, , 557
Omnibuses, . . . . . . 196
Ornithological Anomaly, , 275
Overbury, Murder of, . 590
Paintings Discovered, . 84
. 139
Pickpocket's Complaint, .
Pope, . . . . . . 148, 348
Peel's Principles of Taxation, 151
Punch, 152, 184, 265, 270, 287,
296, 365, 367, 376, 496,
Proper Names in Poetry, . 168
Pledged Representatives, . 196
Panama Canal, . . . 291
Police Portraiture, . 349
Poet's Bazaar, . . 350
Paris Fortifications, .. . 404
Prussian War Sketches, . 489
PoETRy.
Bell, Song of the, . . 536
Childhood's Tune, . . 461
Con Amore, .
Devil's Patrol, .
- Earnest Remonstrance on
Southey, Mrs., Selections
from her Poetry, . 230
Sword, Song of the . 415
Sea Lyric, . . . . . . . . 469
Should you meet My True
. . . . 488
. 198 l
Love, . . .
Thou, God, seest me, . . 477
Threading the Needle, . 627
World a Sepulchre, . 427
“Waving Fronts,”. 91
Fpitaph on a Dog, . . 152
I'lowers, . { } . 120
Lilies of the Field, . 218
—My Mother, by W. B. Tap-
pan, . . . . 163
Memory, . . . . 194
Morat, Field of, . 427
Not to Myself Alone, . . 177
Old Maid, The, . 244
Princess, to a Young, . . 627
. 584. . .
. 403
*
INDEX TO WOL. XI.
J;-º:
Woman's Lot, . . 469
Quarterlies, Poor Old, . . 479
Railway Parcels, . . 104
Luxuries, . 316
s at Home and Abroad,
+: 497
Russian Propaganda in Poland,
107
172
Marriage Tyranny,
Prohibition of Swiss
Teachers, . . . . . 275
Randolph's (John) Grave, . 195
Robinson Crusoe, Miss, her
Adventures, . . 285, 367
Rivers Military Defence of, 325
Spanish Marriage Question, 105,
118, 293, 345, 478, 537
Spontaneous Motion, . 92
— Sounds, . . . 199
Style, . . . . i. 98
Salt Monopoly in India, . . 150
Slave Trade, . . . . . 164
Sydney, Government Class at,
183
. 184
230
372
483
. 483
Slight Circumstances,
Southey, (Mrs.) Poems of,
Social Progression, º
Sunday Trains in Scotland,
Scandal in High Life,
Son to His Father, ... 619
Stray Leaves, . . 620
TALEs.
Boar Hunt in Brittany, . 334
Belle, The, . 416, 462
AConde's Daughter, . . 253
* Crusoe, Miss Robinson, 55,285,
. 367
Disponent, The, . 66, 121
Ecrivain Public, 41
Misanthrope, The Young, 402
Pretty Old Woman of Vevay, 34 |
Selling Out, . . 266
St. Giles and St. James, 299,
470, 615
Temptation and Atonement,522,
545, 593
Wases Sacres, Les, . 271
Timber, Durability of, 95
Tchingel Glacier, . 173
Thames Tunnel, . . . 197
Tom Thumb's Phrenology, . 240
Turkish Slavery, . . . . 543
Universal Language, . . 344
Vegetable Instinct, . 166
Venice Convention of Natural-
ists, . . . . . 220
Wollaston, Life of, . . . 9
Water, Burning of, . . 183
Ward, Rob't Plummer, . . 239
Walpole's George Second, , 393
Water Doctors, . . . .398
Willard, Mrs., on the Blood, 442
I, ITT E L L’S LIVING A G E.
sm--
From the British Quarterly Review.
(1.) The Bakerian Lecture for 1828.
Method of rendering Platina mall able.
W. H. Wollaston, M.D., W.P.R.S.
(2) Philosophical Transactions for. 1829. A
Description of a Microscopic Doublet; On a
Method of Comparing the Light of the Sun with
that of the Fired Stars; On the Water of the
Mediterrancan. By W. II. WoLLASTON, M.D.,
W.P.R.S.
WILLIAM HvDE Woll. Aston, one of the ablest
and most renowned of English chemists and natu-
ral philosophers, was born August 6, 1766, and
On a
By
died in December, 1828. Seventeen years have
passed away since his death, and yet no biography
has appeared, although he has as wide a reputation
among men of science as Sir Humphrey Davy, of
whom lives innumerable have been written. This
has in part arisen from the comparatively retired
life which Wollaston led, and the reserve and
austerity of his character. He was not, like his
great contemporary, a public lecturer to a highly
popular institution, and thereby an object of inter-
est, not only to men of science, but likewise to
ion. . His life was spont in his laboratory, from
which even his intimate friends were excluded; and
the results of his labors were made known only by
essays, published for the most part in the Transac-
tions of the Royal Society of London. His dis-
coveries, however, were so many, and of so impor-
tant a kind, and made his name so wide
known,
that we cannot but wonder that no bi zaphy of
him has yet appeared., Two of his blications,
the one containing the description of , reflecting
goniometer, the other explaining process by
which platina pay be rendered m able, would
alone have enti ed Wollaston to a pace in the roll
of natural ph sophers worthy of lengthened re-
membrance, rºad he been a German, some patient,
painstaking fellow-countryman, would long agó
have put on record all that could be learned con-
cerning his personal history. Had he been a
Frenchman, an eloquent Dumas or Arago would
have read his eloge to the assembled men of science
of the French capital, in language acceptable to
the most learned, and intelligible to the most un-
scientific of men. His fate as an Englishman is,
to have his memory preserved (otherwise than by
his own works) only by one or two meagre and
unauthenticated sketches, which scarcely tell more
than that he was born, lived some sixty years, pub-
lished certain papers, and died.
With the exception of some faint and imperfect
glimpses of an austere taciturn solitary, perfecting
wonderful discoveries in a laboratory hermetically
sealed against all intruders, we learn almost nothing
of the individuality of the worker. A few anec:
dotes, incidentally preserved in the lives of some
of his contemporaries, contain nearly all that has
*een published concerning his personal history.
CxxV. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI. 1
i
º
We have been informed that, soon after Wollas-
ton's death, all the documents and materials neées-
sary for his biography were placed in the hands of
a gentleman well qualified for the task of writing
it. The expected work, however, has not appear.
ed, and, so far as we are aware, no progress has
been made towards its production: e trust that
the idea of publishing a life of Wollaston has not
been abandoned, and that we shall yet see his per-
sonal history placed on permanent record.
Meanwhile, we think we shall do our readers a
service, by bringing before them such a sketch of
the philosopher, as the scanty materials at our dis-
posal enable us to furnish. Imperſect and frag-
mentary as it necessarily is, it will give them some
idea of a very remarkable man. An experienced
crystallographer can tell from a few sandlike grains,
or a single detached and rounded angle, that the
crystal of which they once were parts was a per;
ſect cube, a many-sided prism, or a symmetrical
pyramid. The geologist can infer from a tooth or
claw much concerning the whole animal to which
it belonged. We trust that our readers will in like
manner be able to piece our biographical fragments
! together into “one entire and perfect chrysolite ;”
students of literature, and even to people of fash-
and that they will find the palaeontologist's guiding
mottoes, “Ex ungue Leonem,” “Ex pede Her-
culem,” lead them to the conclusion that they are,
dealing with one of the megatheria among men of
SC1Ence.
William Hyde Wollaston belonged to a Stafford-
shire family, distinguished for several generations
by their successful devotion to literature and
science. His great-grandfather, the Rev. William
Wollast, n, was author of a work famous in its
day, entitled, “The Religion of Nature Delineat-
ed.” His father, the Rev. Francis Wollaston, of
Chiselhurst, in Kent, from his own observations,
made an extensive catalogue of the northern cir-
cumpolar stars, which, with an account of the in-
struments employed, and tables for the ºductions,
was published under the title of “Fasciculus As-
tronomicus,” in 1800. º
The subject of our memoir was the se ond son
of the astronomer, and of AJ' ea Hyde, of Char.
ter-house square, London. J-e was one of seven-
teen children, and was born at East Dereham, a
village some sixteen miles from Norwich, on the
6th of August, 1766. After the usual preparatory
education, he went to Cambridge, and entered at
Caius College, where he made great progress. In
several of the sketches published of him, he is
said to have been senior wrangler of his year ; but
this is a mistake, arising out of the fact, that a
person of the same surname, Mr. Francis Wollas.
ton, of Sidney Sussex College, gained the first
place in 1783. , Dr. Wollaston did not graduatº in
arts, but took the degree of M.B. in 1787, and that
of M.D. in 1793. He became a fellow of Caius
College soon after taking his degree, and continuº;
one till his death. At Cambridge he resided till
1789, and astronomy appears to have been his
10
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
favorite study there, although there is evidence to
show that at this time, as at a later period, he was
very catholic in his scientific tastes. He probably
inherited a predilection for the study of the heaven-
ly bodies from his father, and it was increased by
his intimacy with the late astronomer royal of
Dublin, Dr. Brinkley, now Bishop of Cloyne, and
with Mr. Pond, formerly astronomer royal of
Greenwich, with whom he formed a friendship at
Cambridge which lasted through life.
In 1780, he settled at Bury St. Edmunds, in
Suffolk, and commenced to practise as a physician,
but with so little success, probably on account of
the peculiar gravity and reserve of his manner, that
he soon left the place and removed to London. He
succeeded, however, no better in the metropolis.
Soon after reaching it, a vacancy occurred in St.
George's Hospital, and Wollaston became candi-
date for the office of physician there. The place
was gained, however, by his principal opponent,
I}r. Pemberton, “who, it is said, either by superior
interest, or, as is commonly supposed, by his more
pleasing and polished manners, obtained the situa-
tion.” It is added in several of the notices of
Wollaston, “that on hearing of his failure, in a fit
of pique, he declared that he would abandon the
profession, and never more write a prescription,
were it for his own father.” This statement must
be received with hesitation. So staid and sedate a
person as Wollaston was, is not likely to have
given utterance to the hasty and intemperate ex-
pressions attributed to him; and so prudent a man
would not have bound himself by a rash vow to
abandon his profession, unless he had seen the
prospect of occupying himself more pleasantly and
profitably in another way. This account, indeed,
is in direct contradiction to another; which is so
far authentic, and entitled to greater credibility,
that it is contained in the report of the council of
the Astronomical Society of Great Britain, pre-
sented at the anniversary meeting in 1829. In the
obituary notice of Wollaston given in that report,
it is mentioned, “that he continued to practise in
London till the end of the year 1800, when an ac-
cession of fortune determined him to relinquish a
profession he never liked, and devote himself
wholly to science.”
He had no occasion to regret the change even in
a pecuniary point of view, the only one in which
his abandonment of medicine was likely to have
injured him. His process for rendering crude
platina malleable, which conferred so great a ser-
vice on analytical chemistry, is said to have brought
him more than thirty thousand pounds, and he is
alleged to have made money by several of his
minor discoveries and inventions.
The remainder of Wollaston's life must be re-
ferred to in terms like to those in which the sacred
writer of the Book of Chronicles finishes his brief
record of each Jewish king : “Now the rest of
his acts and his deeds first and last are written in
the book of the kings of Israel and Judah.” What
the book of the Jewish kings is to their lives, the
archives and records of the Royal Society are to
our scientific men. Dr. Wollaston became a fellow
of that society in 1793, and was made second sec-
retary in 1806. He was for many years vice-pres-
ident, and in 1820, between the death of Sir J.
Banks and the election of Sir H. Davy, he occu-
pied the president's chair. . There were not a few,
indeed, among the influential members of the soci-
ety, who would have preferred him to Davy as
permanent chairman; but Wollaston having signi-
fied his fixed intention to decline competition, gave
the whole weight of his influence to Davy, and the
latter was elected.
His communications to the Royal Society are
thirty-nine in number, and, along with his contri-
butions to other scientific journals, refer to a greater
variety of topics than those of any other English
chemist, not excepting Cavendish. In addition to
essays on strictly chemical subjects, they include
papers on important questions in astronomy, optics,
mechanics, acoustics, mineralogy, crystallography,
physiology, pathology, and botany, besides one on
a question connected with the fine arts, and several
describing mechanical inventions.
We shall endeavor to give the reader some idea
of certain of the more important of these papers,
discussing them, however, not in their chronological
order, but according to a classified list.
Five are on questions of physiology and pathol-
ogy, and do not admit of popular discussion. The
most curious of these is a paper on “Semi-decus-
sation of the optic nerves,” and single vision with
two eyes. Besides its interest as a scientific essay,
it is important as having been occasioned by specu-
lations concerning the cause of a remarkable form
of blindness from which Wollaston suffered, during
which he saw “only half of every object, the loss
of sight being in both eyes towards the left, and
of short duration only.” This peculiar state of
vision proved in the end to have been symptomatic
of a disease of the brain, of which he died.
Eight or nine papers are on optics, but our limits
will not allow us to discuss them.
Wollaston published two papers on astronomy,
one “On a Method of Comparing the Light of the
Sun with that of the Fixed Stars,” of which we
can only give the title; the other is, “On the
Finite Extent of the Atmosphere,” and is one of
the most interesting physical essays on record. It
was published in January, 1822, in the May pre-
ceding which, a transit of Venus over the sun's
disk took place. Wollaston was induced in conse-
quence to make observations on this rare and inter-
esting phenomenon. None of the larger observa-
tories were provided with suitable instruments for
watching it; but our philosopher, with that singu-
lar ingenuity both in devising and in constructing
apparatus which we shall afterwards find to have
been one of his great characteristics, succeeded by
a few happy contrivances in making a small tele-
scope completely serve the purpose. His special
object in watching the passage of Venus, was to
ascertain whether or not the sun has an atmosphere
like that of the earth. He satisfied himself that it
has not, and embodied his results in the paper, the
title of which we have given.
It is a very curious attempt to decide a most diffi-
cult chemical problem by reference to an astronom-
ical fact. The chemical question is, do the elements
of compounds consist of indivisible particles, or
atoms, or do they not! It is a branch of the great
problem which has occupied physics and metaphys-
ics since the dawn of speculation, in vain attempts
to decide either way, viz., is matter finitely or in-
finitely divisible? Our author undertakes to show,
not only that this difficulty may be solved, but that
in fact it was solved, though no one was aware of
it, as early as the discovery of the telescope, and
Galileo's first observation of the eclipses of Jupiter's
IIlOOIlS.
His mode of reasoning is as follows. If our air
consist of an infinite number of particles, then as
these are known to be self-repulsive, there can be
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
11
no limit to the amount of its expansion. It will
spread out into space, on every side, and be found
surrounding each of the heavenly bodies. $
If, on the other hand, the atmosphere consist of
a finite number of molecules or atoms, it will find
a limit at no great distance from the earth. For
the force of repulsion between the atoms will rap-
idly diminish as they recede from each other, till
it become insufficient to oppose the counteracting
force of gravity. The air will then cease to expand,
and present a row of bounding molecules, prevented
from falling towards the earth by the repulsion of
the particles between it and them, and from reced-
ing from the earth by their own weight. The con-
clusion from this reasoning is, that if astronomy
can show that any one of the heavenly bodies has
not an atmosphere of the same nature as, ours,
chemistry will be entitled, and indeed compelled, to
infer, first, that our atmosphere, and then that all
matter, consists of finitely divisible particles or
true atoms.
The astronomical problem is casily and specdily
solved. The moon is too near us, to permit of ob-
servations of the necessary kind being made, as to
her possession of an atmosphere similar in consti-
tution to ours; but according to telescopic ohserva-
tion, she is a naked globe. The phenomena pre-
sented when Venus or Mercury passes close to the
sun, certify that he has no atmosphere like that of
the earth; but his high temperature, and its possi-
ble effect on an atmosphere, if he have one, some-
what lessen the value of the fact. Jupiter, how-
ever, and his five moons, admit of observations
which make it certain that our aerial envelope has
not reached to that heavenly body.” When his
satellites suffer eclipse by passing behind him, they
'appear to a spectator on the earth, to move across
his disk till they reach its edge, when they instanta-
neously disappear. . When they reappear, after
moving round him, they emerge in a moment from
behind his body, and start at once into full view.
Had Jupiter an atmosphere like ours, the occulta-
tion of his satellites would not occur as it is ob-
served to do. Our sun, when he sinks below the
horizon, remains visible to us by the light bent up
or refracted to our eyes, through the transparent
air, and twilight slowly darkens into night. In like
manner, long before the rising sun would be seen,
if our globe were naked, the air sends up his rays
to our eyes, and he becomes visible. if Jupiter
had an atmosphere like that of the earth, each of
his moons, instead of disappearing at once behind
his disk, would exhibit a twilight recession, and
slowly wane away. When it returned, it would
be seen much sooner, after being lost sight of, than
it is at present, and would gradually wax brighter
and brighter till it came fully into view. In other
words, the atmosphere of Jupiter would send back
the light of the satellite to us, after the latter dis-
appeared behind the planet; and would send for-
ward that light before the moon reappeared. Wol-
laston shows that, in the case last supposed, the
fourth satellite would never be eclipsed, but would
remain visible when at the very back of the planet.
*The reader will observe that the argument is based,
not on the fact of the heavenly bodies lacking atmos.
pheres, which some of them may possess, but on their
wanting atmospheres of the same nature as ours. We
cannot apply § to ascertain whether oxygen and
nitrogen, or the other gases of our atmosphere, envelope
distant globes; but we can bring optics to discover
whether a power to refract light such as our air possesses
§xists around any of these spheres. From the text it will
seen that no such power has been observed in any case.
It is certain, then, that the earth's atmosphere is
limited, and according to Wollaston it is equally
sure that matter is only finitely divisible.
The paper we are discussing excited great atten-
tion among men of science; and for a long period,
though few implicitly assented to the validity of
the argument, no one appeared able to detect any
fallacy in its reasoning. It was commented on by
Faraday, Graham, Turner, and Daubeny, as an im-
portant contribution to chemistry; and referred to
by Dumas as the only attempt which had been made
in modern times to decide by physics the question
of the finite or infinite divisibility of matter. More
recently, it has been shown that the fact that the
atmosphere is limited will not justify the conclusion
which Wollaston deduced from it.
It has been suggested by Dumas, following out
the views of Poisson, that the low temperature
which is known to prevail in the upper regions of
the atmosphere, may be such at its boundary as to
destroy the elasticity of the air, and even to con-
dense it into a liquid or freeze it into a solid. The
outer envelope of our atmosphere is thus supposed
to be a shelf of frozen air. If this view be just,
our atmosphere is limited, not because it consists of
atoms, but simply because a great cold prevails in
its upper regions.
Professor Whewell has shown that Wollaston
was not entitled to assume that the law which con-
nects the density of the air with the compressing
force is the same at the limit of the atmosphere, as
it is near the surface of the earth. He suggests a
different law which may prevail, and which would
terminate the atmosphere without the assumption
of atoms.
Lastly, it has been pointed out, that though all
Wollaston's postulates were granted him, they
would only entitle him to infer that the atmosphere
consists of a finite number of repelling molecules.
Tº establish this, is to establish nothing. We are
still on the threshold of the argument. Each mole-
cule supplies as good a text whereon to discuss the
question of divisibility, as the whole atmosphere
out of which it was taken. The point which most
of all demanded proof, namely, that the molecule
was an atom, was the very one which Wollaston
took for granted.
Beautiful, then, and certain as are the astro-
nomical facts brought to light by Wollaston, they
supply no decision of the question of the divisibility
of matter. That problem still presents the same
two-fold aspect of difficulty which it has ever ex-
hihited. If we affirm that matter is infinitely
divisible, we assert the apparent contradiction, that
a finite whole contains an infinite number of parts.
If, pressed by this difficulty, wº seek to prove that
the parts are as finite as the whole they make up,
we fail in our attempt. We can never exhibit the
finite factors of our finite whole; and the so-called
atom always proves as divisible as the mass out of
which it was extracted. Finity and infinity must
both be believed in ; but here, as in other de-
partments of knowledge, we cannot reconcile
€III,
th #. greater number of Wollaston's strictly
chemical papers, with the exception of those refer-
ring to physiology and pathology, are devoted to
the exposition of points connected with the chemis-
try of the metals. He was the discoverer of pallº-
dium and rhodium, once interesting only as chemi-
cal curiosities, but now finding important uses in
the arts. He discovered, also, the identity of
columbium and tantalum. He was the first to ro
12
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
cognize the existence of metallic titanium in the
slags of iron furnaces; and he is the deviser of the
important process by which platina is rendered
malleable. He published, also, analyses of me-
teoric iron, and showed that potash exists in sea
Wilter.
The majority of the essays in which these dis-
coveries were made known, are of too limited and
technical a character to admit of notice in the pages
of our journal. There is one of them, however,
that, “on a process by which platina may be ren-
dered malleable,” which cannot he dismissed with-
out a word of explanation.
It must seem curious to a general reader, that
much value should be attached to a mere metallur-
gical process, however ingenious. He will be
further perplexed by learning that the Royal So-
ciety, passing over Wollaston's claims to reward,
as the author of important speculative, and purely
scientific papers, selected this essay as the object
of their special commendation. The strong words
used by the council of the society are, “Your
council have deemed themselves bound to express
their strong approbation of this interesting memoir
by awarding a royal medal to its author, and they
anticipate with confidence a general approbation of
what they have done.” It may help the reader to
understand why the paper in question is esteemed
so highly if he be made aware of the following
facts.
Among other bodies which the alchemists of the
middle ages thought it possible to discover, and
accordingly sought after, was a Universal Solvent,
or Alkahest as they named it. This imaginary
fluid was to possess the power of dissolving every
substance, whatever its nature, and to reduce all
kinds of matter to the liquid form. It does not
seem to have occurred to these ingenious dreamers
to consider, that what dissolved everything, could
be preserved in nothing. Of what shall we con-
struct the vessel in which a fluid is to be kept,
which hungers after all things, and can eat its way
through adamant as swiftly as water steals through
walls of ice : A universal solvent must require an
equally universal non solubile in which it may be
retained for use.
The modern chemist's desire has lain in the
opposite direction from that of his alchemical fore-
father. It is the non solubile, not the solvent, that
he has sought after, and Wollaston supplied him
with that in malleable platina. Long before the
close of last century, the chemical analyst found
the reagents he had occasion to make use of, alka-
hests or universal solvents enough, for the vessels
in which he could contain them. For the greater
number of purposes, glass and porcelain resist suf-
ficiently the action of even the strongest acids,
alkalies, and other powerful solvents. In some
cases, however, they are attacked by these, and
caunot be employed in accurate analysis. When-
ever, moreover, it is necessary to subject bodies to
a high temperature along with active reagents, as,
for example, in the fusion of minerals with alka.
lies, porcelain can seldom be employed, and is
often worse than useless.
It was in vain that chemists had recourse to sil-
ver and gold, as substitutes for the insufficient clay
in the construction of their crucibles. These
metals melt at comparatively low temperatures,
and, before a sufficient heat can be attained to fuse
the more refractory substances enclosed in them,
they run into liquids, and the crucible and its con-
tents are lost in a useless slag.
In consequence of this insufficiency of his tools,
the analytical chemist was brought to a complete
stand. Whole departments of his science lay
around him unexplored and unconquered, tempting
him by their beauty and their promise. He could
only, however, fold his arms and gaze wistfully
at them, like a defeated engineer before a city
which his artillery and engines have failed to sub-
due.
It was at this crisis that Wollaston came for-
ward to put a new weapon into the hands of the
chemical analyst. Several years before he turned
his attention to the subject, scattered grains of a
brilliant metal had been found in the sands of cer-
tain of the South American rivers. To this, from
its resemblance to silver, or in their language plata,
the Spaniards gave the name of platina, or little
silver. This metal was found to resist the action
of nearly every substance except aqua regia; to
suffer no change, nor to become rusted by pro-
tracted exposure to the atmosphere ; and to be
perfectly infusible by the most powerful forge or
furnace.
Here then was a substance for the chemist's
crucible, could a method of working it only be dis-
covered. But the very properties which made its
value certain, if it were wrought into vessels, for-
bade its being easily fashioned into them. It
occurred in nature only in small grains which
could not be melted, so that it was impossible, as
with most other metals, to convert it into utensils
by fusion. Neither was it possible by hammering
to consolidate the grains into considerable masses,
so that vessels could be beaten out of them, for the
crude metal is very impure. Accordingly, it hap-
pened, that for years after the value of platina had
been discovered, it could not be turned to account.
Whole cargoes of the native metal, although it is
now six times more costly than silver, are said to
have lain unpurchased for years in London, be-
fore Wollaston devised his method of work-
ing it.
hat method was founded upon the º
which platina possesses of agglutinating at a hig
temperature, though not melted, in the way iron
does, so that, like that metal, it can be welded, and
different pieces forged into one. This property
could not, however, be directly applied to the
native grains owing to their impurity and irregu-
larity in form.
Wollaston commenced by dissolving the metal
in aqua regia; purified it whilst in solution from
the greater number of accompanying substances
which alloyed it; and then, by the addition of sal
ammoniac, precipitated it as an insoluble compound
with chlorine and muriate of ammonia. When
this compound was heated, these bodies were dissi-
pated in vapor, and left the platina in the state of
a fine black powder, which was further purified by
washing with water.
It was only further necessary to fill a proper
mould with this powder well moistened, and to
subject it to powerful compression. By this pro-
cess the powder cohered into a tolerably solid
mass, which was gently heated by a charcoal fire,
so as to expel the moisture and give it greater
tenacity. It was afterwards subjected to the in-
tensest heat of a wind furnace, and hammered
while hot, so as completely to agglutinate its parti-
cles, and convert it into a solid ingot. This ingot
or bar could then he flattened into leaf, drawn into
wire, or submitted to any of the processes by
which the most ductile metals are wrought.
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
13
We have passed over unnoticed many practical
minutiae essential to the success of Wollaston's
process. The reader is more concerned to know
that the platina crucible has been one of the chief
causes of the rapid improvement which chemistry
has recently undergone, and that it is an indispen-
sable instrument in the laboratory. The costliness
of the metal has not forbidden its application to
manufacturing operations even on the largest scale.
In the oil of vitriol works, stills of platina are
made use of for distilling sulphuric acid, each of
which, though holding only a few gallons, costs
above a thousand pounds. A coinage of platina
was introduced into the Russian dominions, which
possess valuable supplies of its ores; but though
roubles and other coins struck in it, occasionally
Yeach this country as curiosities, we understand
that the coinage has been withdrawn by the im-
perial government, in consequence of the fluctu-
ations that occur in the value of the metal.
In our own country, from the great consump-
tion of platina in chemical processes, its value has
rapidly risen even within the last few months; but
it is constantly shifting.” Nothing but its rarity
and costliness prevent its application to the con-
struction of every kind of culinary vessel, for
which its purity, cleanliness, and enduringness
especially fit it. A thousand other uses would be
found for it, if it were more abundant.
Were it now the custom to honor men after
death according to the fashion of the Greeks and
Romans, Wollaston's ashes would be consigned to
a gigantic platina crucible, as to a befitting and im-
perishable sepulchral urn.
is other chemical papers are all important.
One of them, “on the chemical production and
agency of electricity,” proved, by singularly inge-
nious and beautiful experiments, that identity of
voltaic and friction electricity, which Faraday has
since confirmed by still more decisive trials. The
others had reference chiefly to the atomic theory,
which Wollaston was a great means of introducing
to the favorable notice of chemists. One was “On
superacid and subacid salts,” and contained one of
the earliest and most convincing proofs which can
be given of the existence of such a law of multiple
proportion, as Dalton had announced. The other
on “A synoptical scale of chemical equivalents,”
first brought the laws of combination within the
reach of the student and manufacturer,
Wollaston published three papers on the shapes
of crystals, and on the mode of measuring them.
No branch of science is less inviting to the general
student than crystallography. Nevertheless, we
must be allowed to refer briefly to one of Wollas-
ton's essays on that subject. The most superficial
sketch of the philosopher whose works we are con-
sidering, would be inexcusably defective if it
passed it by. º º
The paper we refer to is, entitled, “Description
of a reflective goniometer,” and, next to that con-
taining the account of the platina process, is per-
haps Wollaston's most important contribution to
science. It is much more difficult, however, to
convey an idea of its value, than it was in the case
of that essay.
* Platina costs at present, in the state of ingot or bar,
rom, 30s. to 35s. per ounce, wholesale. Manufactured
articles from 32s, to 42s. per ounce, also wholesale. The
retail prices are from 5s. to 10s. higher. Virgin silver
sºlº, at 5s. 5d. per ounce, wholesale; at 0s. per ounce,
retail, when manufactured. Sterling silver is worth 4s.
11d. per ounce.
There are no bodies, perhaps, more interesting
to a greater number of persons than crystals. The
rarer native ones which we name gems, rank with
the precious metals in expressing by the smallest
bulk the greatest commercial value. The precious
stones have been hallowed in the minds of many
from their earliest days, by the terms in which
they are alluded to in the Bible. The lavish use
made of them in adorning the dress of the Jewish
high priest; the manifold references to them in the
books of the prophets, and in the more impassioned
writings of the Old Testament; and most of all
the striking and magnificent way in which they are
referred to by St. John as types of the glories of
the world to come, must satisfy even the most
careless reader of the Scriptures, that God has
marked them out as emblems of indestructibility,
rarity, worth, beauty, and purity. Their appro-
riateness for this purpose must strike every one.
he painter has counted it a triumph of his art to
imitate even imperfectly their colors and brilliancy.
Poets have all loved to sing of them. Beauty, in
every age and clime, barbaric and civilized, how-
ever much she has loved caprice in other things,
and has complained of ennui and satiety, seems
never to have tired of her rubies and emeralds, or
to have grown weary of admiring her “family
diamonds.”
And if the symbolical, asthetical, fictitious and
commercial value of crystals has been great, their
worth to the man of science has not been small.
The mineralogist counts them the most precious
treasures of his cabinet. The geologist defines and
marks out rocks by them. The electrician has de-
tected curious phenomena by means of their aid.
The investigator of the laws of heat finds them of
indispensable service in studying his subject. The
optician is indebted to them for the greatest gene-
ralization of his science, and for the discovery of
many of its most delightful, though most intricate
departments. Recently they have been declared
to present remarkable and hitherto unsuspected re-
lations to magnetism. The chemist considers a
knowledge of crystallography absolutely requisite,
not merely as enabling him to identify substances:
without the trouble of analyzing them, but likewise.
as unfolding analogies of the greatest importance.
in relation to the classification of chemical com-
pounds. Medical men have discovered that, in
many dangerous disorders, crystals show them-
selves in the fluids of the body, and now study
their shapes with the utmost care as a means of
detecting and alleviating disease. Finally, the
greatest mathematicians have counted it a worthy
occupation to investigate the forms and geometri.
cal relations of crystals. . We need only remind
our scientific readers of the labors of Huyghens,
Young, Fresnel, Arago, Brewster, Sir William
Hamilton of Dublin, Herschel, Mohs, Weiss,
Mitscherlich, Faraday, not to mention a multitude
of others, to satisfy them that we have not over-
stated matters. The undulatory hypothesis of
light, the laws of its double refraction, and those
of its polarization, have been suggested or dis-
covered by observations with crystals. The same
remark applies to the laws of the radiation and
polarization of heat, and with limitations might be
extended to other branches of natural philoso:
phy. There is not, indeed, a single physical
science which has not an interest in crystallog-
raphy. º tº ſº
%m this brief statement it will appear, that
nearly every class of scientific men was certain to
14
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
gain by the invention of an instrument, which prom-
ised greatly to facilitate, and to render more ac-
curate, the study of crystals. We will not say
that the poet, the painter, or the beauty owed Wol-
liston any thanks. They did not, at least, imme-
liately ; but in the end it may appear, and it would
fºot perhaps be difficult to demonstrate, that they
are all gainers by the progress of science. We re-
turn, however, to the reflective goniometer.
A goniometer, as its name implies, (yuria, an
angle, wirgov, a measure,) is an instrument for
in asuring angles. The appellation, though sus-
“eptible, of course, of much wider application, is
restricted to an apparatus for measuring the angles
of crystals. Different goniometers were in use be-
fore Wollaston invented his, but they were com-
paratively rude, and could only he applied to large
crystals. This limitation of their employment was
doubly disadvantageous. Many substances can be
obtained only in minute crystals. In every case,
small crystals are ceteris paribus more perfect than
large ones. Wollaston's instrument not only ap-
plied to very diminutive crystals, but gave more ac-
curate results the smaller the crystal was, provided
only it were visible. It was able to do this from
the peculiarity of its principle, which lies in this,
that instead of measuring the angle formed by the
meeting of two faces of a crystal directly, it mea-
sures the angle formed by the meeting of rays of
light reflected from them. It requires, in conse-
quence, only that the crystal shall be large enough
to have visible faces, and that these shall be suffi-
ciently smooth to reflect light.
When Wollaston published the account of his
goniometer, he stated as an evidence of its superi-
ority to those previously in use, that whereas a
certain angle of Iceland spar was reputed to be of
one hundred and four degrees, twenty-eight min-
utes, forty seconds, it was in reality of one hundred
and five degrees.
It cannot but seem surprising that it should be
of interest to a mineralogist or chemist, to know
that the angle of a crystal is by half a degree
greater or smaller than it has been supposed to be.
The importance of the observation arises out of the
fact, that a great number of substances which as-
sume the solid form affect perfectly regular shapes,
or, as we say, crystallize. The figures which they
thus present are not inconstant and uncertain, but,
within prescribed and narrow limits, are perfectly
fixed and invariable. Common salt, for example,
the greater number of the metals, and many other
bodies, when they occur as crystals, show them-
selves as cubes, or solid six-sided figures, with all
the faces squares, and all the angles right angles.
The well-known doubly-refracting Iceland spar
(carbonate of lime) crystallizes in an equally regu-
lar and perfect, but different shape. Its crystals
are six-sided but the faces are rhombs, or resem-
ble the diamond on a pack of cards, and its angles
are not right angles. From extended observations
on the crystalline shapes of bodies, the important
law has been generalized, that “the same chemical
compound always assumes, with the utmost pre-
cision, the same geometrical form.” This enun-
ciation of the law must be accepted with certain
important qualifications and exceptions, which our
3.nits do not permit us to dwell upon. This one
point, however, we are anxious to explain: the
constancy of form affirmed to exist in crystals does
1. ot manifest itself “in equality of the sides or faces
ºf the figures, but in the equality of the angles.”
It is the angle, therefore, and not the face of a
crystal, which is important, the latter may vary, the
former must not; hence the value of a goniometer,
or angle measurer.
Again, many crystals have the same general
shape. A very common form, for example, is an
octahedron, or double four-sided pyramid, ar-
ranged, like two Egyptian pyramids placed base to
base. But though the general configuration is
similar, the angles at which the faces of the pyra-
mids incline towards each other are different in dif-
ferent substances, and distinguish each crystal from
all its fellows. Yet the differences in angular in-
chination, though constant, are often very small;
hence the importance of the reflective goniometer,
as enabling the observer to detect the shightest dif-
ference in angular value between apparently simi-
lar crystals. For the trouble of a tedious analysis,
and the sacrifice of perhaps a rare substance, we
are thus frequently able to substitute the simple
device of measuring the angle of its crystals.
The fact has a general interest, also. To the
law which the goniometer has discovered, we are
indebted, for the exquisite symmetry and perfection
of shape which make crystals, like flowers, delight-
ful objects merely to gaze at. They may be
crushed to fragments, or dissolved in fluids, or
liquefied by heat, or dissipated in vapor, but they
grow up again like trees from their roots, or flow-
ers from their seeds, and exhibit their old shapes
with a fidelity and exactitude of resemblance,
which no tree or flower ever showed or can show.
We heard much of the restoration of the recumbent
warriors in the Temple ehurch of London, and still
more of the skill shown in piecing together the
broken fragments of the Portland vase; but all
such restorations are poor and faint imitations of
the art, with which nature not only restores but re-
produces the works of her chisel.
Were all the crystals in the world reduced to
dust, in good time they would each reappear.
The painter and the poet would not only find the
tints, and play of color, and sparkle, exactly as be-
fore, but the mathematician would try in vain to
discover the smallest fractional difference in the
value of their angles. Unity in variety is the voice
of all nature ; but in the case of crystals, the unity
almost pushes the variety aside.
To descend from these speculations, the reader
will understand, that as every crystallizable sub-
stance has an unchangeable form peculiar to itself,
the crystalline figure of a body is an important
character by which it may be recognized and iden-
tified.
But this is the lesser service which the reflective
goniometer has rendered to science. Early in this
century, a great German chemist, Mitscherlich, com-
paring the results obtained by Wollaston's instru-
ment, with those procured by analysis, in the case
of crystalline bodies, discovered a very curious and
unexpected law. It appeared, that when sub-
stances resemble each other in chemical characters,
their crystalline forms are also similar. When the
similarity in chemical properties is very great, the
shapes become absolutely identical. It is a very
singular circumstance, which no one appears to
have in the least anticipated, that where two close-
ly-allied bodies, such as arsenic and phosphorus.
unite with the same third substance, they should
produce identical forms when the respective com-
pounds are crystallized. Each face of the one
slopes at the same angle as the same face of the
other. A mould of a crystal of the one would fit
a crystal of the same size of the other. A goni-
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
15
ometer set at the angle of the one, would exactly
measure the angle of the other. Such crystals are
named isomorphous, a Greek word synonymous
with the Latin one, similiform, also made use of.
Taught by this law, the chemist, to his astonish:
ment, found himself able to ascertain chemical
analogies by measuring angles of crystals, and sup-
plied with a means of controlling and explaining the
results of analyses, which otherwise seemed only
to lead to contradiction and confusion. Crystalline
form is now one of the first things attended to in
classifying chemical substances, and is the basis of
most of our attempts to arrange them into groups
and natural families.
We cannot delay on this curious subject. Suf.
fice it to say that the announcement by Mitscher-
lich of the law of isomorphism at once overthrew
the prevailing systems of mineralogy, and demand-
ed their complete reconstruction. It changed, also,
the aspect of chemistry, and where its influence on
that science will end we cannot yet tell.
It deserves especial notice, but has never obtain-
ed it, in histories of the progress of chemistry, that
he who, by his gift of the platina crucible, enabled
his brethrén to extend the whole science, and espe-
cially to subject every mineral to analysis, by his
9ther gift of the reflective goniometer showed them
how to marshal their discoveries. The latter in-
strument has been to the chemist like a compass-
needle or theodolite to the settlers in a strange
country. By means of it, he has surveyed and
mapped out the territory he has won, so that new
Q9mers may readily understand the features of the
district; and has laid down pathways and roads,
along which his successors may securely travel.
A mere list of papers is a dull thing, of no inter-
est, to those acquainted with the papers themselves,
and of little value to those who are not. The reader,
however, must bear with us a little, whilst we bring
briefly before him three other essays by Wollas.
ton ; they are all curious, and, besides their intrin-
sic value, are important as illustrating the versatil-
ity of his mind, and the singular accuracy of all his
observations.
One of them is on the interesting and poetical
subject of “Fairy rings.” Most persons in this
country must be familiar with the circles of dark
green grass which are frequently seen in natural
pastures, or on ground which has long lain un-
ploughed. They are particularly abundant on
commons and in sheep-walks, such as the chalk-
downs in the south of England. Their dimensions
are so great, and they are so symmetrical, and so
much darker in color than the surrounding herb-
age, that they never fail to attract the attention of
even the most careless passer by. These circles,
a beautiful rural superstition supposes to have been
marked out by the feet of fairies, whirling round in
their midnight dances: they have, in consequence,
been named fairy rings. It is well known, also
that they gradually increase in dimensions: in cer.
tain cases, even by as much as two feet in a single
year. A heliever in elves might suppose that the
fairies, from time to time, admitted their children
to their pastimes, when they were done with the
dancing-school and fit for presentation, or in other
ways added new guests to their parties, and re-
quired more spacious waltzing-ground.
These beautiful and mysterious circles the chem-
ist would not leave to the poet. Keats has com-
plained that—
'T is numbered now amongst the catalogue
Of common things.”
Science, which would not spare the rainbow, has
had no mercy on the fairy rings; though, in truth,
both the one and the other still are, and ever will be,
as truly the possession of the poet as they were of
old. łł. is no one, we suppose, who does not
sympathize with the poetical rendering of the fairy
ring ; and no one, probably, who does not at the
same time wish to know what the scientific version
is also. Wallaston furnished us with the latter.
He was led to form the opinion we are about to
state, by noticing “that some species of fungi were
always to be found at the margin of the dark ring
of grass, if examined at the proper season.” This
led him to make more careful observations, and he
came to the conclusion that the formation of the
ring was entirely owing to the action of the fungi
in the following way. In the centre of each circle,
a clump or group of toadstools or mushrooms had
once flourished, till the soil, completely exhausted
by their continued growth on it, refused to support
them any longer. The following year, according-
ly, the toadstools which sprang from the spawn of
the preceding generation, spread outwards from the
original spot of growth towards the unexhausted outer
soil. In this way, a barren central place came to be
surrounded by a ring of fungi, year by year increasing
in diameter, as it exhausted the earth it grew upon,
and travelled outwards in search of virgin soil. But
this was not all. The toadstools, as they died, ma-
nured or fertilized the ground, so that, although for a
certain period the place where they had grown was
barren, by-and-bye the grass flourished there more
luxuriantly than elsewhere, and manifested this by its
greater length and deeper color. In this way, each
circle of mushrooms came to be preceded by a ring
9ſ withered grass, and succeeded by one of the
ºpºst verdure, and as the one increased the others
did also.
On Salisbury plain, near Stonehenge, where, as
in a hallowed and befitting locality, fairy rings
abound, we have tested the truth of Wolíaston’s
View. The sides of the low mounds which cover
that plain are variegated by the circles in question.
A few are imperfect; quadrants and semicircles;
the greater number wonderfully symmetrical, and
to appearance completely circular. The latter ex-
hibit with great uniformity, the phenomena which
Wollaston describes. A plot of grass, resembling
in tint and appearance the ordinary herbage of the
down, stands in the centre of a dark green ring five
or six feet in diameter. This is fringed by a forest
of fungi, and they in their turn are bounded by a
circle of stunted, withered grass. This last phe-
momenon was quite in keeping with Wollaston's
theory of the origin of fairy rings. He observes
that “during the growth of fungi they so entirely
absorb all nutriment from the soil beneath, that the
herbage is often for a while destroyed, and a ring
appears bare of grass surrounding the dark ring;
but after the fungi have ceased to appear, the soil
where they had grown becomes darker, and the
grass soon vegetates, again with peculiar vigor.”
These views of Wollaston have been beautifully
confirmed by the recent researches of Professor
Schlossberger of Tübingen, into the chemical com-
positions of the fungi, by which it appears that
they contain a larger quantity of nitrogen, of phos-
phates, and of other salts, than any of our cultivat-
ed vegetables. In conscquence of this, they must
“There was a glorious rainbow once in heaven;
exhaust the soil more when they grow on it, and
I6
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
on the other hand fertilize it more, when restored to
it ; than any other plants. Dr. Schlossberger has
accordingly recommended the employment of the
fungi as manures.”
We conclude this subject by remarking that our
great poet, who had an eye for everything, connects
fairy rings and mushrooms together, almost as if
he had anticipated Wollaston. Our readers will
remember the passage in the Tempest:
“You demy-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pas-
time
Is to make midnight mushrooms.”
In another, and one of the most curious of his
papers, Wollaston again plays the part of disen-
chanter of a poetical fancy.
It is entitled, “On the apparent direction of the
Eyes of a Portrait.” Into this essay we cannot
enter at length, but it deserves a word of notice.
One large part of it is occupied in showing that we
are unconsciously guided in our estimate of the di-
rection in which the eyes of another are turned, not
merely by the position of the iris (or colored circle)
and whites of these eyes, but likewise by the direc-
tion of the concurrent features, particularly those
which are more prominent, as the nose and fore-
head. However unexpected this statement may be,
or perplexing the explanation of it, Wollaston puts
it out of the power of the least credulous of his
readers to deny the fact, by the plates which accom-
pany his paper. In these he shows that the same
pair of eyes may be made to look up, or down, or
to either side, merely by altering the direction of
the nose and forehead which accompany them. In
this paper, also, he supplies an explanation of the
familiar fact, that “if the eyes of a portrait look at
the spectator placed in front of the picture, they ap-
pear to follow him in every other direction.”
We need not remind the reader how many allu-
sions are made to this optical phenomenon in the
works of our poets and novelists, with whom it has
ever been a favorite engine for cheering, terrifying,
or instructing their heroes. Here, for example, is
one of Sir Walter Scott's many references to it.
When Colonel Everard visited Woodstock lodge,
where an ancient family portrait hung upon the
walls, “He remembered how, when left alone in
the apartment, the searching eye of the old warrior
seemed always bent upon his, in whatever part of
the room he placed himself, and how his childish
imagination was perturbed at a phenomenon for
which he could not account.”
It did not escape Shakspeare. To take a single
case. When Bassanio opens the leaden casket,
and beholds Portia's portrait, he exclaims
“Move these eyes?
Qr whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion 1”
A beautiful poem of Mrs. Southey's, “On the
removal of some Family Portraits,” turns almost
entirely on the subject we are discussing. The ex-
planation is very simple: The only portraits which
exhibit the ubiquity of look referred to, are those
which have the face and eyes represented as direct-
cº' straight forwards. A certain deviation from ab-
solute straightforwardness of look may occur, with-
* We have seen fields lying fallow in the south of
I}:gland, because, as was alleged, they would not bear
crops, although they were thickly covered with edible
thºushrooms. Where the latter grow freely, wheat, and
the other grains, are certain to flourish also.
out the phenomenon disappearing, although in that
case it will be less apparent; but if the face and
eyes are much turned to one side, it is not observed.
In a front face, the same breadth of forehead, cheek,
chin, &c., is depicted on either side of the nose,
considered as a middle line. The eye, also, is
drawn with its iris or colored ring in the centre,
and the white of the eye shown to the same extent
on each side of the iris. In a countenance so re-
presented, if the eye appear fixed on the spectator
when he stands in front of the portrait, it will con-
tinue to gaze on him, from whatever point he re-
gards the picture. If, for example, he place him-
self far to the one side of the painting, the breadth
of the face will appear much diminished. But this
horizontal diminution will tell on the whole face
equally, and will not alter the relative position of
its parts. The nose will still appear with as much
breadth of face on the one side as on the other, and
therefore stand in the centre. The iris will still
exhibit the same breadth of white to the right and
to the left, and continue therefore to show itself in
the middle of the eye. The countenance, in fact,
will still be directed straight forward, and its ex-
pression remain unchanged.
One other reference will conclude our discussion
of Wollaston's Essays. The last paper we men-
tion is, “On Sounds inaudible to certain ears.” Its
object is to point out, that while in the natural
healthy state of the ear, there seems to be no limit
to the power of discerning low sounds, in many per-
sons who are otherwise quite free from deafness,
there exists a total insensibility to high or shrill
notes, so that they are quite deaf to these. The
hearing of different persons was found by Wollas-
ton to terminate at a note four or five octaves above
the middle E of the pianoforte. His own hearing
ceased at six octaves above that note. Those who
were thus deaf to high notes were, in consequence,
quite insensible to the chirping of the grasshopper,
the cricket, the sparrow, and the bat. With these
observations Wollaston connects a beautiful specu-
lation as to the possibility of insects both emitting
and listening to shrill sounds, which we never hear;
whilst they, in like manner, are totally deaf to the
graver notes which only affect our ears. We quote
his own words:—
“The range of human hearing includes more
than nine octaves, the whole of which are distinct
to most ears, though the vibrations of a note at the
higher extreme are six hundred or seven hundred
times more frequent than those which constitute the
gravest audible sound.
“As vibrations incomparably more frequent may
exist, we may imagine that animals like the grylli,
(grasshoppers, crickets, molecrickets, &c.,) whose
powers appear to commence nearly where ours ter-
minate, may hear still sharper sounds which we do
not know to exist; and that there may be insects
hearing nothing in common with us, but endued
with the power of exciting, and a sense that hears
the same vibrations which constitute our ordinary
sounds, but so remote, that the animal which per-
ceives them may be said to possess another sense,
agreeing with our own, solely in the medium by
which it is excited, and possibly wholly unaffected
by those slower vibrations of which we are sen-
sible.”
This seems to us a striking and beautiful idea,
and suggests many thoughts. It is in a fine sense
a fulfilment of St. Paul's declaration, “There are,
it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world,
and none of them is without signification.”
Such is a most perfect list of the additions made
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
17
by a single philosopher to the scientific literature
of our country; and he a private gentleman, work-
ing without help from government or any other ex:
trinsic aid. Several of the essays we have referred
to, were read before the Royal Society of London
in the last year of the author's life, under circum-
stances which invest them with peculiar interest.
Towards the latter part of the year 1828, Wollas-
ton became dangerously ill of the disease of the
brain, of which he died. His complaint was a
painful one, and it speedily showed such symptoms
as satisfied the sufferer himself that death was at
hand. He acted on the information as if the warn-
ing of coming dissolution had been accompanied by
the same advice which was given to king Hezekiah
in similar circumstances, “Set thine house in or-
der, for thou shalt die and not live.” Finding him-
self unable to write out an account of such of his
discoveries and inventions as he was reluctant
should perish with him, he spent his numbered
hours in dictating to an amanuensis an account of
Some of the more important of them. These part:
ing gifts of a dying philosopher to his brethren will
e found in the papers bearing his name which are
Wºº. in the Philosophical Transactions for 1829.
e have placed their titles at the head of our arti-
cle. In one of them he makes a touching allusion
to the unaccustomed haste which he had been
obliged to exhibit in drawing it up. No indications
of haste, however, appear in the essay in question,
or in any of the others referred to. One of them
is the account of the process for working platina,
and, like Wollaston's other papers, is a model of
what a physical essay should be.
These were not his only legacies to science.
Shortly before his death, he wrote a letter to the
Secretary of the Royal Society, informing him that
he had that day invested, in the name of the socie-
ty, stock to the amount of £1000. The interest
of this money he wished to be employed in the en-
couragement of experiments in natural philosophy.
A Wollaston medal is accordingly given periodi-
cally by the Royal Society.
In the June before his Hall, he was proposed as
a member of the Astronomical Society of London;
but, according to the rules of that body, he could
not have been elected before their last meeting for
the year. When the society met in November,
1828, however, the alarming situation of his health,
and the great probability of his dissolution previous
to the December meeting, induced the council at
once to recommend to the assembled members a de-
parture from the established rule, and that the elec-
tion should take place at that sitting. This was
done, and received the unanimous sanction of the
meeting, which insisted on dispensing with oven
the formality of a ballot. Dr. Wollaston, then
within a few days of his death, acknowledged this
feeling and courteous act by presenting the society
with a valuable telescope, which he greatly prized.
It originally belonged to his father, and had been
subsequently improved by the application to it of an
invention of his own, that of the triple achromatic
object glass, a device on which astronomers set
great value.
. It is impossible to turn from the record of these
incidents, without a feeling of strong admiration of
the old Roman-like resolution and calm courage
with which the suffering philosopher waited for
death. We are all too apt to admire only the ac-
tive agonistic courage of the battle field, or other
arena of energetic and laborious warfare or strug-
gle; and are prone to let our imaginations kindle
|an extension of this, that he was a
over pictures of warriors dying at the moment ºf
victory, covered, as we are pleased to say, with
glory. It is well that we should admire these, fºr
so noble a quality as courage must be honored in
all its rightful manifestations. Nevertheless, there
are not a few who would prove heroic enough be-
fore a visible foe, but would quail before the solita:
ry approach of the “last enemy.” They could
endure even to the death, when surrounded by
hundreds involved in the same peril, and stirred by
the same impulse as themselves; but would lack
something of their courage if the influence of num-
bers and the sympathy of fellow-sufferers were
gone, and the excitement of active and mani-
fest struggle were wanting. There are not many
who, laid on a sick bed as Wollaston was, and cer-
tain that recovery was hopeless, would. have so
risen above the terror of death, and the distraction
of pain, as to work as if health were in possession,
and long life in prospect...The grººy
would think they did well if they submitted to their
fate with some show of decent gravity, and made
no unmanly complaint; whilst every solace that
could be furnished was applied to smooth the Wºy
to the tomb. We cannot, therefore, but highly
honor the resolute man of science, who did not per-
mit sickness, or suffering, or coming death, to Pre:
vent him from putting on record the otherwise lºst
knowledge, which he thought might serve the
cause of truth and benefit his fellow-men. .
It would have been in the highest degree inter:
esting to have known what were the ground: of
this notable courage, and with what feelings Wol:
laston not only prepared to leave this world, but
looked forward to a world to come. We long to
learn whether it be but constitutional calmness and
stoicism such as a Greek or Roman might have
shown, or fortitude such as only a Christian can
display, that we are called on to admire in the dy-
ing philosopher. But none of those who alone
were entitled to speak on this point have given us
information concerning it; and we forbear to form
any conjectures. Whencesoever derived, Wollas-
ton's steadfast resolution continued to the end.
When he was nearly in the last agonies, one of his
friends having observed, loud enough for him to
hear, that he was not at the time conscious of what
was passing around him, he immediately made a
sign for a pencil and paper, which were given him.
He then wrote down some figures, and, after cast-
ing up the sum, returned them. The ampººt was
right. He died on the twenty-second of Decem-
ber, 1828, aged sixty-two, a few months before his
great scientific tºº.” Sir Humphrey
Davy and Dr. Thomas Young. After death, it
appeared that that portion of the brain from which
the optic nerve arises was occupied by a large tu-
mor." If we are right in thinking that the singular
one-sided blindness from which he sometimes suf-
fered was an early symptom of this malady, it must
have proceeded very slowly, for his paper on the
semi-decussation of the optic nerves was published
itſ 1824. It is interesting for the sake of psycholo-
gy to know, that in spite of the extensive cerebral
disease referred to, Wollaston’s faculties were un-
louded to the last. º
C *. remains but little to be told. No pic-
turesque incidents or romantic stories adorn Wol-
laston's biography, and but few characteristic anec.
dotes have been preserved. His days were spent
with entire devotion to science, between His labora-
tory and his library. For it was little better than
diligent attend-
18
LIFE OF Woll ASTON.
ant on the meetings of the Royal, the Geological,
and other societies, and took a keen interest in
their proceedings. Occasional excursions to the
country appear to have been his only recreation.
These afforded him an opportunity of prosecuting
geology, which was a favorite study, and, during
the last twelve years of his life, enabled him to
gratify the love for angling with which Sir H. Davy
had infected him.
His reluctance, or rather positive refusal, to ad-
mit even friends to his laboratory has already been
referred to. Plato is said to have written above
the door of his study, “Let no one who is not a
mathematician enter.” Had Wollaston placed an
inscription, or rather a proscription, above the door
of his laboratory, it would have been still more
brief and comprehensive. “Let No one enter.”
It is related that a gentleman of his acquaintance,
having been left by the servant to ramble from one
room to another till he should be ready to see him,
penetrated into the laboratory. The doctor, on
coming in, discovered the intrusion ; but not suffer-
ing himself to express all he felt on the occasion,
took his friend by the arm, and having led him to
the most sacred spot in the room, said—“Mr. P.,
do you see that furnace?” “I do.” “Then
make a profound bow to it, for as this is the first
time, it will also be the last time, of your seeing
it.”
This hermetically sealed laboratory is known to
have been of small dimensions. It did not require
to be large, for Wollaston's researches were sys-
tematically prosecuted on a scale of nearly micro-
scopic minuteness. He was celebrated for the al-
most atomic quantities of matter on which he
wrought to as much good purpose as other men on
hundreds of grains. His demonstration of the
identity of columbium and tantalum was founded
upon the examination of a very few grains of two
rare minerals. His detection of titanium in the
iron slags was effected on equally small quanti-
tleS.
Dr. Paris mentions, in his life of Davy, that a
foreign philosopher once called upon Dr. Wollas-
ton with letters of introduction, and expressed an
anxious desire to see his laboratory. “Certainly,”
he replied; and immediately produced a small tray
containing some glass tubes, a blow-pipe, two or
three watch-glasses, a slip of platina, and a few
test-tubes. It is added by the same gentleman,
that Wollaston appeared to take great delight in
showing by what small means he could produce great
results. ś, after he had inspected the grand
galvanic battery constructed by Mr. Children, and
had witnessed some of those brilliant phenomena
ºf combustion which its powers produced, he acci-
dentally met a brother chemist in the street. Seiz-
ing his button, (his constant habit when speaking
on any subject of interest,) he led him into a se-
cluded corner, when, taking from his waistcoat
pocket a tailor's thimble, which contained a galvanic
arrangement, and pouring into it the contents of a
small vial, he instantly heated a platina wire to a
white heat.
Wollaston was fond of amassing money: there
have not, indeed, been wanting accusations to the
effect, that if he had sought less after wealth, he
would have done more for science. How far
these charges are true, we have no means of judg-
ing, as it does not appear from the published ac-
counts, in what exact way he made his money.
That it was chiefly by the platina process is cer-
tain, but whether he engaged in the manufacture,
himself, or only superintended it, we do not know.
On this point we would only remark, that there is
something, to say the least of it, very partial and
unfair in the way in which obloquy is cast upon
men of science, if they appropriate to themselves
some of the wealth which their discoveries procure
for others. If a successful naval or military hero
is lavishly pensioned out of the public purse, no
one complains. It is not thought strange that a
great painter or sculptor, whilst he justly declares
his productions are worth untold gold, should nev-
ertheless demand a modicum of coin from his ad-
mirers. Neither is the poet or musician blamed
who sells his works to the highest bidder. But if a
chemist, for whom there are few pensions and no
peerages, think to help out a scanty or insufficient
income by manufacturing gunpowder like Davy, or
magnesia like Henry, or malleable platina like
Wollaston, or guano like Liebig, the detractors as-
sail him at once. He has lowered the dignity of
his science, and, it would seem, should starve,
rather than degrade his vocation. That vocation,
so far, at least, as the practical fruits of his own
labors are concerned, is to be a kind of jackal, to
start game which others are to follow, a beagle,
to hunt down prey which others may devour.
Surely there is but scanty justice here, and some
forgetfulness of a sacred text, “Thou shalt not
muzzle the mouth of the ox that treadeth out the
corn.” -
We are no advocates of a sordid spirit in men of
science, neither do we lament that government is
less liberal to them in this than in other countries.
When we look at the roll of our illustrious men,
we see little reason to regret that they have not the
grants which France, Germany, and Russia so
freely bestow Neither system is perfect, and our
own, with all its faults, works well. But private
enterprise must manifestly supplement the deficien-
cies of government aid. It is therefore unfair to
blame an unpensioned, unplaced chemist like
Wollaston, if he secure an income by his indepen-
dent labor. To manufacture platina may be, in
the eyes of the world, a less dignified occupation
than practising medicine, but it left the man of
science much more leisure for his studies than
physic would have done, and paid him a great deal
better.
We will not, however, take it on us to affirm
that Wollaston might not have been content with
less than 30,000l. Perhaps, and probably he
might have been, though we know too little of his
circumstances to be able to judge exactly on that
point. That he did not selfishly hoard his money
may be gathered from the following anecdote,
which is declared to be authentic. Having been
applied to by a gentleman, who was involved by
unexpected difficulties, to procure him some govern-
ment situation, Dr. Wollaston's reply was—“I
have lived to sixty without asking a single favor
from men in office, and it is not after that age that
I shall be induced to do so, even were it to serve a
brother. If the enclosed can be of use to you in
your present diſficulties, pray accept it, for it is
much at your service.” The enclosed was a
cheque for ten thousand pounds.
In attempting further to illustrate Wollaston's
character, we must have recourse to the device so
common with biographers, of comparing him with
Some of those who were engaged in the same pur-
suits as himself. A natural and admirable occa-
sion for doing so, such as Plutarch would have de-
lighted in, is afforded by the fact that Wollaston
LIFE OF WOLLASTON, 19
and Davy were contemporaries and friends. It is ſtion, fastidious about every step of the journey. A.
difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that sufficient pathway would not content him, º
between the eager, imaginative poet-chemist, on no one might follow his stºps. He must stop, an
the one hand, and the austere, unimpassioned, make it a perfect road. The one philosopher was
monk-philosopher on the other. Davy was a man like the stag-hound running down the game his
of sanguine, enthusiastic temperament, overflowing keen eye got sight of, by speed of foot and nimble-
with life and animation ; Wollaston's nature was ness of limb, or missing it altogether. The other
as still and unmoved as the bosom of a lake hidden resembled the blood-hound following leisurely on
from the wind in the recesses of a cavern. The the trail of his prey; slow, comparatively, in his
former was a spoiled child of nature and of fortune, movements, and with eyes fixed upon the ground,
and greedy of applause. He delighted in the but certain never to quit the chase, or to make one
approving smiles of ladies, and was flattered by the false step till he was up with his victim. Davy's
notice of the great. It was a source of pain to him genius was like the burning thunderbolt whose
that he was not of good family. Wollaston was a forces he did so much to explain. Attracted only
disappointed man. He begged one boon from his by towering and lofty things, it smote down from
brethren, the physicianship of an hospital; when the zenith, prostrating maiden citadels, and scat-
that was refused him, he'shut himself up in his itering in dust, or dissipating in fiery drops, what-
iaboratory, and rejoiced, when sixty years old, that |soever opposed it. Wollaston's genius was like
he would not ask a favor, even for a brother. He the light, whose laws he so much loved tº study.
was indifferent to the notice of all but scientific It was not, however, the blazing light of day that
persons, and avoided every occasion of attracting it resembled, but the still moonlight, as ready with
popular attention. clear but cold radiance to shine in, on a solitary
Their characters as philosophers were as differ-lobscure chamber, as able to illuminate with, it;
ent as their tastes and habits as men. Davy had lunburning beams, every dark and stately ball
far greater originating power, boldness of spécula- of the closed fortresses where Nature keeps her
tion, and faculty of generalization; and he showed secrets. º
great skill in realizing his ideas. Wollaston ex- In their habits of laboratory working and mani;
celled Davy in extent of scientific accomplishment, pulation, Davy and Wollaston have been compared
in minute accuracy of observation, and in closeness to the painters, Michael Angelo and Teniers; the
of reasoning. He wrought out his conceptions former, reckless, impetuous, and turbulent in his
with singular ingenuity, and brought the utmost mode of producing results; the latter, minute,
mechanical experience and dexterity to the solution microscopic, precise, and accurate, even in the
of difficult questions. Both were good artists and |smallest details. The comparison is just so far,
manipulators, but Wollaston was much the better but it either elevates Davy too high, or degrades
of the two. Davy was very ingenious in devising, | Wollaston too low. Davy devising his safety
but reckless and inexperienced in constructing. lamp, after a few rapidly performed experiments,
Wallaston excelled him in ingenuity, and, more-
may be the Michael Angelo, contrasted with Wol-
over, was a first-rate workman. laston, the Teniers, slowly perfecting a process for
The mode in which they reached their dis-, drawing out a capillary gold wire. But Wollas-
coveries was as dissimilar as the subjects which ton, solving by means of a little telescope of his
they selected. Davy considered the faintest analo- own adaptation, the problem of the existence of an
gy worth pursuing. . Possibilities were with him atmosphere round the sun, contrasted with Davy
probabilities; probabilities truths. Wollaston's discovering potassium by means of a gigantic voi-
idea of a truth was not so much something proved taic battery, and every other aid and appliance to
true, but something which could not be proved not boot, must be called (as an artist friend suggests)
to be true. His mºst positive yes was often a not at least a Correggio, whilst the latter is styled
no, rather than a hearty yea and amen. When rather a Titian than a Michael Angelo. Davy and
Davy took up an inquiry, it was with the highest Wollaston were men of most marked individuality
hopes and visions of success. If he gained his of character, and giants both. The youthful stu-
end, he was greatly elated, if he failed, he was dent will do well who accepts the guidance of
correspondingly depressed. Wollaston set ahout a either. He will do better, if like Faraday, he
Scientific undertaking more as if it were a matter unite the excellences of both.
of duty, than an occupation which by its result To these attempts to bring out. Wollaston's
could possibly give him pain or pleasure. His character by contrasts with that of his great con-
pulse probably never quickened or slackened a temporary, we would add a word or two concern-
beat in consequence of success or failure. When ing his #º, in disposition tº another of our dis-
Davy discovered potassium, his delight and agi- itinguished men of science. Those who are ac-
tation were so great, that he enrolled the fact in quainted with the life of the Honorable Henry
his note-book in an almost illegible scrawl. Wol. Čavendish will acknowledge that he and Wollas-
laston would have written the announcement in his ton resembled each other greatly. In both there
roundest hand. With Davy, the end of the inquiry was the same austerity, taciturnity and reserve;
was the great object; the shortest way by which the same extreme caution in drawing conclusions,
it could be reached was the best. The means by and exact precision in stating them ; the same
which it was arrived at, were in themselves indif. catholicity of tastes as regarded their philosophical
ferent. He hastened impetuously to reach the
pursuits; the same relish for scientific society and
goal. For Wollaston, the journey had interest, dislike to any other; the same indifference to
whatever might be its conclusion. He hated to º ; the same frugal habits; the same can:
make a false or doubtful move, though it might dor and justice towards other men of science ; and
advance him towards his ultimate object. Each the same strºng love of truth and perfectinºgº.
stage of the undertaking was, for the time, the And as in life they were alike, so in death they
entire subject of concern. He travelled icisurely were not divided., The closing mºmen's of the
along, breaking new ground with the utmost cau-lone, were marked by the same kind of calm
20
WOLLASTON.
LIFE OF
courage and serenity which distinguished the death-
bed of the other. Cavendish and Wollaston might
in truth have been twin brothers.
In contrasting Wollaston with Davy, and in com-
paring him with Cavendish, we have not willingly
overstated matters. But all such attempts partake
more or less of rhetorical artifice, and convey at
best but a partial and imperfect idea of the character
of any individual. No man is exactly the opposite
or exactly the image of another. If his name be
worth preserving at all, his individuality must be
marked, and should be susceptible of definition and
demonstration. It seems to us that three predomi-
nant qualities determined the scope of Wollaston's
genius. The statement of these will perhaps in
some degree explain the comparatively slight im-
pression which he has made on science, and the
partial oblivion into which his name has already
fallen.
We remark first, that, in common with all great
observers in physics, he possessed a keen intellect,
a well-balanced judgment, a most retentive memory,
rapidity and readiness in discerning analogies, great
power of analysis and also of generalization, perse-
verance in working out ideas once started, and
practical skill in effecting their realization.
To hold in check these estimable qualities, there
existed in the first place a quite inordinate caution,
which never permitted them to range freely over the
domains of science. Wollaston's caution was of a
peculiar kind. It was not the wariness of timidity
or self-distrust. He was in all respects a coura-
geous man, and had much more self-reliance than
Davy. The boldness of a speculation would not
have deterred him from entertaining it. It would,
in truth, have been neither a recommendation nor
an objection to any suggestion. Fearlessness or
timidity, as evinced in a hypothesis or theory, were
qualities intangible to science, which was only con-
cerned with the question, was the speculation true,
or was it not!
It was untruth that Wollaston so greatly dreaded;
and the fear of it made him prone to underestimate
the positive worth of any fact. An inquiry thus be-
came for him a very tedious and protracted affair. It
was not sufficient that a fact, perhaps quite inci-
dental to the main object, and what other men
would have called trivial, was true enough for the
use he had to make of it. It must be true enough
for every purpose it could be applied to : in a word,
positively and absolutely true. Wollaston was thus
like a man crossing a river by casting in stepping-
stones, but who would not be content, that, with
here and there a pretty long leap, and now and
then a plash and a wetting, he should get across.
He must stop and square and set each stone, before
he stepped on to the next, and so measure his way
to the other side. Yet the stones were no more to
him than to other travellers. To cross the river
was his object as well as theirs. The stepping-
stones were only the means to that. But they
were doubtful and uncertain means, if carelessly
arranged. Many would reach the opposite side in
safety, but, a single pilgrim might be washed
away and drowned. , Wollaston made a pathway
safe even for the blind.
Davy, when he discovered potassium, argued
somewhat thus: It is probable for several, or (as
he would say) for many reasons, that potash and
soda are the oxides of metals. It is also probable
that electricity, which can decompose so many
things, will be able to decompose them. He tried
if it would, and discovered some dozen new metals.
Wollaston would have said, it is possible that the
alkalies contain metals, and possible also that elec-
tricity could separate them. But at that point he
would have stopped to array the probabilities
against both ideas proving true; and these would
have appeared so strong that he would never have
gone further.
All discoverers, with the exception of the very
highest, such as Newton, take a great deal for
granted. They advance not by steps, but by
strides, and often gain their ends in strange ways.
The new country in which they land themselves
and their brethren, is reached by some bold attempt
which is soon stigmatized as illegitimate and un-
worthy. The new country, however, is there for
all that, and more legitimate and worthy methods
of approach are soon discovered. We have Liebig
for example, in our own day, accused of assuming
doctrines that he cannot prove; and of giving us
hypotheses as thoroughly established generaliza-
tions. Now and then he is provoked to return
some indignant rejoinder to the bitter denunciations
of his angry critics. But they make no abiding
impression on the eager German, who replies with
fresh assumptions and new hypotheses, more ag-
gravating than before. His successors will doubt-
less weed out of his system as useless many things
which he counts as essential to it, and establish as
only partially just much that he believes to be abso-
lutely true. But if Liebig had stopped like Wol-
laston to render each step in his progress incontro-
vertible, organic chemistry would be infinitely less
advanced than it is at the present day.
Had Wollaston been a man of as grand and as
fine intellect as Newton, his caution would not have
prevented him being a great discoverer; but with
faculties much more limited than his, he had caution
equally great. Accordingly, although he had the
start of Davy in electricity, and knew that science
thoroughly, he allowed the latter to carry off the
reater number of the trophies in galvanic discovery.
e detected for himself the law of combination in
multiple proportion, and might have extended it
into such a scheme as Dalton embodied in his
atomic hypothesis. Wollaston was infinitely better
qualified than Dalton to investigate by experiment,
laws of combination. But he stopped with the dis-
covery of the one law, and did not even publish
that, till Dalton had made it known along with sev-
eral others.
But characteristic as caution was of Wollaston,
it may be questioned whether it was more strongly
marked in him than in many other philosophers.
Black, and still more Cavendish, were as cautious’
as he was. We must look farther, before we
can sufficiently account for the apparently small
amount of fruit which his life of scientific labor
yielded.
We would indicate as the second feature in Wol-
laston's mind which prevented his effecting greater
achievements, the versatility of his tastes. There
was scarcely a science which he had not studied
and was not competent to extend. His Cambridge
education gave him a taste for mathematics and the
mathematico-physical sciences. From his father he
inherited a fondness for astronomy, and by him he
was probably initiated into its mysteries from his
earliest years. No man can be long an astronomer
without feeling it necessary to study geology:
Wollaston accordingly became a geologist. . Nei-
ther will any one make use of telescopes without
becoming anxious to understand and to improve
their construction: all astronomers, accordingly,
LIFE OF WOLLASTON.
21.
are students of optics. Wollaston was a most dili-
gent one. None of these sciences, however, will
support their votaries: our philosopher, accord-
ingly studied medicine. This introduced him to
anatomy, physiology, pathology, botany, and chem-
istry, on each of which he published papers. .
Davy had a most imperfect acquaintance with all
the sciences, except chemistry and electricity.
Wollaston knew them all, and worked at them by
turns. A list of some of his papers which we have
not commented upon will show how impartially he
distributed his attention. The Bakerian lecture
for 1803: “Observations of the quantity of hori-
zontal refraction; with a method of measuring the
dip at sea :”—The Bakerian lecture for 1806: “On
the force of percussion.” The Croonian lecture
for 1810: “On muscular motion, sea-sickness, and
carriage exercise.” The Bakerian lecture for
1813: “On the elementary particles of certain
crystals.” “On a method of freezing at a dis-
tance.” “On a method of drawing extremely fine
wires.” “On a periscopic camera obscura and
microscope.” “On a method of cutting rock crys-
tal for micrometers.” “On gouty concretions.”
“On the concentric adjustment of a triple-object
glass,” &c. &c. &c. The reader will add to
these, those named or discussed in our article al-
ready.
Davy was obliged to confine himself to the two
sciences he knew, and in consequence, greatly ex-
tended them. Wollaston had the “open sesame '’
to them all, and the result was, that he did a little
for every one. He who divides his fortune into a
number of small bequests, and leaves one to each
of those who have a claim on him, is thanked for
the time, but speedily forgotten. But when a man
gives his all to a single great object, it embalms
his memory. Wollaston has passed from men's
notice. Davy is immortal.
There remains, however, a third characteristic
to be noticed before we can understand āll that
biassed Wollaston, and turned his thoughts away
from great scientific actions. We allude to his
wonderful inventiveness and mechanical ingenu-
ity. We call it wonderful, because, with the
exception of James Wätt, Hooke, and a very few
others, Wollaston surpassed all his scientific coun-
trymen in this respect, and there are not many for-
eign natural philosophers who could be placed
above him. Without entering into any detailed
proof of this, we only remind the reader that he
was the inventor of the reflecting goniometer, the
camera lucida, the dip sector, the cryophorus; of a
micrometer, of various improvements on the micro-
scope, on the common eye-glass, on the camera
obscura, and of one most important one on the tele-
scope; of the method of rendering platina mallea-
ble, of a method of drawing extremely fine wires,
of a method of comparing the light of the sun with
that of the fixed stars, and of many others which
we cannot stop to mention. In addition to these
special inventions, his papers are filled with descrip-
tions of the most ingenious and original contriv-
ances for securing the ends he had in view. When
he became an angler, he astonished his friends by
many curious devices for overcoming difficulties in
the new art he had taken up.
It must have come within the observation of
most persons, that very ingenious mechanical con-
trivers find the greatest pleasure in giving birth to
inventions, and, where no other and higher taste
divides their inclinations, and no pressing duty
tirely to the gratification of their talent. It is mºst
natural that they should do so. There are few in-
tellectual pleasures greater than that of being cro-
ators, even to the extent that man may be one.
The feeling of exultation with which the poet, the
painter, or the musician, rejoices over the offspring
of his genius, is shared, though in a lower degree;
by the inventor whose new instrument or method
is as much a creation, the embodiment and monu-
ment of an idea or ideas, as the poem, or the pic-
ture, or the oratorio. In many men, ingenuity goes
no further than devising. They are not craftsmen,
to execute their plans; and to give them to work-
men would involve too costly a gratification of their
wishes. But Wollaston was an excellent work-
man; his hand was as ready to construct as his
brain to invent; and they went together. There
was thus a twofold temptation to gratify his inven-
tive powers; and he did gratify them to the utmost :
but time so spent was often little better than thrown
away. We rejoice that he invented a reflecting
| goniometer, and supplied an achromatic object glass
for the telescope, and we do not grudge the Caſſlera
lucida; but as for the not very important improve-
ment of spectacles, microscopes, and camera oh-
scurac, they might have safely been left to be made
by a duller man, when it appeared they were
wanted. It was putting Pegasus in the yokº, or
setting Samson to grind at the mill, to waste Wol;
laston's energies on such work. His case should
be a warning to young scientific men who have a
great mechanical turn, to take care that it does not
warp them aside from higher objects, and convert
them into mere instrument-makers. When we
think how many inventions are only works of
supererogation, no better than Rob Roy's self-act-
ing pistol, which was to protect the entrance into
a leather purse; or useless toys, like the recent
Eureka machine, for making nonsense Latin hex-
ameters, or of the most circumscribed application,
like patent needle-threaders: we cannot but wish
that each inventor would pause, and ask whether
there is, or will be any need or demand for what he
is about to devise, before he proceeds to execute his
project. Many of Wollaston's inventions are now
forgotten or superseded. +:
The restraint and distraction of faculty which
these three influences occasioned, were fatal to
Wollaston's being a distinguished or systematic
discoverer. His imordinate intellectual caution kept
him from giving to the world any great generaliza-
tion. Had he attempted one, he would have spent
a lifetime in establishing it to his own satisfaction.
His acquaintance with most of the physical sciences
induced him, instead of dedicating his life to the
establishment of some one great theory in a single
branch of knowledge, to pursue many inquiries in
each; these were sufficiently limited in scope to be
brought to a conclusion, satisfactory even to his ſº-
tidious, skeptical spirit, in a reasonable time. His
mechanical ingenuity constantly tempted him to
improve some one of the thousand instruments of
physical science which are not perfect.
#. must nevertheless be counted great, on the
ground of the multitude of single works which he
ºxecuted so ably. He will stand in the second
rank of great physical philosophers, along with
Black and Cavendish, Davy and Dalton. . .
The portraits of Wollaston represent him as a
grave, silent, meditative man; one who would excite
ºuch' sincere respect, but little enthusiastie afte:
tion, among those who knew him. He led a soli.
occupies their time, often devote themselves en-ltary life, and was never married.
22
BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
His senses were peculiarly acute, a valuable pos-
session to a physical philosopher. Some, indeed,
have dwelt upon the acuteness of Wollaston’s senses
as the source of his greatness as an inventor and
discoverer. Others have indignantly affirmed that
it was wronging a great philosopher to ascribe his
triumphs over nature, merely to his having had a
sharp eye and nimble fingers. The dispute seems
a needless and a foolish one. That Wollaston had
very acute bodily senses, has been certified to us by
himself, and by those who were his associates.
But if any one think that the mere possession of
these will make a man a Wollaston, let him only
consider that there is not a Red Indian or an Esqui-
maux who can distinguish a white hare from the
white snow around it, who does not at least equal,
if not far surpass, the philosopher in acuteness of
bodily senses.
On the other hand, it would be in the highest
degree unwise to despise the gifts of sensitive bod-
ily organs, and to leave out of consideration the
influence of the physical element in determining the
character of men. Soul and body must be present
in certain though varying proportions, to suit us for
our special vocations; and the elements must be as
lcindly, though differently mixed, to give the world
assurance of a physical philosopher as of a poet or
a statesman. Wollaston, like most of his distin-
guished fellow-men, owed a great deal to his body,
but a great deal more to his soul. -
From what has been already stated, it will be
manifest that our philosopher was not what most
people would term an amiable person. He was,
however, a just and most honorable man; candid,
open, and free from envy. Of this, many proofs
might be given. We have already seen that he
freely lent his influence to secure Sir H. Davy the
chair of the Royal Society. His papers, also,
afford incidentally many evidences of his candor.
In the one on the finite extent of the atmosphere, he
mentions, that after making his own observations
on the transit of Venus over the sun’s disc, he dis-
covered that results equally accurate had already
been obtained by M. Vidal of Montpellier, to whom,
accordingly, he assigns the priority. In his essay
on the forms of the elementary particles of certain
crystals, he points out that he had been anticipated
by Dr. Hooke. He states, as a reason for publish-
ing his paper on super and sub-acid salts, that he
wished to furnish Dr. Dalton with a better means
of proving the truth of his doctrine of combination
in multiple proportions than the latter's analysis of
certain gases had supplied. He had occasion to
point out that the chemist Chenevix had committed
a great blunder in reference to the properties of the
metal palladium: he did it in the most delicate and
Courteous way.
Altogether, the combination of reserve with per-
fect straight-forwardness; the relish for acquiring
money, with the generosity in parting with it when
it could be worthily bestowed; the clear intellect,
the self-reliance, the aversion to interference or
intrusion on the part of strangers; the impartial
justice to rivals, and the business-like method of all
his habits, seem to us...prečminently to mark out
Wollaston as, par ercellence, The English Philos-
opher.
-msmº,
BUCKINGHAMI PALACE.
The London Times, in the following article,
seems disposed to treat with levity the complaint of
substances.”
insufficient accommodations for ſºueen Victoria, and
her increasing family at her metropolitan residence.
“There appeared in our paper of #. a report
on the misery and inconvenience to which the
queen and her family have long been exposed by
the want of adequate accommodation in Buckingham
palace, and the subject also attracted not a little
attention in the House of Commons last evening.
This unlucky palace appears to he as comfortless
within as 'unsightly without, and proves to be as
little adapted for use as for ornament. The report
to which we have referred reminds us of those dis-
tressing documents of the health of towns com-
missioners, in which the miserable condition of the
poor, and the sufferings occasioned by the over-
crowded state of their dwellings, are described.
That the sovereign has been subjected in her own
palace to all the horrors that affect the health of
towns is really dreadful to think upon. It is impos-
sible for a loyal man to read the statement of Mr.
Blore, the architect appointed by the commissioners
of woods and forests, without shuddering at the
over-population, the bad ventilation, the want of air
and space, which he describes with a most pictorial
pen to have prevailed for some time past in Buck-
ingham palace. He divides the royal discomforts
under seven different heads, every one of which is
sufficient to mar very materially the domestic enjoy
ment of her majesty.
“In the first place, the private apartments of the
queen and the prince in the north wing ‘were not
calculated originally for a married sovereign.”—
What could the architect have been about when he
designed to accommodate the occupant of the throne
in ‘lodgings for a single man,’ or a single woman?
What right had he to presume on the celibacy of
the wearer of the crown, and provide apartments
not fitted, according to Mr. Blore's report, for the
accommodation of ‘the head of a family?' What
is enough for one is very often not enough for two;
and we can sympathize with the royal pair, who
have been “managing’ for the last few years in a
small suite of rooms only designed for an unmarried
lady or gentleman. In addition, however, to the
insufficiency of space, it appears that the queen and
the prince have been undergoing the further inflic-
tion of living over a workshop. The lord cham-
berlain, it seems, has his Smith and upholstery
establishment, where he is constantly boiling his
glue and carrying on other offensive operations
immediately under the private apartments of the
sovereign. A three pair attic could scarcely be
worse situated as to smell and noise than the rooms
occupied in Buckingham palace by her majesty and
her illustrious consort. Our º blood boils
almost as violently as the glue at the contemplation
of the fact that the queen and the prince have been
residing all these years over a workshop in Pimlico.
We have no patience with Mr. Blore's calmness
when he talks of the “obvious impropriety' of the
“arrangement.” He, however, warms up a little
under the recollection of the great truth, which he
lays down with considerable force and distinctness,
that oil and glue are “both of them' inflammable
He hints at the risk of fire, and sug-
gests to the minds of her subjects the alarming
reflection that the sovereign and her husband have
been occupying a building which the insurance
companies would consider doubly or trebly hazard-
OllS.
“The second grievance brings us to the distress-
ingly contracted state of the royal nursery. Mr.
Blore begins by calling public attention to the prob-
I)ANIEL BOONE.
23
ability of the royal infants increasing. in their
growth—an extension to which they are undoubt-
edly liable. Happily, there is, we believe, no ten-
icncy among her majesty's children to Tom Thumb-
ism, and Mr. Blore's suggestion that they will grow
is extremely rational. It seems that a few rooms
in the attics of the north wing are all the nursery
accommodation available “to meet the growing wants
of an increasing family.” The rapid succession of
“happy events’ must, of course, have materially
added to the inconvenience existing in this particu-
lar portion of the palace. Some of the servants
have accordingly been dislodged from their attics
and packed in small compartments on the ground
floor, where one room has been cut down into two
‘by the assistance of a false ceiling.” This shock-
ing but ingenious contrivance reminds us of the sys-
tem of stowing away the blacks in slave vessels.
If any of the tail footmen happen to have undergone
this compression into an apartment half its ordinary
height, they must have been literally doubled up by
the dreadful process. They must have found it
necessary to learn the art of shutting themselves up
and drawing themselves out again on a kind of tel-
escopic principle; for, though they would be forced
to shrink into littleness when they retired to their
own rooms, they would be expected to stand erect
in the presence of their sovereign.
“The third grievance relates to the want of accom-
modation for the lord chamberlain, who, notwith-
Standing that he is perpetually hammering and boil-
ing glue under her majesty's private rooms, has not
sufficient scope for his extensive operations. We
were not aware that the lord chamberlain's depart-
ment included so much carpenter's business in ordi-
nary and smith's work in general. The ignorant
in these matters might imagine that the work-shop
so near the person of the sovereign may have some-
thing to do with the making or repairing of the
cabinet. It seems, however, that so extensive is
the business of the lord chamberlain in the uphol-
stery line that he lºeeps up branch concerns in St.
James' palace and in ‘still more remote quarters.”
Where can these. ‘quarters’ be that are even more
‘remote' than St. James' palace? By the dis-
inclination shown by Mr. Blore to furnish the
address, we should be disposed to guess that the
chamberlain has got a shop in some such place as
Whetstone park, or dºwn a mews in some equally
recondite neighborhood. . .
“The culinary departmentisthe next to which the
report refers, in language so strong as to declare,
that, “the kitchen has defeated every attempt to
prevent its being a nuisance to the palace.” The
obstinacy of the cuisine, which has triumphed over
every attempt to keep it down, must have been
indeed remarkable. We presume that odors of
stews and hashes were the weapons by which the
defeat alluded to has been accomplished. The
kitchen must have carried its sauce to a fearful
height thus to have flown into the very face of the
sovereign. . While, however, it has been strong as
a nuisance it has been impotent as a minister to the
hospitality of the queen, and it is proposed, there-
fore, to add to the efficiency of what Mr. Blore
justly calls these ‘essential offices.” It is also
suggested that a new room should be built for balls
and entertainments, from which we are given to
understand many have been excluded simply on
account of the want of accommodation. This hint
will be balm to Lord Brougham and others who
may have been wondering that they were never
asked to dine or dance at the palace. Perhaps the
passage may be intended to give to many," a sºp in
the pan,’ as a substitute for the cover the have
not been permitted to enjoy at the royal table.
“The reception of illustrious guests is another
most important matter referred to in the report,
which tells us there is but one suite of apartments
that her majesty can offer to distinguished visitors;
Thus it happens that if two great potentates should
arrive in England at the same time on a visit to the
queen, as their majesties of Russia and Saxony did,
there is only a spare bed for one of them. It is
true, as the report states, that at great inconvenience
apartments could be “diverted from their ordinary
appropriations,” or, in other words, the King of
Saxony might have been asked to sleep on a sofa
while the Emperor of Russia was in the house; but
this is not the way in which the Queen of England
should receive the monarchs of Europe. After an
allusion to the over-crowding and ill ventilation of
the palace generally, by a great number of persons
being crammed into small rooms, the report con-
cludes by promising to suggest a remedy.
“In this, we fear, even the fluent Mr. Blore,
backed though he be by ministers and ex-ministers,
will find himself at fault. If all the allegations he
has so laboriously set forth are true, we see no
other course than to clear away the structure that
now stands, and to build a new one on the same site,
if it is thought desirable to keep the royal family
still located in the middle of a swamp at Pimlico.
The Pavilion at Brighton is, it seems, to be sold;
ulled down, and carted away as dry rubbish, and
it would, we think, be as well to dispose of Buck-
ingham palace in the same manner. It is already
more than ugly enough, and will be uglier still
when a kitchen is added in one corner, a nursery
stuck up somewhere else, and a ball or banquet
room built out in some other direction. We ought
not to forget that the report alludes to very consid-
erable accommodation being required for the tutors
who will soon have to be in attendance on the royal
family. The proposed wing for these gentlemen
must, of course, therefore, be considered in the
architectural design, which cannot, we think, have
a fair chance unless it is wholly unfettered by any
reference to the present structure.”
From the Pittsburgh American.
BANIEL BOONE.
In the last June No. of Littell's Liying Age is
an article credited to Chambers' Journal, professing
to be a condensation of a sketch of the life of Col.
Boone, from the January No. of the North Ameri-
can Review. In the article before us we find it
stated that Daniel Boone “was born in the county
of Somerset, England.” This is a very great
error, and we are surprised that journals of such
high reputation should commit sº gross a one. In
the present instance it is absolutely too bad. Eng-
lish' writers are fond of claiming Washington as
their countryman, because he was born of the de-
scendants of Englishmen and under English rule.
They have the same, but no other claim for their
country, to the honor of giving birth to Daniel
Boone. † . , º
The great men of a country are its most estima-
ble and cherished property, and the honor of º;
birth to such, should be maintained with as mug
tenacity as the purity of their fair fame and the
truth of their great actions. Among the distin-
guished men of America, Daniel Boon will ever
hold an enviable rank. *
24
LORD BROUGHAM AND INFANT SCHOOLS.
We happen to know something of this matter,
and shall endeavor, so far as it lies in our power,
to set these reviewers right where they are found
so widely astray. .*
The following facts in relation to Daniel Boone
and his family, we have, partly from tradition and
partly from records now in onr possession, ob-
tained from an aged member of the family, long
and intimately known to us.
George Boone and Mary his wife arrived at Phil-
adelphia, October 10, A. D. 1717, N. S., from Brad-
ninch—within 8 miles (as we learn by another rec-
ord) of the city of Exeter, in Devonshire, England.
They brought with them, as our tradition states,
11 children—two daughters and nine sons. We
have direct intelligence only of three of these sons
—John, James, and Squire, and record of the births,
marriages and deaths of the two first. The last,
Squire Boone, was the father of Daniel Boone.
George Boone, immediately after his arrival in
America, purchased a large tract of land in what is
now Berks county, which he settled, and called it
Exeter, after the city near which he was born. The
records distinguish it only as the township of Exe-
ter, without any county. He purchased also vari-
ous other tracts in Maryland and Virginia, and our
tradition says, among others, the ground on which
Georgetown, D. C., now stands, and that he laid
the town out, and gave it his own name. .
His sons John and James lived and died on the
Exeter purchase. Squire removed into North Car-
olina, but at what period we only know from the
traditionary account we received, that it took place
when Daniel was in his 14th year. -
In 1790, or about that period, Daniel Boone re-
visited the place of his birth and the friends and
relations he had left, and from these, we have verbal
accounts which he gave them of his adventures in
ICentucky, which are preserved in the family with
affectionate and pious care. Among these relatives
are the Leas, still residing in Oley, Berks county.
It would, therefore, require no great research to
find almost, the very spot of his birth. We show
sufficiently, however, that neither he nor his ances-
tors came from Somerset as stated, but the latter
from Devonshire, and that he himself was born,
not in England at all, but in Exeter, Pennsylvania,
in what is now Berks county, and in that part of
Berks too, be it remembered, called Oley, about
. we have before said or sung much that was
good. -
Flint, who says in his life of Boone, that “the
remotest of his ancestors of whom there is any
recorded notice, is Joshua Boone, an English Cath-
olic, who settled in. Maryland,” wrote, in this in-
stance, at least, in entire ignorance of his subject.
Joshua was a family name among the Boones, and
may no doubt have been the name of one of George
and Mary Boone's nine sons, but George Boone
was not a Catholic, but a member of the English
Protestant church. This fact we have from the
same source of tradition with other facts here given.
We have also a certificate in our possession of the
marriage of James Boone, a grandson of George
and Mary, which took
tant church at Reading, Pa. Also the record of
the death of Judah Boone, another grandson, which
adds that he was interred in the Friends' burying
ground at Exeter. This goes to confirm another
of our traditionary accounts, which informs us that
several of the family, after their settlement in Penn-
sylvania, joined the Quakers. *
'Flint has other gross errors. He says he was
born in 1746—that he died in 1818–aged 84. This
place in the English Protes-
would make him but 72. Our family account places
his birth in 1730 or ’31.
We learn another matter from these records—
that the name is uniformly spelt as we have given
it in this article, with the final e. *
A corresponnèNT calls our attention to an his-
torical point disputed between Lord Brougham
and Lord John Russell. The great promoter of
useful knowledge thought that he had detected
Lord John in a blunder, because the premier calls
Mr. Wilderspin the “founder” of infant schools:
Lord Brougham says that Robert Owen was the
founder; and Lord Lansdowne, the premier's col-
league, rather inconsiderately accepts the correc-
tion. It is itself an error.
“In his haste to convict Lord John of an his-
torical error,” says our correspondent, “Lord
Brougham has certainly committed a greater in-
justice, in depriving Wilderspin of the credit to
which he is justly entitled. As far as I can ascer-
tain, the facts were these.
“Oberlin collected young children into large
rooms, and by means of women called “conduc-
trices,’ taught them to read, to sing, and amused
them with pictures. Robert Owen's primary object
appears to have been to keep the young children
out of mischief while their parents were at work:
they went through some bodily exercises, including
measured dancing to a fiddle, and probably some
instruction was given them also.
“The establishments in London were of the na-
ture of asylums for children of the very lowest class,
varying from two to eleven years of age. Wilder-
spin, whose thoughts had previously been directed
to the instruction of the young, took charge of
the second of these establishments; and it was
here that he developed, little by little, as circum-
stances required or experience suggested, the sys-
tem of winfant training, of which he is the author.
In his own words, (Early Discipline, p. 9,) “Every
week and day and hour had, in fact, directed our
attention to something new ; and thus one invention
or application followed another, until the whole
Infant System, as it now appears, was evolved.”
“It is of very little consequence who first col-
lected infants together into a school; but it was
Wilderspin who orignated the infant system of
training, now in its main features universally
adopted in infant schools—which gives them life
and power for good; and consequently Wilderspin
made or founded infant schools as they are. This
is the real point of consequence. I fear I have ex-
pressed myself very badly; but I think you will
erceive the distinction I wish to establish between
infant schools in name and infant training schools
in reality.” r º
Lord Brougham's counter mistake lay in su
posing that §. “Infant School ’’ and Wil-
derspin's “Infant School ’’ were the same thing:
Owen's being a superior kind of custody in a nur-
sery; Wilderspin's a real school, which he had
most ingeniously discovered the means of adapting
to infant understanding. Owen founded one thing,
no doubt; Wilderspin another. The learned lord,
however, admits Mr. Wilderspin's merits as a pro-
moter of infant training: Lord Brougham knows
from personal experience how delightful, after a
life of unremitting energy, is a retiring allowance—
he has studied the subject: it would be graceful in
him to back his acknowledgment of a fellow la-
borer in the cause of education by lending his help
to the Wilderspin Testimonial.-Spectator.
CARDs, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC.
25
From Chambers’ Journal.
CARDS, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC.
“WHERE to, sir!” said the cabman, touching
his hat, and leaning from the box... “Bunnhill
Row.” In a moment I was off, and very speedily
found myself hurrying through Clerkenwell, towards
that curious and classic labyrinth of streets compo-
sing the north-east division of the metropolis. The
difficulties of Chiswell Street and Barbican were
passed, and I was set down at a port-cocher, the
limit of my excursion, as the good early hour of
eleven sounded from St. Paul's.
. It was a visit of curiosity. I wished to see one
of the most remarkable establishments in London—
an establishment which could only flourish in the
midst of a great and wealthy people—De la Rue
and Company's manufactory of fancy stationery.
The art of writing letters is pretty nearly as old as
the hills; but, till within the last twenty years,
there was no such thing as a tastefully-got-up epis-
tle. There was a deficiency in the mécanique of
letter-writing. In Norway, at the present day, when
a person wishes to write a note, he cuts a piece
from a large sheet of paper; and something of this
sort was prevalent in łºń. forty or fifty years
ago. It was considered a great advance in taste
when a paper-maker at Bath got up what he called
his “Bath post”—a smooth yellow paper, quarto
size, with a small stamp in the corner of the sheet.
Matters remained at this point till a comparatively
recent period, when the whole business of the station-
er underwent a rapid and most extraordinary change
-the establishment of the penny post alone causing
the introduction of many new auxiliaries to epistolary
correspondence. It cannot but be interesting to
know who has led this great movement—who has
filled the ladies' writing-cases with finely-tinted
note papers—who has given to the world the envel-
ope, the enamelled calling-card, and the numerous
other elegancies which now fill the shop-window
of the stationer. Different active spirits have con- |
tributed their respective inventions in this useful
department of art, but the master-mind has been that
of Thomas De la Rue. Mr. De la Rue is a native
of Guernsey, and was bred to the business of a
printer. He afterwards abandoned this profession,
and was engaged for a number of years in London
as a manufacturer of straw-hats. In consequence
of the successive changes in fashion, which ended in
the general disuse of straw for bonnets, this ingen-
ious person was several times ruined; but, possess-
ing a boundless buoyancy of temperament, and with
inexhaustible inventive faculties, he always alight-
ed on some fresh novelty, and recovered his former
position. Finally, driven from straw, he fell upon
the idea of making bonnets of embossed paper
This was a great hit; but ladies soon discarded
paper hats, and Mr. De la Rue, forever abandonin
bonnets, took up the card and paper trade. He h
now a wide field before him, and, in the preparation
of various little articles, excited and cultivated the
public taste. At the end of twenty years, we find
him the elder member of a company, with which
are associated two of his sons What was once a
Small and obscure concern, is now the largest of the
kind in the world.
Entering by the large gateway of this interesting
establishment, I was by the kindness of one of the
partners, conducted over the several departments of
the works—the whole nestling in a clusterofoldedi-
fices, and forming an amusing hive of industry;
Steam-engines, machinery, and animated beings,
9XXV. LIVING AGF. vol. x1.
gº
commingling in restless and varied movement. The
purpose of nearly all that strikes the eye, is to º:
papor to assume new forms and appearances.
this article forty-five thousand reams, valued at
£30,000, are consumed annually—a quantity so
great, that it would require three mills for its pro-
duction. Of the other articles used, such as colors,
oils, varnishes, leather, and gold and silver leaf, the
value may be set down at from £10,000 to £12,-
000. I hope it is not trespassing on confidence
likewise to mention that even the money paid for
gas amounts to £400, and for coal £600 per annum.
The coal is employed principaliv in “paces for the
steam-engines, of which there are two, one of eight,
and the other of fifteen horse-power. With steam-
pipes from the furnaces, the whole establishment is
safely and economically heated. It will perhaps
afford still more impressive considerations of the
completeness of the arrangements, when I observe
that the first place into which I was conducted was
a large apartment devoted exclusively to the making
and mending of machines. Here, at massive iron
planing tables, and turning apparatus, I found five
or six engineers busy at work, preparing lately-in-
vented machines of different kinds. Mr. Warren
De la Rue, by whom some of the most ingenious
machines have been constructed, superintends this
and other mechanical departments. This young
gentleman mentioned to me that they could not pos:
sibly conduct their business with satisfaction and
profit, unless they had always ready at hand the
means of repairing and making machinery; the time
lost and trouble expended in getting this species of
work done out of the house would be tormenting and
ruinous.
Adjoining this department is a mill-like apparatus
for grinding colors, and materials for enamelling;
and further on, in two upper apartments, is a labora-
tory, with retorts, mixtures, and a store of bottles
sufficient to set up a chemist's shop : here is also a
chemical library of French and English books,
which are in constant requisition. It is deemed
somewhat of a favor to be admitted to this depart-
ment; for many projects for executing new and
peculiar tints and surfaces, likewise processes for
electrotyping, not generally known, are here daily
in operation. The electrotyping, which is carried
on by means of large troughs full of the appropriate
liquids, is employed to multiply casts of any en-
graved or otherwise figured surface. Mr. De la
Rue has carried his ingenuity so far in this branch
of art as to produce an electrotype plate, in copper,
from the finest lace, and has hence been able toim-
part the effect of lace to printing in colors. How
curious that a piece of delicate tissue; taken from a
lady's cap, can, by means of troughs, acids, and
other materials, along with electric action, be made
to produce a solid plate of coºper from which the
pattern of the original can with facility be printed!
instead of using wax for taking moulds, gutta
percha, a newly-discovered substance from Borneo,
has here lately been introduced. It partakes prin-
cipally of the nature of caoutchouc; but with this
is combined a certain farinaceous quality, and it
therefore retains impressions better than preparations
of India-rubber. . . t
By the electrotyping process, a very small piccº
of engraving can be multiplied to any extent; and
therefore, supposing we wish the surface of a sheet
of paper to be printed all over with a continually-
repeated pattern—for example, the patterns on the
backs of playing-cards—we need only engrave a
single square inch: having got the electrotype rep-
26
CARDS, LETTER ENVELopes, ETC.
etitions of the original, they are all soldered
together, and the sheet of printing surface is formed.
Of what immense value to the arts is this discovery,
any one can form an opinion. Mr. De la Rue,
however, is prouder of his wire-cloth inventions
than of any improvements he may have introduced
into the process of electrotyping. In order to pro-
duce printing in colors, like the checks of a tartan;
or any other diversity of lines, he has succeeded in
forming, by means of the Jacquard loom, a cloth of
brass wires, each wire being a type so to speak;
and the cloth being fixed on a block, it gives an im-
ression of great clearness and beauty. The cross-
ined colored papers which one sometimes sees in
the fly-leaves of books, and on the backs of cards,
are effected by this ingenious application.
So far I have spoken only of things of a prepar-
atory nature, and yet the list is not half exhausted.
Above the electrotyping room is one occupied with
die-sinkers and engravers—men busy with hammers,
punches, and chisels, executing objects to be
employed in some of the more elegant kinds of F.
ing. Besides these artists, many individuals, I was
told, were employed out of doors in designing pat-
terns. On this branch, indeed, some of the best
artists in London are occasionally engaged. Nov-
elty and taste are never for a moment neglected.
Mr. De la Rue mentioned to me that he sometimes
gives as much as .620 or .630 for the drawing of a
design not larger than your hand. The best classic
models of antiquity are sought out, and so likewise
have there been procured some of the most tasteful
designs after Saracenic originals. Perfect novelty
however, is a governing principle. The object of
the concernis to maintain a high character for orig-
inality—to copy from no one, j or continental.
Formerly, in England, few or no manufacturers
thought of going to the expense of employing
designers, and consequently designers did not exist
amongst us. In the chief manufacturing towns
there might have been here and there a dissipated
man of genius, who, when he could be laid hold of
quite sober, would, for a guinea or so, furnish a de-
sign, such as it was ; but there was no principle in
the thing, and almost everymanufacturer copied from
French originals; the more enterprising among
them bribing French workmen to send early copies
of what they had begun to execute. The necessity
for competing with continental manufacturers in the
home market, consequent on the late free-trade
measures, has, among respectable men, put an end
to this meagre and shabby state of affairs. Every
respectable tradesman, who desires to avoid follow-
ing among the mere herd of imitators, not only
employs skilled designers, but is constantly racking
his brains how he is to maintain his place in the
market. It sounded new to me, in general prin-
ciples of trade, to be told that no man can now ex-
ect great success in any fancy manufacture unless
we competes with himself. Competition with others
won't do any longer. The true art consists in not
waiting to be stimulated by rivalry, but in bringing
out fresh, novelties at proper times, one after the
other, and so gaining a command, as it were, over
the public taste. , I was taken with this idea of Mr.
De la Rue ; it showed him to be a master in his
craft.
Having been conducted through the preparatory
departments of the establishment, I was now intro.
duced to what forms a principal branch of manufac-
ture. This is the making of playing-cards, which
engages a considerable number of hands, and sev-
eral machines and presses. The figures on playing-
cards are among the earliest things mentioned in the
history of printing; and there they are, with
scarcely any alteration, till the present day. While
the figures, however, remain pretty much what they
were, there has been a great advance in the mode
of manufacture, and also in the quality of the card.
Formerly, the figures were stencilled in water-
colors; and some makers, it is believed, still con-
tinue this clumsy process. Mr. De la Rue, some
years ago, introduced the improved plan of printing
the cards with inks, or colors in oil, by which
means no degree of rubbing or moisture of the hand
can move the figures. At one time, playing-cards
were plain on the back; now, they have generally
backs printed with fanciful figures; and therefore
each side of the card requires its own appropriate
printing. Let me first speak of the face. A sheet
of paper, containing forty cards, is printed at once.
If the card have figures of only one color—as, for
instance, all spades, which are black; or all hearts,
which are red—then one impression is sufficient.
But if there be several colors, as in the case of the
honors, each has a separate impression from a dif-
ferently engraved block; the last impression com-
pleting the figure. In executing a knave of clubs,
for example, they first print his eyes, and other
parts about him which are blue; an impression
from a second block fills in the reds; a third imparts
the yellows; a fourth the flesh color of the face;
and a fifth gives the blacks. Each court-card,
therefore, requires to go through the press five
times; but, to save trouble, a large quantity of one
color are executed at a time. Sheets for the backs
of the cards are printed in a similar manner, but on
paper which has been tinted in making.
The printing of playing-cards, numerous as are
the impressions they must undergo, is but a small
part of the manufacture. Having seen the printed
sheets carried away to the drying-room, we pro-
ceeded to the pasting process. This was a greater
novelty to me than printing. 3 was first taken into
a side-room, where were several women mingling
together sheets of paper of different qualities, ac-
cording to certain prescribed arrangements. When
a pile of sheets was completed, it was carried away
to the pasting-room. Here there were two long
tables, with a number of men at work. Each of
these had on his left a pile of the mingled sheets,
and on his right a tub of paste. Lifting a sheet
with his left hand, and laying it on the bench be-
fore him, he speedily smeared it over with the great
paste-brush he held in his right; next were laid
down two sheets, only the uppermost of which was
pasted; and thus there arose a great pile of pasted
sheets, with unpasted intervals. The whole opera-
tion was performed in a rapid and business-like
way, with all the regularity of a machine. The
brush, which seemed to be made of soft bristles,
was as large as the besom of a housemaid, but
without any handle; and I was assured that so
methodic do the men become in their movements,
that the brush in each case performs precisely the
same curvilinear evolutions. In this manner, from
year's end to year's cnd, do these men work away
with their great broad pasting-brushes, construct-
ing the internal part of playing-cards. Coarse as
this branch of labor appears, it is reckoned one of
skill, and is accordingly well paid. The weekly
wage of a good paster is about two poºnds; some
can realize as much as fifty shillings. The making
of the paste is a separate branch ; men being con-
stantly employed in an adjoining room, over huge
cauldrons, preparing this material, which chiefly
CARDs, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC.
27
consists of fine flour; but a substance like whiting
is also infused, in order to give solidity tº the card.
The quantity of flour consumed annually is four
hundred sacks, from which two hundred gallons of
paste are prepared and used daily. . *
The pile of sheets, while dripping wet, being
taken from the paster, is placed in a hydraulic
press, and being there subjected to a hard pressure,
the sheets become well squeezed together. A long
row of hydraulics stands behind the pasters for this
purpose. The sheets are afterwards separated into
boards, and hung up to dry. The pasting of the
figured sheets to the front and back of the board is
a final operation; and when this is done, every
board consists of forty cards. There is yet, how-
ever, much to be effected in the way of drying,
smoothing, and cutting. . The drying-room is an
extensive series of vaults, to which I was let down
by an apparatus called a lift. The moist boards
being dropped down in large quantities by this ma-
chine, are hung on poles, and dried by the heat of
five hundred feet of iron pipes, through which
steam from the engine is blown. To ventilate and
remove the moisture from the vaults, a fan is kept
constantly rotating and propelling air at the rate of
2000 cubic feet per minute. Having undergone a
due baking in this warm and airy oven, the boards
are lifted to a second floor, to which we shall follow
them.
The second floor exhibits a busy scene of rolling
and ºther apparatus, with great quantities of paste.
boards and sheets in different stages of advance-
ment. . When a card-board reaches this depart-
ºnent, it is for the purpose of being rendered per-
feetly smooth on the surface. Some persons would
think that this end could be best effected by at once
passing the boards under the severe pressure of
metal rollers. This is a natural, but erroneous
idea. On looking with a microscope at the surface
of a card-board just come from the drying-room, it
is found to consist of a series of small protuber-
ances or hillocks. Now, if these were at once
flattened by rollers or other means, the tops of the
hillocks would be crushed down partly over the in-
termediate valleys, leaving minute portions of the
valleys uncrushed; consequently, in shuffling cards,
one would, to a certain extent, catch on another.
To avert this, the card-boards are, in the first
place, burnished, all over with a rapidly-revolving
brush, which searches into every hollow, and
sweeps away any loose particles of matter. 'The
next step is to level both sides by rollers; but
here, again, a remarkable principle in mechanics is
observable. Two surfaces smoothed in the same
manner will not glide over each other so well as if
they be smoothed differently. In smoothing the card-
board, therefore, it is passed between two rollers,
the lower of which is of metal, and the upper of
paper; both are equally smooth, but they impart a
certain variety in the dressing, to cause a sufficient-
ly easy gliding of the cards, face and back. The
paper roller is prepared in a way which no one
could expect. A. great pile of sheets being pasted
together, squeezed to the hardest possible consist-
ency, and dried, the mass is fixed on a spindle, and
turned on a turning-lathe; the result is a smooth,
round beam, the surface of which consists entirely
of edges of paper, but the whole of as close a text.
ure as a piece of finely-polished wood.
he operation of finishing is not yet by any
Theans over. After being taken from the smooth-
ºng rºllers, the boards are transferred to an appara-
tus for giving them a wash of certain kinds of
liquid, the object of which is to harden them, and
render them impervious to the moisture ºf, tho
hand. Following the principle already alludº.”
the wash, which has a glazing effect, is of a differ;
ent kind on the two sides, although to the naked
eye the gloss is the same on both. These washes
being dried, the card-boards are placed between
sheets of brass, and passed, a few at a time, be-
twixt milling-rollers. They are now carried to a
hydraulic press for flattening; and here, having
been subjected to a pressure of a thousand tons,
they are taken out in the hard, flat, glossy condi-
tion in which they come under the eye of the pub-
lic. #
Removed from the pressing-room, the boards
next migrate to the cutting apparatus. With this
machine a man cuts them, individually, first into
long slips, and next across into single cards... With
such accuracy is this operation performed, that al-
though the cutter turns out 20,000 cards, in a day,
all are precisely the same dimensions. The sorting
into qualities next takes place, and requires much
sharpness of hand and eye. Inspected minutely as
they pass through the hand, they are thrown into
three heaps, from one of which are made up packs
called Moguls; from the second are made up Har;
rys; and from the third Highlanders. The Mogul
cards are of prime quality and highest price; they
have no speck or flaw on either back or face. The
Harrys have each a single speck on the back or
face; and the Highlanders have one or more specks
on both sides. Why the portraits of the Great Mo:
gul, Henry VIII., and that of a Highlander, should
have been adopted as a cognizance on packs of
playing-cards, I have not heard explained.
To complete the history of the manufacture, I
might say something of the wrapping-up, the pay-
ing for engraved aces of spades to government, and
the exportation of untaxed packs; but all this may
be left to the imagination; and it is enough to say,
that of one kind or other, the concern I am º:
ing of makes, and sells a hundred thousand packs
annually. . The quantity of cards paying duty is.
sued by the different makers is, I believe, about
two hundred thousand packs in the year, hesides
which, probably double the quantity are made and
exported duty free. The consumption of playing-
cards in the United Kingdom is, to all appearance,
stationary, notwithstanding the continual increase
of population; it would, however, be rash to as-
cribe this altogether to a gradual diminution of
card-playing propensities. . It is believed that
there is a prodigious sale of cards with surrepti-
tious stamps; and it is Mr. De la Rue's opinion,
founded on a knowledge of the trade, that, were
the duty reduced from a shilling to threepence per
pack, the government would derive ten times the
amount of revenue from this branch of manufacture.
At one time Russia was one of the best custom-
ers in Europe for playing-cards; but this trade is
now at an end, in consequence of that country hav-
ing engaged in the manufacture itself; nor, judg-
ing from the quantity it makes away with, does
this step seem unreasonable. In Russia, card;
playing is a universal amusement, and will in all
probability continue to be so while the people re;
Imain illiterate, and political speculation is attended
with danger. To supply the demand for cards, the
government took the fabrication of the article into
its own hands, and with much liberality not only
urchased from Mr. De la Rue a knowledge of the
manufacture, but induced his brother to take the
entire charge of the establishment in which the
28
CARDs, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC.
cards are made. The quantity of cards thus made
annually for Russian consumption is a million of
packs, the profits on the sale of which are devoted
to charitable purposes.
Hitherto I have spoken only of the manufacture
of playing-cards, but it will be understood that vis-
iting and other kinds of cards are made much in
the same manner. Of all the varieties of cards
which exist, playing-cards were the original type.
Forty or fifty years ago, the only blank cards in
use were the parings or other waste of cards for
playing, and it was on trimmed morsels of this waste
that visitors were in the habit of inscribing their
names when they made a call. The fashion of
leaving cards having at length established itself
among our national customs, small blank cards of
a superior kind were made on purpose, and now
we find every variety which can be desired. Lat-
terly, enamelled cards have been in vogue, and the
making of these has become an important branch
of Mr. De la Rue's manufacture. So, likewise,
has the making of railway tickets of late assumed
a more than ordinary importance. Nearly all the
railways in the United Kingdom procure their tick-
ets from this establishment, cach having its own
pattern as respects color and device. The card.
boards for these tickets are cut by boys with such
rapidity, that the eye can scarcely follow their
movements. The aggregate quantity of tickets
produced by the establishment is at present a mil-
lion and a half weekly.
From the card-making department I was led into
that which is devoted to the preparing of post-office
and other envelopes; but I must postpone what I
have to say on that interesting branch till another
OCC:1810ſ],
On being conducted into that department of Mr.
De la Rue's establishment which is devoted to
the making of post-office envelopes, I had before
me a busy scene of machines and human laborers—
pulleys whirling overhead, belts driving wheels
below, and an incessant clank-clanking noise, which
renders it necessary to speak somewhat louder than
a whisper, if one has any particular wish to be
heard. º - -
With respect to the material on which all this
activity was exerted, I had seen it prepared some
time ago at a mill in Hertfordshire. It is made,
like any other ordinary paper, at a machine, and
with a sufficiency of size in the pulp to prevent the
ink from running. The introduction of the threads
is a matter of extreme simplicity. From reels sus-
pended over the pulpy substance as it goes below
the first pair of cylinders, threads are led down and
inextricably crushed into the web. After being
cut into sheets, the paper is taken in reams to the
factory which I was now visiting. J.
When the paper comes into the hands of Mr. De
la Rue, it is so far unfinished on the surface that it
requires to be milled, by being put through rollers
in the manner which Yi. already described for
smoothing sheets of paper or card. §. much care is
taken to insure finish of surface, that each sheet is
milled five or six times before it is considered per-
fect. When it has undergone this tedious process,
the sheets are laid i. of about six inches
thick, beneath a cutting apparatus, which, for want
of a better simile, I must describe as acting on the
principle of the guillotine. A great broad knife is
pressed by a powerful action down on the paper,
and with the utmost case severs the mass in twain.
Having been cut into breadths, the paper is next,
by the same instrument, formed into lozenge
shapes—this producing the least possible waste of
material. In this form the paper is handed to the
succeeding machine, where, coming under the
action of descending angular chisels, small pieces
are smartly notched from the corners, and the en-
velope is made, all except the stamping and folding.
Following a natural course of things, the envel-
ope paper might now be expected to be carried to
an adjacent apparatus for impressing the medallion
stamp, which is to give it currency through the
post. Circumstances divert it from this direct
course. The presumed necessity for keeping a
careful watch over the dies, prevents government
from employing any but their own officers to im-
press the medallions, and the operation is accord-
ingly performed at Somerset House, which, with a
knowledge of this eccentricity of movement, I had
visited the day previously. Conducted down to
one of the lower floors of this large government
office, I there found, in an apartment overlooking
the Thames, a number of machines, of a very pe—
culiar construction, engaged in stamping or print-
ing the medallions. These machines, which, I
believe, are the invention of Mr. Edwin Hill, su-
perintendent of the stamping arrangements, may be
considered as forming a combination of the printing-
press and die-stamping apparatus. All are moved
by a steam-engine of two-horse power. At each
press are two lads, one placing the papers below the
die, and the other removing them. The impres-
sions being effected at the rate of sixty in the
minute—an amazing celerity considering that the
die is inked at every impression—the laying down
and taking up require a sharp eye, and no small
expertness of fingers. In such processes, every
little matter requires to be studied, in order to econ-
omize time and trouble. Were a boy to try to lay
down sixty pieces of paper in a particular manner
within the period of a minute, without once missing,
he should certainly fail in the attempt, unless he
arranged the papers in a way convenient for handling
before he began. The spreading out of the papers
into handsful, in the shape of a fan, is on this account
an indispensable preliminary in the operation I am
now describing. I was told that there is even a
knack in rapidly forming the fans. After much ex-
perience, it has been found that it can be most expe-
ditiously done by throwing the papers on a table
covered with soft cloth, and passing a brush over
them. Who, on using an envelope, could imagine
that the mere mode of handling it has been a sub-
ject of so much solicitude!
In stamping, the die is suspended over the paper
on which it is to be impressed, and consequently
the inking is effected by rollers pressing upwards.
Having thus to work contrary to gravity, the rollers
require to be artificially pressed upon the die; and
Mr. Hill's device of springs acting on the rollers to
accomplish this object is at once simple and ingen-
ious. So also is there great merit in the method of
shortening and lengthening, at each impression, the
screw and bolt apparatus to which the die is sus-
pended, in order to afford room and time for the
action of the rollers. It consists in interjecting and
withdrawing a piece of metal at every lift and
descent of the screw over the bolt: in other words,
the power acts, first, by means of a rapidly-working
screw; second, the piece of metal which is pushed
below it; and third, the bolt to which the die is
attached—all three being kept in º vertical line by
the supports of the apparatus. The number of
papers stamped by each press is, as I have said,
sixty per minute, at which rate several machines,
CARDs, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC.
29
with their attendants, work six hours daily; which,
although little more than half the time occupied in
ordinary printing-houses, is, all things considered,
a fair amount for a government office.
Stamped and counted, the envelopes now retrace
their steps to Mr. De la Rue's establishment, to
which I again invite attention. Greatly as I had
been delighted with the operation of stamping, I
was still more pleased with that which now came
under my notice. In ſolding an envelope, six
movements are necessary. First, the paper must
bo laid down; four flaps must next, one after the
other, be turned over; and sixthly, the envelope
must be withdrawn, to make way for its successor.
All these movements, except the laying down,
are performed by a machine of the height and size
of a small table, with some interesting apparatus
arranged over its surface; the whole the united
invention of Mr. Edwin Hill and Mr. Warren De
la Rue. A boy having laid down a lozenge-shaped
paper, a hammer falls, and knocks its square central
part into a crevice; and on the hammer rising, we
see the four corners standing erect—the envelope
having taken the form of a box, with standing sides
and ends. A broad iron thumb, as I may call it,
now rises and presses down one of the ends,
another thumb presses on the opposite end, and next
the two sides are similarly ſlattened. The envel-
ope being now made, an iron arm comes forward
with a rapid jerk, and with two fingers draws it
away. It is not drawn aside into an indiscriminate
heap, but is brought to a halt upon an endless strip
of cloth, which, travelling over two rollers at a slow
rate, gathers the mass of envelopes into regular
bings, and thus obviates the necessity for shaking
them even. The action of what I call the fingers
is curious. Instead of drawing away the envelope,
as if by hooked claws, the effect is produced merely
by touch, the same as if you were to pull towards you
a sheet of paper by the tips of two fingers. How
two metal pointers could perform this delicate ope-
ration is the wonder. It is indeed a curiosity in
art. The explanation is, that the pointers are
tipped with India-rubber—a substance which will
readily draw aside any light object by the touch, as
an experiment with a morsel of rubber and sheet of
paper will convincingly show. The interest at-
tached to this apparatus is increased by observing
that when the boy fails to place an envelope-paper
on its appointed place, the two fingers are projected
outwards and do not dip down to draw the envelope
aside—as if there was a consciousness in the ma-
chine that any effort on this occasion would be
thrown away. -
The whole of the process of which this affords
the scantiest outline, is a rapid evolution of parts
all acting in harmony to effect a particular end, and
without any perceptible interval of repose. The
rapidity may be judged from the fact, that two
thousand envelopes are folded per hour, or twenty
thousand in the day. Yet this degree of quickness,
I understand, is already beginning to be considered
slow work, and will not be tolerated much longer.
I should not be surprised, at my next visit, to see
four times as many envelopes made in the hour,
and the whole at the same time gummed and
counted. As it is, the machine cannot keep the
stamp-office supplied; and many girls are employed
in executing quantities by hand-labor. At a former
visit a year or two ago, I found that all the envel-
opes were folded by girls; and so active were they,
that I could not have anticipated the invention of
anything more smart and economical. The result
shows how useless it is for an onlooker to SPe*:
intº on such matters. But still more useless wºuld
be the sentimental maunderings of those who aſſºt
to lament the substitution of iron and power-belts
for human muscle and intelligence. The mºº
machines Mr. De la Rue introduces into his work-
rooms, the greater is the number of hands he
requires to employ. “So far,” said he: “from
the folding machine robbing our girls of their em;
ployment, we have more work for them than ever,
Öné can only have a ſorcible perception of the truth
of this remark, by having visited, as I did, the
establishment at two distant periods. On the pres-
ent occasion, when conducted into the manual-labor
rooms, I found that department thronged from the
garret to the cellar—a houseful of girls, all as busy
as possible at agreeable and remunerating labor;
many ſolding at ſong tables, others gumming, and a
third class finally putting the envelopes in pack-
ages ready for saie. The place was in itself a fac-
tory, and not the least interesting or Curious,on
various accounts. As all the envelopes, whether
made by machine or with the folder, pass through
this department, I inquired how many were turned
out in any given period of time. The answer was,
that the quantity of envelopes all together made was
seventy-five thousand a-day, or twenty-two and a
half millions per annum, but that this was only those
stamped for the post-office. The quantity of fancy
envelopes manufactured was equally large. This
led me to an examination of the kinds of envelopes
made without stamps, of which there were numer-
ous varieties in progress. One species were with-
out borders; others were bordered with red, blue,
or some other fancy color; and a third kind had
narrow or broad borders of black for mourning.
The preparation of mourning note-papers and
envelopes seemed in itself a great concern. The
putting on of the black I did not see, that being
done out of the house by a person whose business
is the blacking of paper. “To give you a notion
of the extent of this kind of trade,” said Mr. De la
Rue, “I may mention that we pay £500 a year for
merely blacking the edges of note and envelope
papers.” Equally ready, however, to pay the part
of L'Allegro as h Penseroso, this great man has
not disdained to bring his ingenuity to bear on the
important subject of matrimonial stationery. I am
rather inclined to think that De la Rue prides him-
self a little on what he has accomplished in this
way. And who that recollects what marriage-
cards were a few years ago, can wonder at a man
being proud of being the purveyor of such splendid
things as now charm the eyes of misses—names,
borders, wafers, and true lovers knots, all in a
blaze of enamel and silver! . . *
Pleased with the way in which these pretty arti-
cles were got up, I felt a reluctance in quitting the
department to visit that part ºf the premises devoted
to enamelling, coloring, and warnishing... Enamel
is a wash of a material externally resembling whit-
ing, which, after being died on the card or paper;is
smoothed by milling. The mode of º the
wash is the only part worth noticing. I found soy-
eral workmen and boys engaged in laying the wash
on webs of paper, each three hundred yards long;
and this length they finished in half an hour. The
actual operator, however, is a machine, and the
men and boys are only attendants. The web, in
going into the machine, passes beneath a trough,
from which the wash issues over the surface; it
then comes under the action of an apparºtus of
brushes, moving in cycloidal curves, by which the
30 * .CARDs, LETTER ENVELOPEs, ETC.
wash is finely equalized; led away from this, the
web sinks through a hole in the floor to an apart-
ment beneath, where it is caught by a boy, and
hung on poles to dry. The paper undergoing
this initiatory process of enamelling at the time of
my visit was that designed for covers to “Cham-
bers' Miscellany of Useful and Entertaining Tracts,”
of which some hundreds of thousands have been
Prº
The adjoining workroom, in which papers are
colored and varnished, had somewhat the appear-
ance of a painter's and dyer's atelier. At various
benches, girls were employed tinting sheets of
paper by means of brushes and colors; others were
putting varnish on the dried sheets; and a few were
laying squares of leaf metal on paper preparatory to
future processes. Much of the colored, as well as
the metal-colored paper, is designed for embossing;
hence it was natural for us next to look in upon
the apparatus employed in giving the embossing or
stamping finish to the material. Embossing is done
in two ways—whole sheets by means of rollers,
and small slips by means of powerful stamping ma-
chines. In little more than an instant of time, a
sheet, formerly smooth, will pass between rollers,
on one of which the pattern is engraved, and come
out beautifully marked in relief. The appearance
of morocco leather is thus given to j papers.
The process of stamping is performed on the
ground-floor, in consequence of the enormous
weight of the presses. The largest of these ma-
chines is about eighteen feet high, weighs twenty
tons, and imparts a blow equal to a thousand tons.
From my previous acquaintance with machines of
this class, I should have expected that the Goliah
before me would require great toil in working, and
was therefore agreeably surprised to find that it
performed the falling and rising frocess with com-
parative ease and equability. #º. men only were
in attendance upon it: one placed the slip of paper
below the die, taking it out when stamped; the
other guided the movement, by putting the machine
in and out of gear with the steam power. The
blow being given with a rapid and ponderous jerk,
which shook the ground and building, the reaction
caused the screw to run back, leaving time to shift
the paper for the ensuing impression. The article
which was in hand during my visit was what few
persons could have expected—the fancy slip of
paper which is wrapped round pieces of linen. It
is very true that linen is not a whit the better for
ornaments of this kind; but it is equally undeniable
that people are taken with such embellishments:
the eye is pleased if not the judgment, and how
much are all mankind imposed on by what charms
the senses As to the slip in question, what was
it radically but a bit of paper, not worth a farthing!
Yet what did art not do for it? In the first place,
it daubed it over with a pea-green color; next, it
gave it a gloss rivalling the surface of polished
marble; then it pasted upon it, in the form of a
medallion, a small representation of a flower on a
white ground; after this, it laid leaves of gold upon
it; and lastly, giving it a blow with a die, there
sprung up in relief a beautiful golden efflorescence,
surrounding the medallion, and radiating over the
delicate green expanse of the slip. The execution
of the design on the die was an important step, not
to be overlooked; for independently of all manual
labor, the drawing, effected by one of the first
artists of the day, cost as much as twenty guineas.
Thus it is that things are done on a great and
. liberal scale in large factory concerns; the most
insignificant materials being exalted to a high value
by the varied and ingenious operations of artists
and artisans, set to work by capital and enter-
prise.*
In the same department I observed several
smaller stamping-presses engaged on different arti-
cles requiring to be embossed. One was employed
in embossing a highly ornamental calling card: the
relief in this instance, however, being open, to re-
semble lace. ... The card being first embossed by a
blow of the die, is next laid, face downwards, on a
block, and in this position the raised dots are filed
off; consequently, on taking it up, we find that the
embossing is full of small holes. Another press
was engaged in stamping leather for the covers of
work-boxes and writing cases. Near to this scene
of labor I was shown the process of printing in
metals. A number of small presses of an ordinary
kind, and several men and women, are here occu-
pied. Printing to resemble gold and silver has
been brought by Mr. De la Rue to considerable
perfection; and yet it is so simple, that I can see
no obstacle to its general use. Properly speaking,
the metal is not printed, but laid on the typography
after the sheet comes from the press. Instead of
ink, the types are rolled in a glutinous substance,
to which metal in powder readily adheres. The
metal, to resemble gold, is an oxidised brass; and so
vast has become its consumption, that there is now
a manufactory of the article in London. Beat first
into leaf, it is afterwards ground to powder; and
the daubing of this powder on the typography
appears to be the duty of the work-women. In
this manner all those covers of packages containing
note-papers which blaze in gold and silver, are pro-
duced. After printing and metalling, the papers
go through a wash and milling, to impart a glossy
finish.
From the metal-printing department I was led up
stairs to that in which are manufactured all vari-
eties of portable writing-desks, work-boxes, and
cases, also portfolios, albums, needle-books, and
other loves of articles that no young lady could for
an instant see without meditating an attack on
papa's pocket. Here, likewise, I was made con-
scious for the first-time of that great work of art,
a portable chess-board—a thing made of paste-
board, which, with pieces and all, you can fold up
in your pocket, so as to be able to carry on a game
in a stage-coach, railway carriage, or steamboat.
Invented by a learned professor, this little affair
has, to use De la Rue's gratulatory expression,
“taken root,” and is therefore likely to turn out a
good thing for the concern. To chess-players, I
should imagine it to be an indispensable pocket
companion. Unable to save themselves, they may
just as well go and buy one of these portable boards
at once, as wait to perform that act ungraciously
afterwards.
I had now seen pretty nearly into all the odd
nooks of this interesting establishment, and my
last move was into the store-room, in which were
engaged ten clerks and packers, despatching goods
to all parts of the empire. Here, in conversing
with one of the partners, I learned that the whole
house is under from fifteen to twenty foremen, with
* While on this subject, it is not out of place to speak
with admiration of the embossing of card-board by Messrs.
Dobbs, Bailey, and Co., of 134 Fleet stºº London. . By
them bas-relief copies of the cartoons of Raphael, and the
masterly pictures of Wilkie, also relievo maps of different
countries, have been executed with much taste and at a
comparatively insignificant cost.
HARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.
31
Cach of whom a debtor and creditor account is kept,
as if he were an independent tradesman. It is only
by such minute arrangements that a dispersed miscel-
laneous establishment like this could be conducted
with propriety or advantage. At any given time,
it can be ascertained whether any particular branch
is yielding work proportional to the expenditure
upon it. A number of the foremen were originally
lads employed in the early years of the establish-
ment; and with them, as well as with others, the
masters are upon a most amicable footing. Solicit-
ous to improve the condition of all in their employ-
ment, the proprietors have latterly induced them to
abandon the practice of taking beer twice durin
the hours of labor, and in lieu have remitted half an
hour, from the general day's work. A marked
social improvement has been the consequence.
Latterly, also, a sickness-fund and library have been
set on foot in the office. As these useful institutions
have a reference to something like three hundred
individuals, the degree of benefit is of more than
ordinary importance.
There was now nothing more for me to see or
hear of in connection with this extensive establish-
ment, and thanking my friendly conductors for the
trouble they had taken to explain the different pro-
cesses, I concluded what I hope will have been as
little tiresome to my readers as to me—“A DAY AT
DE LA RUE's.”
From Chambers' Journal.
HARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.
. It has not unfrequently happened that, at wide
intervals of time, certain speculative or inquiring
minds have had glimpses of a truth—of some great
natural fact. They have seen an eſſect, without
being able to trace it to a cause—a portion of an
outline, of which they were unable to make a fin-
ished picture. A long descent through many brains
has seemed to be necessary for the entire elabora-
tion of the principle ; and although there may be
something grand and startling in the discoveries
which at times flash upon the world as the result
of hazard, yet those which have been the work of
thought, observation, deduction, and experiment,
carried on laboriously through many years, forcing
their way, as it were, into existence, are not the
less worthy of our respect and admiration.
The history of the discovery of the circulation
of the blood by our countryman Harvey, presents
itself as an interesting illustration of the views here
thrown out. Constituting, as it did, a fact of the
highest importance in the human economy, giving
a new form and purpose to physiological science,
it nevertheless met with the usual fate of great
truths, being received with ridicule, jealousy, and
detraction. w
William Harvey was born at Folkstone, in Kent,
on the 2d of April, 1578. He acquired the elements
of learning at a school in Canterbury, and finished
his education at Cambridge. Eldest of a family of
nine, he was the only one who manifested any in-
clination for science. Having determined on de-
voting himself to medicine, he set out, at the age
of nineteen, on his travels to France and Germany,
visiting the principal anatomical schools on his
Way to Italy, in which country he studied anatomy
for some years under the celebrated Aquapendenté,
founder of the school of Padua. Harvey devoted
himself zealously to this pursuit. Before his time,
anatomy had been nothing more than a speculative
science, distorted by many absurd and superstitious
notions; and the hindrances opposed to the dissec-
tion of the human subject, proved a formidable im-
pediment to more accurate or rational researches.
Aquapendente had noticed the valves of the Velºs
in his dissections, but it does not appear that he
had any idea of their real use or importance, lºº
sight of these was doubtless the cause of Harvey's
investigations, and moved him, as he says, to Writº,
“to find out the use of the motion of the heart;
a thing so hard to be attained, that, with Frascator
rius, he believed it known to God alone.” He goe;
on to say—“Almost all anatomists, physicians, and
philosophers to this day, do affirm, with Galen, that
g| the use of pulsation is the same with that of respi-
ration, and that they differ only in one thing—that
one flows from the animal faculty, and the other
from the vital, being alike in all other things, either
as touching their utility or manner of motion.”. It
is evident that he was not unwilling to do justice
to the labors of his predecessors, for elsewhere;
to use his own words, he is thinking “to unfold
such things as have been published by others; to
take notice of those things which have been com:
monly spoken and taught, that those things which
have been rightly spoken may be confirmed, and
those which are false, both by anatomical dissec-
tion, manifold experience, and diligent and accurate
observation, may be amended.” º º
Once on the track, Harvey followed it up with
unflinching perseverance: new facts came to light,
and cheered him on with the hope of ultimate suº-
cess. “Observing,” he remarks, “the valves in
the veins of many parts of the body so placed as to
give free passage to the blood towards the heart,
but to oppose the passage of the venal blood the
contrary way, I imagined that so provident a cause
as nature had not thus placed so many valves with-
out design.”
At length Harvey believed he “had hit the nail
on the head ;” and having become a fellow of the
College of Physicians at the age of thirty, he was
appointed professor in 1616, when he commenced
a course of lectures, and for the first time modestly
announced his great discovery of the circulation of
the blood. Content to go no farther for a time than
in the hints thrown out, he waited with patience,
until time had fully matured his views, before he
gave them to the world. In the year 1628, when
he was fifty years old, his researches were first
published at Frankfort, in a small quarto Volume,
entitled Evercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et
Sanguinis,” dedicated to Charles I. In this work,
as has been truly observed, “Harvey, by his genius,
followed nature in her windings, and forced her to
unveil herself.” “Scarcely one of the proofs
which demonstrate the circulation, escaped his re-
searches; he showed it not only in certain parts,
but followed it to its recesses—to the liver—where
other anatomists had lost themselves. His book is
one of the rare essays which exhaust the subject;
it is short and comprehensive, clear and profound,
dictated by reason and experience.”f wº
He had diligently and perseveringly extended his
inquiries beyond the human subject, with a view to
verify his facts by comparison. The king, who,
with all his errors, entertained enlightened views
on science generally, placed at his physician's dis.
osal the deer in the royal parks near London; and
in addition to these, the zealous anatomist minutely
* Anatomical Researches on the Motion of the Heart
and Blood. Haller called this work Opusculum Aureum
(small golden treatise.)
+ Senec. Traité du Coeur.
-
32
HARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.
examined the hearts of other mammalian animals,
as well as of birds and fishes. His book contains
an explanation, in clear and concise language, of
the general mechanism of the circulation, and in-
contestable proofs of the truth of his theory. His
own words will best convey the certainty and accu-
. of his views. In the chapter on the action
and office of the heart, he remarks—“First of all,
the ear (as the auricle was then called) contracts
itself, and in that contraction throws the blood with
which it abounds, as the head-spring of the veins,
and the cellar and cistern of blood, into the ventri-
cles of the heart.” After its passage through the
lungs and body, “it returns to the heart, as to the
fountain or dwelling-house of the body; and there
again, by natural heat, powerful and vehement,
it is melted, and is dispensed again through the
body. The pulse of the arteries is nothing but the
impulsion of blood into the arteries.”
Harvey's biographer, Dr. Friend, writing on the
discovery, observes—“As it was entirely owing to
him, so he has explained it with all the clearness
imaginable; and though much has been written on
that subject since, I may venture to say his own
book is the shortest, plainest, and the most convinc-
ing of any.” We find the celebrated Boyle, who
was contemporary with Harvey, not less candid.
He remarks in his philosophical works—“Late
experiments having shown the use of the blood's
circulation, and of the valves in the heart and veins
(which, the famous Dr. Harvey told me, gave him
the first hint of his grand discovery,) we at length
acknowledge the wisdom of the contrivance, after
it had escaped the search of many preceding ages.”
The extreme care with which Harvey must have
pursued his inquiries, may be best understood by
what is perhaps the most striking phenomenon in
his important discovery—that of the independent
motion and life of the blood itself. He noticed the
gradual cessation of movement in the ventricles and
auricles in dying animals, and goes on to say—
“But besides all these, I have often observed, that
after the heart itself, and even its right ear, had, at
the very point of death, left off beating, there
manifestly remained in the very blood which is in
the right ear an obscure motion, and a kind of inun-
dation and beating.” . .* --
It might be supposed that a discovery of this
nature presented nothing to shock the prejudices,
or disturb the interests, of any portion of the com-
munity. Yet, as remarked in Wotton's Reflections,
“a great many put in for the prize, unwilling that
Harvey should go away with all the glory.” A
host of those who are always ready to combat facts
by reasoning fell upon him. He was overwhelmed
with contradictions from the learned, and neglected
by the public generally; and as soon as his claims
were contested, his practice as a physician materi-
ally diminished. Such was the acrimony of his
opponents, that he was denounced to the king as
guilty of improper dissections; an accusation which,
had he not enjoyed the favor of the sovereign, might
have been attended with fatal consequences, in a
day when violent prejudices prevailed against ex-
periments on the human subject. Many asserted
that the discovery was nothing new ; that it had
been known long before : others contended for the
honor as due to themselves; and some referred it
to Hippocrates, from whom Harvey was said to
have stolen it. -
"The ancients, in reality, knew neither the theory
nor the laws of the circulation. They entertained
the most absurd ideas on many physiological and
anatomical points relative to this phenomenon, and
were altogether ignorant of the important part
played by the lungs in this great function. The
Chinese were said to have been acquainted with the
movement of the vital fluid from time immemorial;
an assertion which appears to have solely rested on
the attention always paid to the pulse by that singu-
lar people. Hippocrates is the earliest author who
makes any allusion to the subject; he speaks ob-
scurely of the usual motion of the blood and distri-
bution of the veins. Plato represented the heart as
a species of divinity, that poured out blood to ev-
ery member of the body; and Aristotle, who uses
the word arteria for windpipe, speaks of a recurrent
motion of the blood, comparing it to the ebbing and
flowing of the sea in the well-known channel of
Euripus: these opinions were, however, founded
on mere conjecture, not on actual demonstration.
Galen, who believed that the veins originated in the
liver, endows the body with “three kinds of spirits,
natural, vital, and animal, corresponding to the same
number of faculties or functions.” The seat of
the natural was in the liver, for the growth and
support of the body; the vital he assigned to the
heart, for the development and carrying about of
heat; and placed the animal in the head, as the
source of sensation and motion. The arteries were
supposed to be nothing moré than passages for air
or “spirit,” as after death they were found empty;
from which circumstance they derive their name.
Cicero, in his treatise, De Natura Deorum, has the
phrase—“Sanguis per venas, et spiritus per arte-
rias.”
These doctrines prevailed until the time of Ser-
vetus, who, better known as a theologian than
physician, fell a victim to the religious fanaticism
of the Calvinists of Geneva. His writings contain
many remarkable facts; among others, a descrip-
tion of the pulmonary circulation, with which it
appears he was imperfectly acquainted. His sup-
positions, however, were not founded on actual ex-
periment. Like Galen, he made the body the abode
of three spirits; one of which, the aërial spirit or
pneuma, was seated in the heart and arteries. After
Servetus, Columbus, a physician of Cremona, threw
further light on the circulation through the lungs,
yet he remained entirely ignorant of the part played
by the arteries. To him we are nevertheless in-
debted for a description of the uses of the valves
of the heart. He was followed by Caesalpinus,
first physician to Pope Clement VIII., who held
some clear views on the subject; but being contin-
ually engaged in scholastic disputes, his allusions
to it are, in most cases, incidental and obscure ; and
notwithstanding his verification of the labors of his
redecessor, his works abound in glaring errors.
ith the exception of applying a ligature, below
which he noticed the swelling of a vein, he appears
to have added nothing new to the theory of the
circulation. - - º
Amid all this ignorance of the true functional
action, the wildest speculations prevailed. The
heart was taken as an oracle, and its beats were
listened to as prophetic. Some contended that the
use of the veins was merely to keep the blood in
equilibrium, and prevent undue accumulation in
any part of the body. Others, again, bewildered
themselves with calculations on the power of the
heart, and believed that it exerted a force equal to
3,000,000 of pounds; a notion speedily combated
by a third party, who proved, to their own satis-
faction, that the power did not exceed eight
ounces. Although modern science has stripped
HARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.
33
\
of these marvellous attributes from what Senac
calls “the material soul of living bodies,” and
made it a hydraulic machine, yet we find no less
cause for wonder and admiration at its mysterious
powers. t
To return to Harvey. It was for removing this
mass of errör, for laying bare the most admirable
mechanism the world has yet seen, that he was as-
failed by the envious and ignorant from every quar-
£rs. How well he did his work, we learn from
Jenty, according to whom, he, “with indefatigable
Pains, traced the visible veins and arteries through-
Qut the body, in their whole progress from and to
i the heart, so as to demonstrate, even to the most
incredulous, not only that blood circulates through
the lungs and heart, but the very manner how, and
the time in which that great work is performed.”
o this “indefatigable pains”, we doubtless owe
the six large diagrams, of the size of life, still pre:
served in the College of Physicians, showing all
the blood-vessels of the human body; and prepared
With such nicety, as to display distinctly the semi-
lunar valves at the entrance of the aorta, by which
e used to illustrate his lectures. The delivery of
these lectures, however, involved him in much suf-
fºring and loss. In the confusion and riots of the
Şivil war, his house in London was pillaged and
burnt, with many valuable papers, whose destruc-
tion was irreparable, and caused him constant re-
§ret. “In the eyes of his contemporaries, he was
ooked upon only as a dissecter of insects, frogs,
and other reptiles.” And on the authority of Au-
rey, we learn that Harvey said, “that, after his
booke of the Circulation of the Blood came out, he
fºll mightily in his practice. * * * *T was be-
eved by the vulgar he was crackbrained; and all
° physicians were against his opinion, and an-
noyed him.”
The persecution of Harvey appears to have been
Prompted only by the mean passions of his contem-
Poraries. No other motive is obvious; for it is
difficult to see in what way “the craft” was en-
dangered. In his case, however, as in many oth-
°rs, it almost appeared as if men had some strong
Personal interest in keeping back the truth, so ea-
gerly did they exert themselves to resist it. Car-
ºre, rector of the academy of Perpignan, wrote a
§§is against the doctrine. It was also attacked
With great virulence by Dr. Primrose, and by Rio-
*h, the celebrated French anatomist. arvey
ºvertheless found friends. Folli, physician at the
$ourt of the Medici, the first to attempt the trans-
fusion of blood, was an ardent propagator of his
°ory. In his own country, he gained a powerful
Advocate in Sir George Ent, who published a book
in his favor. The “momes and detractors” were
*lso replied to in temperate language by Harvey
mself. He says—“I think it a thing unworthy
9f a philosopher, and a searcher of the truth, to
*9turn bad words for bad words; and I think I shall
to better, and more advised, it, with the light of
ºue and evident observations, I shall wipe away
those symptoms of incivility.” To those who
taunted him with being nothing more than a dis-
*ºtºr of insignificant reptiles, he replied, with as
much truth as impressiveness, “If you will enter
With Heraclitus, in Aristotle, into a work-house
(for so I call it) for inspection of viler creatures,
°ºme hither, for the immortal gods are here like.
Yºse ; and the great and Almighty Father is some-
times more conspicuous in the least and most in-
considerable creatures.”
*Iarvey attended the king in his journeys during
part of the civil war, and was present at the battle
of Edgehill. He afterwards retired to London, in
the neighborhood of which city he passed the re-
mainder of his days. In his seventy-fifth year he
built and endowed a library and museum for the
College of Physicians. He died in June, 1657, at
the age of seventy-nine, but not before the truth of
his doctrines had been generally recognized ; and
his own professional brethren were proud to do him
funeral honors. He was buried at Hempstead,
where a handsome monument, surmounted by a
marble bust, was placed over his grave by the Col-
lege of Physicians. It was said of him that “his
candor, cheerfulness, and goodness of heart were
conspicuous in his whole life, as well as in his
writings, and exhibit a worthy pattern for future
imitation;” and that one of his noblest character-
istics was love for his profession, and a desire for
the maintenance of its honor.
What a striking commentary do these facts af.
ford on the ignorance and selfishness of society :
How easily have the many suffered themselves to
be led by the interested few, whose motives were
too often of the most despicable character. This
is the more to be wondered at, as experience, if
not policy, might have dictated the question, cui
bono How was this answered in Harvey's case?
Hobbes says of him, he “is the only man I know,
that, conquering envy, hath established a new doc-
trine in his lifetime”—and yet twenty-five years
elapsed before this was accomplished. For a quar-
ter of a century had this great truth to struggle
against the malice, jealousy, and stupidity of its
enemies, who denied the discoverer's claim to ori-
ginality, with as little reason as those who disputed
Galileo's discovery of Jupiter's satellites, on the
ground that a Dutchman had previously invented a
telescope. Mankind, however, have always been
prone to persecute new truths; whether they shall
continue to do do, depends greatly on the present
generation. º
| Harvey's reputation has now nothing to fear.
The circulation of the blood is universally admitted
to be the first great discovery after the promulga-
tion of the Baconian method; and though giants
in mind have lived since, with all the facilities
which use and example in the inductive method
have given, only one greater and more complete
discovery—the discovery of gravitation—has ever
been made. -
The first volume of a work intended to completely
exhibit England's Colonial Empire has just been is-
sued by the enterprising colonial publishers, Smith
and Elder. The author is Mr. Pridnam, who, in a
modest preface, apologizes for haviº at so early an
age undertaken so gigantic a task. The first volume,
however, shows no lack of either ability, research, or
knowledge. It is occupied with an excellent account
of the Mauritius, divided into four parts: the first
part gives its history from its discovery by the Portu-
uese to the present time; the second describes its
inhabitants and their institutions and state ; the third
its physical features and natural productions; and
the fourth its industry, commerce, and government.
As we are tied to space, we can only say, that am-
ple information is given on all these heads, and that,
regarding the extent of the author's design, and the
evidence he gives of the requisite qualifications to
carry it out satisfactorily, we make no doubt that
his work will be a valuable addition to the history
and geography of our colonial empire. The present
volume is complete in itself—Britannia.
34
THE STORY OF THE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY.
From Fraser's Magazine.
THE STORY OF THE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF
WEWAY.” 's
Few, if any, of our common-place sayings, are
less contradicted than that which asserts all human
expectations to be liable to disappointment. So I
philosophized as I stood on blue Leman's shores,
and beheld for the first time Geneva and her far-
famed lake. I could scarcely remember a period in
my life when I had not imaged to myself more
glorious things than even poets, romancers, or phi-
losophers had sung or said upon these beautiful
shores; and when the wish of my childhood was
realized, and I beheld with my waking eyes the
vision of my day-dreams, the sensations I experi-
enced were those of keen disappointment, mingled
with a degree of doubting surprise.
“Is this, then, Geneva 1—is this the Lake of
Geneva " I repeated.
“Oh, you will be more satisfied when you go to
Vevay !” was the response. n
And to Vevay I went, and at Vevay I was sat-
isfied.
A curious little journey it was that I made to
Vevay. It has supplied me with remembrances
utterly unknown to those of the million who have
travelled the same little distance in their own luxu-
rious carriage and with their English-speaking
COUlrler.
The memory of that journey has floated over my
brain ever since, until at last it has become a sort
of necessity to put its history on paper.
I went in a small diligence from Geneva to
Vevay. When I had entered it the other places
were almost immediately occupied (with the excep-
tion of one) by some country-looking women, who
certainly had not the smallest pretensions, either in
dress, manner, or appearance. One of them was, in-
deed, so remarkably and curiously ugly as actually
to cease to be disagreeable. I contemplated the
combination of ugliness in her face and features
with a degree of interest. Another, who sat be-
side mé, was the prettiest little old creature, for a
woman who must have been fast completing the
latter part of our allotted scores of years, I think I
ever saw. Her color was a lively rose; her bright
brown eyes shone with an animation which gave
them more than the mere fire of youth. All her
features, though, in correspondence with her figure,
they were small, were almost perfect in form; but,
alas ! her lips, which had once undoubtedly been
as the opening rose, or twin-cherries on one stalk,
had considerably fallen in, for all the pretty dame's
front teeth had fallen out, and the little pointed
chin, with a sort of expression peculiar to itself,
Was more retroussé in consequence. As for the
whole face, you could scarcely help smiling when
you looked at it. Yet, while its expression was
decidedly merry, there was something more than
mirth to be read in it, at least by a discerning
eye.
The ugly woman had an immense pocket in front
of her checked apron, filled with roasted chesnuts,
which she kept offering with assiduous hospitality
to all our company, But while I was engaged in
observing the beauty that had sustained the wear
and tear of more than threescore years, and the
ugliness that had, perhaps, become fondly familiar
* The circumstances of this story are related just as
they really occurred. But the history of the young coun-
tess is here related in the first persºn, instead of being
given in the more lively language of the pretty old wo.
man of Vevay. º
to some loving eyes for half that time, an exclama-
tion of dismay, almost amounting to horror, attracted
my attention to the door of our vehicle.
It came from such an animal—such a contrast to
the diligence and its freight. It—I use the neuter
pronoun as the most appropriate—it was one of
those beings who have appeared in France sinte
Algiers became one of its country towns—half.
Arab, and, I was going to add, half-woman in co-
tume. But let me describe it.
A short, embonpoint figure, with long curled
hair, long beard and moustache; a cap of blue
cloth, worked with gold thread, on its head, a loose
pelisse of fine purple, with a capote or hood, and
wide sleeves, turned up with black velvet nearly to
the elbow; very wide trousers, nearly of the same
color, terminating round the waist, with a splendid
sash of heavy silk, brilliant in gold, crimson, and
purple dyes—a vest most daintily delicate.
; : Is it marvellous that the shriek of dismay had
burst from such an exquisite creature on the pros-
pect of being immured alive in a diligence full of
such company as I have described He declared
it to be impossible he could enter; and we had to
wait a full quarter of an hour in the street while he
was debating the important subject. At length,
after a violent altercation with the conducteur on
the iniquity of transporting such .#. from place
to place, some £ s. d. reasons probably made him
compromise his dignity, and gathering his clothes
as tightly as he could around him, with a deep sigh
or moan, a look of suffering, and the prettiest air
of mingled heroism and timidity, he put himself and
his pelisse carefully into our vehicle, scarcely
noticing the offer of the ugly woman to go outside,
and leave more room for both articles in the corner
he appropriated. I fear I was indulging in reverie
on the follies and vulgar impertinences of this
strange world of ours, when I was awakened into
a broad smile by the ugly woman asking the pretty
one, with an easy nod of her head towards the fine
young monsieur, if he were her garçon, using the
word in one of its senses—bachelor or lover.
The hearty laugh of the little old creature it was
difficult not to join in, although the horror and aver-
sion depicted in the rueful face of the subject of
their merriment, might have been an antidote to its
influence. -
“My garçon 1’” she cried, turning fully round
to the terrified-looking man, and gazing at him as
if he were ignorant of their language, or a sort of
nonentity with whom reserve was unnecessary–
“my garçon/ he is too young for that, I think;
if you had said my son, indeed, it might well be.”
“Undoubtedly, yes,” returned the other, with
apparent simplicity, though it was easy to see the
simplicity was assumed, and that they were both
good-humoredly revenging themselves for the con-
tempt of our exquisite companion ; “ yes, so I
meant, certainly. Your son, ah! he is too young
to be your lover—I see that now !
The half-Arab darted such a look at me, whole
pages of indignant notes of interrogation were
written therein. In spite of my politeness, I smiled
a well-pleasing answer. . He clearly saw that the
indignity and insult to which he was exposed met
with no sympathy. Besides, he saw me eat some
roasted chesnuts which the ugly woman offered me
from the great pocket of her apron. So he pru-
dently considered that it might be as well not to
disturb the suppositions of the two old dames,
since, as there were two other female tongues
ready to spring into action, it might indeed be only
THE STORY OF THE PRETTY old woMAN OF VEVAY.
35
stirring up a hornet's nest. So he stayed quite
luiet, until, thinking they had gone far enough in
their decisions respecting his relationship or future
destiny, they began to look out of the windows,
and the pretty woman, as if for the first time at-
tricted by a great staring notice on the way-side,
called out—
“Look there ! what fölly!—they have written
up ‘ Th; road for Italy,’ and it is the road for
evay :
. The utter simplicity of this speech, in our Alge-
fian's opinion, quite conciliated his wounded vani-
$y, for it was ridiculous to be mortified by such
1gnorant creatures; and his harmless countenance
resumed its self-complacent expression, as he threw
... glance of condescending pity, and, repeating
The road for Vevay " added, with infinite con-
descension, turning to the speaker—
“You have never been farther than from Geneva
to Vevay in your life " while his tone almost syl-
labled the inference, “I have been to Algiers.”
“Yes, I have been farther,” she replied, turning
her bright, dark, smiling eyes, with a rather know-
ing sort of look, upon his face.
“Indeed!—not so far as Lyons, however !”
“Yes, farther.” *
“Impossible ! What! to Marseilles!”
“Even to Marseilles,” she replied, nodding her
ead, as if she might say more.
“And what could bring you there?” demanded
the travelled man, measuring her with his eye from
lead to foot; for a Frenchman who has travelled a
little thinks a great deal of it, and a travelled wo.
man is a sort of wonder.
“It was on account of an Inclination I had,”
the old dame answered.
I did not understand the word “Inclination” so
lºsed, and the laugh of our fellow-traveller was
therefore unintelligible, until he told me that she
ad gone from Vevay to Marseilies on account of a
Over.
“Was your Inclination, then, at Marseilles!”
“No, at Vevay.”
“Then you forsook him?—was that the other
day!” with something of a sneer.
“It was about fifty years ago; I was sixteen then.”
“But how then?—your inclination was at Ve-
Way, yet, on his account, you went to Marseilles,
** sixteen?” still interrogated the other, whose
°uriosity was evidently overcoming his exclusiveness.
‘...Yes, he was too good—too high for me!” she
*plied, and her eye was less bright, and even her
Sheek less pink, when she spoke the words, though
ºf a century had passed away.
“You know M. M. of Geneva, perhaps!”
She added.
“By name, yes,” was the answer; “a most
respectable family.”
“Well, it was his brother.”
, ºn exclamation of wonder was uttered at the
intelligence.
. And he forsook you?”. -
& 4 Pah ! listen, and you will not say so.”
{{ T hen you married your Inclination!” .
Patience —I say No!, Did you never hear
that M. M. had one brother—an elder brother,
who went away on his travels when he was quite
young , and was never heard of more!”
& 4 Certainly, that is a well-known story.”
Well, he was my. Inclination. He lived gen-
$ºlly at Vevay with my father; he studied there,
. lodged with us. My father was under great
i ligations to him. Claude was a few years older
* myself; we were almost always together.
s
Well, it is an old story now ! He loved me—yes
—I loved him : that is all of it.
“At last I had passed my sixteenth year; it
was high time to be married then. He wished to
marry me; he knew his parents would not consent,
but he declared his sentiments to my father, and
for his sole answer he received a dismissal from our
house, and a command to return to his father.”
Our Algerian nodded his well-covered head ap-
provingly. -
“That was honorable and just to his benefactor.
Did your Inclination acquiesce? He should have
taken wou off at once.”
6 : #. submitted entirely, but it is true he whis-
pered to me sometimes an assurance that my father
would yet change his mind. He was allowed to
stay some time longer with us; but, to prevent all
danger, my father resolved to marry me to a rich
old widower who sought my hand. He had a son
older than my Inclination. Bah!, it was a contrast
a little too striking ! I knew my Inclination would
never change his mind, and I could not think of
ever marrying any one but him.”
“Assuredly, one should only marry the person
one loves.”
“Yes, and then to marry one as old as my
father! Well, I knew if I resisted, M. M
would be desired to recall his son, and I knew he
would regret leaving Vevay, and I knew I ought
not to wish to be his wife; so when I saw my
father was resolved on marrying me to the old man,
1 said to myself, ‘It is you, Minette, that must de-
part. You must leave all—father, mother, lover,
Vevay yes, better leave them all than be degraded
and miserable !”
“I had a comrade, a young girl who had been
at Marseilles. I made her my confidante; she
gave me a letter of recommendation to a relation
of hers who had a magasin in that town. Finally,
I set-out on foot and in secret; I got on I know
not how, and reached Marseilles.”
“And your Inclination 4"
“He knew no more of me than any one else.
When every inquiry had been made for me in vain,
he went away, some say to sea, and was never
heard of more ‘’’ r
“Well, what did you do afterwards?” said her
curious questioner, who was evidently relaxing
into a singular degree of sympathy with the pretty
old woman.
“I remained at Marseilles; the merchant was
good to me; he had no children; I learned to
manage his affairs; I was quick then, expert at
all. $ii, the revolution had broken out; it
was the reign of terror. Just then I got a letter
from my comrade at Vevay; she tºld me that my
old lover, the widower, was dead, that my parents
had suffered for me deeply, and her conscience
accused her of favoring my departure from them;
she told me that my Inclination was gone, no one
knew whither, and that they were without joy or
consolation. I resolved to return home; I wrote
to my father, telling him I was alive and well. I
did not ask his forgiveness, but I promised to re-
turn to him, and to obey him in all things except
in marrying any one but my Inclination. It was
very hazardous to travel then, but it was hazardous
also to stay still. Some time after I had arranged
to return to Switzerland our merchant came to me;
he looked pallid and distracted. He called me
into his closet, and, shutting the door carefully,
asked me if I were determined to make that jour-
ney. I answered,—
** * Yes.”
36
OLD WOMAN OF WEWAY.
STORY OF THE PRETTY
“‘These are perilous times, Minette,’ he said.
‘You are very young—you are so pretty, too !”
He went on thus, as if thinking of something else.
‘You are so very pretty, Minette, you are more
likely to be observed.”
“ Voilà un malheur de plus !” I replied; but I
could not help it, you know.
“‘Yet you are prudent, Minette,” the old man
continued, “and you have courage; more, God
help me, than I have ''
“I saw now that he had some real cause for
anxiety or fear, and I answered him—
“‘Yes, I have some courage, if you wish to
make use of it.”
“‘Not for myself, my girl, not for myself; but,
in short, there is a young lady here who wants
to get to Strasburg, if she could travel with you.’
“‘Certainly ; why not?'
“‘Ah! these are sad times, my child—danger-
ous times. She is ill, Minette ; she must be ill all
along the road. You understand, you must be her
bonne, her nurse, act for her, speak for her; she
must not appear, she must recline in the carriage,
and be supported when she descends, well
wrapped up, so as not to be exposed to the air.
There is much of this sickness abroad now, Mi-
nette ''
“I looked at him, and then l said—
“‘Yes, there is, I know, much of this sickness
abroad now ; it is because the blood is let to flow
so freely. You may employ me; I will be the poor
lady's nurse.” i
“‘Brave girlſ’ he cried, “brave Minette, you
have divined all yes, we can trust you ! Come,
you shall see this sick lady—this poor bleeding dove!”
“I never had seen our master thus agitated be-
fore ; he was always fearful, but now he had cause
to be so. The daughter of a noted royalist had
taken refuge in his house. He led me upstairs,
and, by a long passage, we reached a wall, in
which he had made a secret door, to be used in
case of danger. This conducted to a large loft be-
neath the roof of the house; on entering I beheld
a spectacle that yet appears to be present to my
eyes.
“A light and tall figure, clothed entirely in
white, lay along the couch that had been carried
thither ; the dress was torn and disarranged, but
the feeble lamp-light rendered its whiteness more
discernible than the daylight would have done ; for
it was dirty, too. . A veil of rich lace still partly
covered the head, which had no other covering
save the rich and beautiful hair which fell from it
in the wildest disorder; pieces of white orange-
blossoms, fragments of a wreath that had evidently
bound it for a bridal-day, were still caught, here
and there, in its locks.
“A slight convulsive tremor caused that form to
quiver as we entered ; the head was raised ; the
ºyes loºked forward with a fearing, inquiring gaze.
The Paleness of death was on the sweetest face I
ever saw, in my life. One small spot on the
upper Part of the cheek was flushed with a fever-
ish red.
“She regarded me fixedly with those large,
open, deep blue eyes, as if scarcely conscious of
what was going on, yet indistinctly sensible of the
relief of a woman's presence. The merchant ap-
proached her with an air of doep respect, and spoke
some words in a conciliating tone. She started on
hearing them, looked eagerly at me, and, crying
out in a hroken and feeble voice— -
“‘She will take me—she will bring me to
him 'stretched her arms towards me,
“I ran to her, 'she fell on my bosom ; I wept,
and a few tears then dropped from her eyes. The ,
merchant said—
“‘Thank God, she weeps º'
“After this I did not leave her. Night came
on ; she at first resisted my attempts to disrobe her
of her soiled and torn, but rich dress. She felt,
however, as if against her will, the relief which a
bath and a bed afforded, and sank into a sleep that
restored her brain, and, perhaps, saved her from
madness. *.
“She opened her eyes with a cry, an exclama-
tion of fear and horror, and the words, “My father,
my father!' When she recognized me at her side,
she held out her arms again, like a frightened child
and, throwing herself on my neck, said—
“‘You are surely my good angel! I recognize
our looks as such God tells me, by you
e will save me. What are you called 1’ she
added.
“‘Minette; madame.”
“‘Ah! you need not say madame, I am only
mademoiselle. But listen, Minette, you shall
know all. Our merchant here is afraid, he thinks
you will be so too, and does not wish you to know
all, at least till we reach Strasburg y
“‘Vevay, mademoiselle—I go to Vevay.”
“‘Vevay, then; you will leave me at Vevay,
will you? No matter, God sent you to me, He
will send me another Minette.' I was touched by
this piety, and the poor girl continued, ‘Yes, you
shall know all, I will not lead you blindfold into
danger. I shall have courage now, and calmness,
to relate it all to you ; you will then know who
you will have to do with ; and if you have courage
as well as goodness, well ; if not, it is better not
to deceive.” k
“Mademoiselle lay quiet a few minutes, and
then having tried to compose herself for the
task, pressed her hand on her lovely brow, and
said—
“‘You have heard, Minette, of the dreadful
deed committed not more than nine days since in
the neighborhood of Vaucluse?” w
“‘Ah, truly, I had 1 and all the world beside;
for the whole population of a village had been
murdered, the village itself burnt to ashes, because
the Tree of Liberty had been cut down in the
night.” * .
“‘They cut down the Tree of Liberty 1" cried
mademoiselle, flinging her head upon the pillow,
and burying her face in it as if to shut out some
horrible image. “It was in honor of my marriage
the fires were kindled, and the guns fired at the
poor people !”
“‘Hush, hush ' I said ; “if you commence
thus, you must not go on ; and I have no wish to
hear anything, unless it may be of use to yourself
by showing me how I must act so as to serve you.
But if, as you say, your good angel has sent me to
save you, will you, by giving Way to despair, lose
the chance of saving yourself?'
“‘You are right, Minette she answered, with
a sob; “you are wiser than I am. My senses at
times fail me. Pray to God for me, Minette, that
I may be calm. I want you to know all, that you
may also know what you may have to expect.
Listen to me now. My father, the Comte de
V , was the Proprietor of the ill-fated district
you have heard of; his château was not far from
y
STORY OF THE PRETTY
OLD WOMAN OF WEWAY.
37
that village—nearer to Vaucluse. I was his only
child—his heiress—an idolized one, what need had
I to acquire your firmness and patience 4—all was
sºftness and peace around me.’ My mother, hap-
Pily for her, died some years ago. Many have
§ought my hand in marriage; but even from child-
000, my distant relative, Henri de Renzi, alone
Had shared my heart with my beloved father. He
had loved me, and I loved him as my life. Life!
Yet it is dear—oh, how dear!” cried the poor
Young countess, with an affecting look of feeble-
less; ‘I never knew how dear until I saw that
hideous death!” -
“‘There was a youth brought up with me in
the castle, Minette, whom I always knew to be a
relative, yet saw treated with the disrespect shown
to one in a degrading position ; he was neither
ºnong the domestics, nor with their superiors.
ºſmile was the illegitimate son of one of my
ºther's cousins: he supported him from charity.
, “‘Latterly, this young man had behaved to me
in an extraordinary manner; indeed, his manner
Was changed to every one. It had become inde-
Pendent and overbearing ; he had imbibed the
Principles of the revolution; he raved of liberty
and equality. It was pride urged him on ; he had
§§cretly writhed under the odium affixed to his
birth, and felt the degradation to which he ap-
Peared willingly to submit. He aspired now to be
the equal of the heiress of the Comte de V ;
!" fact, he dared to declare to me his love; and,
bolder still, to demand me from my father.
“‘I know not why I treated Emile with so
Fºuch tenderness—gentleness, at least. I pitied
*m; I saw the cause of his error; I feared also
*.exasperate him, for I knew of his secret associ-
*ion with the revolutionists, and I trembled lest he
*ght expose my dear father, who was an ultra-
*yalist, though he took no part in politics, to
anger. --
“‘My father, however, either did not share my
*Pprehensions, or partook not in my cautious for-
Barance. Indignant at the presumption of the
*andoned youth he had protected, he drove him
*in his presence with reproaches.
... Emile left the château to return no more.
“Henri de Renzi, who was then with his regi-
ment at Strasburg, had never had my father's posi-
...nºtion, until the conduct of Emile, and his
ºlºguised threats of yet having power to effect
* Purposes, led him to reflect on what might
ºly become my position if he were to fall a
** to the ruthless spirit of the time.
int, His own pure and noble character, his retir-
... benevolent disposition, would be no coun:
º: alance to his firm loyalist principles, and
*hºlent to his king and the unfortunate queen.
then erhaps it was a presentiment that I did not
W. ſºlº, a desire to provide for my safety,
TO . led him to favor De Renzi, who, though a
&l ...st himself in principle, had powerful friends
*g the opposite party. Finally, he sent
t jin, and presented him to me as my hus-
* { {
both.
Ah, Minette! that was a joyful surprise to
Tharri he time that was to intervene before our
In lºgº was short, and busily occupied. I saw
. º grave—sad—often lost in painful
alway ts; but we were so happy, we did not
*ys think even of the horrors that were being
Pºpºtated in our land.
*W even Henri look at times anxious, yet
I º
**r noticed the storm that was then lowering
over our heads. Our wedding-day was fixed.
Previous to its dawn, the Tree of £iº, which
had been erected in the village, was cut down in
the night, no one knew by whom.
“‘It was evening : we stood before the altar.
Minette, I see now the red light from that old
stained window in our chapel falling full upon my
father's noble head '' º
“She raised herself on her elbow, and looked up
to the skylight of the loft. “Oh, Father of
Heaven ſ” she cried, and dropped back again;
her long hair fell over her face, and hid its emo-
tion.
“I raised her head, and saw that emotion was
not expressed there ; it was almost calm. She
looked at me silently for some time, and then,
lºng up the third finger of her left hand, she
Sºil0-
“‘See, Minette, it is not here!’
“‘The ring, mademoiselle tº
“‘Yes, the ring,” she repeated; and, with a
shudder, the hand fell down.
“‘You had better tell me no more, mademoi-
selle; I can guess the rest. You were a widow
before vou were a wife ''
“‘No, no, you are wrong !—God grant you
may be wrong! Listen now, I can go on. My
father had bestowed this hand, he had given it to
Henri de Renzi; the ring that was to bind me to
him forever was already half-way on this finger,
there was a cry in the open air—a cry at the
chapel-door—a cry behind us in the aisle ! The
priest stood still, with terror staring in his eyes: a
villager, streaming with blood, staggered towards
us; he uttered the words, ‘Save yourselves 1’ and
fell. My father, with a face of death, yet com-
posed and ever noble in aspect, caught me to his
breast, pressed me to the heart where life had
nearly ceased to beat, bent his knee before our bri-
dal altar, and said—
“‘God preserve—preserve my child, and re-
ceive me to thine eternal mercy ''
“‘The next instant the chapel was full of
bloody men. Alas! alas! that good old priest''
“There was a long silence. The poor young
countess, however, resumed her fearful story, as if
unconscious that she had paused.
“‘ I was in white, Minette; the veil was on my
head, and the orange-wreath in my hair, but the
ring had fallen from my finger. I was in Ayignon
instead of being in our own castle—instead of being
in our own dear chapel. I did not see the priest,
I did not see Henri; I saw my father—yes, I saw
him but for a moment I saw that countenance,
pale yet firm—that noble head'
“*Mademoiselle, I can hear you no longer;
this agitation must be fatal—fatal, at least, to ali
your hopes of escape.” *
“‘Escape? Can that be? is that my wish
Yes, escape or death !—but tºgether. I will not
distress you further, good Minette; you know
enough now. The old palace of the popes at
Avignon, its blood-stained tower, that was his
scaffold and his tomb—of sixty more also, nobles
of the land Ah!' she exclaimed, with a frantic
start, “they threw quicklime over them ' and a
sort of muttering laugh, more terrible to hear than
sighs or groans, burst from her dry and quivering
lips.
P. Anxious to divert so horrible a recollection, I
asked her how she had escaped.
“‘I do not know,” she answered—“I do not
know why I was reserved, nor where they were
38 STORY OF THE PRETTY
OLD WOMAN OF VEWAY.
|
taking me, but I was on horseback, and a guard
was holding my rein, when I began to recover my
recollection. I believe we were on the road for
Paris, but it seems as if I had been asleep. We
passed a peasant, who uttered a salutation in the
revolutionary fashion ; I think his voice was the
first thing I became sensible to. Perhaps there is
Some mystery even in human tones that exercises
a power over the mind. At the door of a cabaret,
my guard dismounted to get refreshment. He in-
vited me to do so, and placed me on a chair which
I caught hold of close to the door. Soon aſter,
the countryman we had passed came in, and in
passing me, while the loud discourse going on in-
the room prevented others from hearing him, he
told me, in a low voice, not to dismount the next
time. What voice was that which spoke to me !
I did not know it, yet it was almost familiar. I
resolved to do as I was desired. I became aroused
to a sense of my situation ; a keen, anxious long-
ing for escape occupied my mind. Evening was
closing in ; the words said to me made ine anxious
for my conductor to halt again. At last he did so,
and called for wine. I declined to get down, and
at the moment the same peasant appeared, and
asked to hold the horses. The man promised
him some sous for doing so, and entered the
cabaret. . J.
“‘The countryman led both horses up and
down, making each turn longer, until he saw no
one near, and then he said—
“‘Courage, and you are saved
seat steadily.”
“‘He sprang on the other horse, held the
bridle of mine, and we went off with a speed that
soon rendered me insensible. I was only conscious
that we had turned into a bye-road, and after that
I knew that I was held by my deliverer on the
horse he rode. - -
“‘I opened my eyes sometimes, and saw the
moon shining down upon us, but I could scarcely
tell whether I were still in the land of violence, or
had passed away into that of separated spirits, for
all was dream-lilre and indistinct in my sensations.
I awoke to find myself in a vaulted cavern, one of
those rocky abodes frequented by the persecuted
Albigenses, and later victims of tyranny in Prov-
€I) C3. -
“‘The sunlight scantily entered at the low
door, shadowed by a mass of rock, and, just inter-
cepting its ray, stood the form of the peasant who
had snatched me, perhaps, from death. His side-
face was before me, and I looked anxiously at it as
on that of a stranger; but while doing so, he
raised his hand and removed a great red beard and
moustache, then drew from his head a wig of the
Same color, and showed me the dark face and well-
known features of the recreant Emile.
“‘I uttered a low moan of anguish; my deliv-
brance filled me with horror and dismay. He
turned his head and saw me, half raised, regard-
ing him with terrified and distended eyes. He
came near to me; his voice, when he spoke, was
low, but it was like the hushed breath of the whirl-
wind.
“‘Pauline,' he said, ‘I did not mean
know me until you knew that, so far as
save you, you were safe. Read that.”
“‘He put into my hand a small slip of paper; it
was the writing of De Renzi. It said, “Trust him,
he repents; he will save your life at the expense
of his own. If you are safe, send this ring by a
Keep your
Ou to
could
messenger I can trust.” There it is, Minette that
was given to me in the cavern ; ind there is the
ring. See, it has a long lock of Henri's hair tied
through it !
“‘I only said to Emile, ‘Is he safe 1”
“‘Who?” he demanded. “Your father?” and
his eyes rolled. -
“’No, my husband,' I said, emphatically.
“‘Yes, I hope so,” said Emile, calmly. ‘Ho
has been sent back to his regiment only; if you
have courage you may yet be united. Will you
do as he says? Will you trust yourself to me?’
“‘ I answered, ‘Yes.”
“‘Emile went away without a word. He re-
turned with some wine and fruit, made me take
some refreshment, and when night fell, he came
again, with a peasant's cloak, in which he wrapped
me, and made me then lie down in a cart that was
waiting for us. He drove it himself, disguised as
a laborer. He only said—
“‘You must be my sick wife; I am bringing
you to the hospital.’
“‘Thus we made out our road to Marseilles.
Wrapped in the peasant's mantle, with the hood
over my head, I might have escaped detection
even had the cart been examined; but Emile acted
his part so well that not the least suspicion was
even excited, and we reached this merchant’s
house, who was an old protégé of my father's, and
known also to Emile.
“‘I want to die, Minette,' the young countess
concluded, “yet I want to live, for De Renzi is
still alive—my husband ''
“‘And you will live for him, live with him, I
hope—live to bless God!" I rejoined.
“The next day I engaged a voiturier for my
Swiss lady and myself. I had my passport, and
we managed without much difficulty to pass off the
countess as the mistress I had come to bring back
to Switzerland. I had provided her with a plain
black dress and close cap, which concealed her
beautiful hair, and made her look so pale and ill,
that I had generally but little trouble in making
her pass for an invalid, with whom the greatest
caution and repose were requisite. At Lyons, not-
withstanding, I was greatly alarmed at the manner
of the voiturier who had brought us there ; the
tone in which he would repeat, “ This sick lady
of yours,' terrified me. º
“At Lyons he looked hardly at me, and after
repeating this speech in his usual way—he was a
º, sharp-looking young man—he demanded
a kiss.” -
The Arab listener laughed.
“Well, you did not give it to the fellow "
“I did, though,” said the pretty, old woman,
very quietly, and with a careless smile. “I said,
‘You are a brave voiturier—a brave man. I thank
you for your goodness, and this kiss must be the
pledge between us that if we want your services in
future they will be rendered.' '
“ Brave girlſ’ he said, in answer; ‘and this
kiss'—he had the complaisance to return the
pledge—‘is my promise that my service shall be
rendered, and that on the spot. Listen, Minette—
you are called Minette, they say. Well, I am
our good friend; I do not want to be your lover,
hope you will have a better, but I am your friend.
Take my counsel, and let me conduct you into
Switzerland, there you can do as you like ; till
then you will be, safe-safer,’ he added, emphati-
cally, “with me.”
story of THE PRETTY
OLD WOMAN OF WEWAY.
39
“I gave him my hand, and said—
“‘There is my faith, come with us if you will.”
“He conducted us safely to Switzerland.
Heaven bless that man! I never saw him more,
but I remember his curling whiskers, and that keen
§ye, which said a giant could not drive but an in-
fant might lead him. We came to Lausanne; the
Pºor countess threw herself weeping into my arms.
! You are safe, dear Minette, I cannot wish you to
e otherwise ; you will leave me now.”
I i No, mademoiselle, not till you also are safe,’
Säld, t f
“We disguised ourselves then as two peasants,
and took the costume of Alsace. Mademoiselle
looked beautiful, but it was too delicate a beauty |
to attract sudden notice from the rude people.
“She wore the short orange petticoat of the
$ountry, with black stockings and a black boddice;
ºr head covered with the usual coiffure of orange
fiband, almost scarlet in color, very broad, with a
large how on the top. But she looked so pale and
feeble, that those who were not near enough to see
er lovely features, or meet the gaze of her ear-
Test, deep blue eyes, which were almost always hid-
den beneath their deep eyelid, were little likely to
*9tice her; and these rude people see beauty so
flifferently from more refined minds! The soldiers
et her pass with scarcely a glance; I, on the con-
trary, had more color than ever... I could not keep
it down. I trembled, yet felt a kind of delight at
the danger in which I had placed myself—one is
$9 enthusiastic at seventeen my eyes sparkled as
* I were in joy. I dare not put the orange riband
in my hair, ł wore black, that looked more sober.
“We entered the gates of Strasburg carrying
* basket on a market-day. Mademoiselle had kept
e ring with the lock of hair tied to it; but
When we were installed in a humble lodging she
thew not how to send it to M. de Renzi with
Safety. -
“‘Listen, mademoiselle,' I said. “I shall go
to the Place this evening; monsieur will be there,
will he not tº
‘‘‘Perhaps. But what then!’
“‘Give me his ring, and let us see what
then.”
$ 4
She gave it; I went on the Place d'Armes.
There was a multitude of panaches” there. You
*y think—a girl of seventeen years, and I was
Pretty then, they said—very pretty. Well, the
Pºmaches were a little tiresome, but that was no
"atter when there was an end in view. But there
"* one who would not pay me any attention—a
brave young officer, with the air of a lord and a
ook—ah there was sorrow in it. I wanted him
to notice me; but no, he could not spare me a
glance.
th “At last I accidentally caught his eye; he saw
º ring hanging loosely on the point of my finger.
$nºw that I was right in my guess. His heart
Was beating more quickly then than mine, and thus
Yºu see we were in correspondence in a single
*inute while utter strangers to one another. I
"as seated on a bench, and some minutes after-
Wards that gallant-looking young officer came and
rew himself carelessly on the other end of it.
i. of the panaches were looking on ; but no
. managed to say the name of the street
COU humber of the house, and the words, “Your
t §§ Minette from the country, en paysan.”
So in the evening a fine young countryman
* Officer's plumes.
came in a blouse and working-day dress to inquire
for his cousin Mademoiselle Minette. No one in
the world would have known him—at least, no one
but the young countess. Oh, what a meeting was
theirs Well, it is strange now when I think of
them, and of myself, what time does, to be sure I
thought that poor young bride would have died on
the spot, she lay like a broken lily in his arms, and
never shed a tear or spoke a word.
“But when she regained a little strength she
spoke so courageously—I could not have thought
it. I had left them alone; but she came suddenly
and called for me. She made me stay there, and
then she said—
“‘Henri, this girl is our guardian angel. I tell
you in her presence what I know her heart will
approve. I will never be your wife in this land of
blood. If you will forsake it—if you will fly with
me to England, come. I will bear all, brave all ;
but never shall our children—” She buried her
face in her hand, groaned, and was silent.
“Now what was to be done? Escape appeared
almost impossible, and a stay in Strasburg was full
of danger. My good fortune, however, did not
forsake me; in fact, I had a mission to do, and
mademoiselle was in some degree right when she
said I was sent by her guardian angel ; but cer-
tainly the instruments they employed for me were
not always like the good angel's.
“There was always some one or other to take a
fancy to me—not in the way of my poor Inclina-
tion, but some one, you know, who just liked
bright eyes and pink cheeks, and so I was tor-
mented by a horrible creature whom I hated in my
heart. He was an agent of the revolution—pah
I always thought of a slaughter-house when he was
near me.”
“At least, you were not so complaisant with
him as with your voiturier,” said the Algerian.
“You would not bribe him with a kiss 1”
“I gave him many, nevertheless,” the pretty
old woman replied. “Yes, those kisses were the
worst part of my rôle—a token of love without
love. Wasn't it hard? But no matter, I had a
purpose to gain; what I wanted to steal was
worth a kiss or two, though it is hard to be kissed
by those we do not love.”
“To steal What was that 4”
“His passport. He had shown it to me tout en
règle. He expected to be sent to Nantes to exe-
cute a few thousand murders; it was made out for
himself and suite, as he generally had some com-
panions. * º
“As soon as I had got possession of this pass-
port the young countess and I took a great bundle
of clothes and left the town as two washerwomen.
M. de Renzi went out for an evening ride and rode
farther than he ought in º to have done. A
friend at some distance from the city provided him
with a change of dress and other disguises. We
were soon en route. º
“A British ship-of-war was watching about for
fugitives, and after some fearful hazards they got
safe to it. The captain received them so well
All was over then ; they would soon be in Eng-
land, she would soon be his wife, and he would be
an exile. I left them on the deck of the English
ship.”
The pretty old woman wiped a tear from her
brilliant eyes. ..
“And they did not take you!” our Algerian.
ejaculated, gazing on the little old dame as if he
could have verily taken her himself.
40
OLD WOMAN OF VEWAY.
STORY OF THE PRETTY
“Take me ! ah the exiles 1’’
And the three notes of admiration were suſ.
ficiently explanatory of her brief reply.
“Well, you saved them 1”
“Yes, I saved them; I thank God for that.”
“And what did you do with yourself then º'
“I returned to Vevay. My poor father was
glad : I made his latter days pass more pleasantly:
he did not live long. My dear mother was then
alone. I had loved her fondly. I lived for her
then, and carried on for her my father's business.
We were together some years. I had lovers
enough—at least, more than I wanted ; but I never
loved any but my Inclination. He was heard of no
more, so all I could do was to listen when they
spoke of love, and to smile, and refuse to believe;
and then they would call me a cqquette, but I was
not so ; and they would leave me, and I would
wish they had never come, for it caused them sor-
row ; and when another came it would be the same
all over again.”
“What a pity!” cried her listener.
“Well, but when my mother died it was differ-
ent with me. The heart feels so strange when it
has nothing to do My hands and feet did not
move so quickly then.” ,
“And you never saw your heroine again, nor
the hero you saved 4”
“I did not say so. . Yes, I saw them ; it was in
the year 1815. I was standing leaning over the
half-door of my house—it was all my own then, a
lonely one—the sun was going down behind the
mountains at the other side the lake. There, I
just see it now, and that golden path over the blue
water, and the reddened snow on the mountains.
I was looking at it; all this makes one think of
times that are gone, where is the use of it? But
just then crack comes the postilion's whip, sound-
ing in the echoes of the hills, crack—crack—crack.
“Ah, here is more of them "' said the neighbors,
and every one ran out to look, for a little time be-
fore we should have wondered less at the sound of
cannon than at the noise of the postilion's whip.
Every day now we saw travellers dashing along.
“I}ut the carriage stopped, the postilion spoke
to a man in the street, and then crack went the
whip again, and it came on to my door. A fine
youth was on the outside, and a lady and gentle-
man and some sweet little girls within. The lady
I did not recognize; she was pale, and her brow
had the marks of care. She had the face of one
whº had only just put on joy, and could not yet
let it be much seen. And a grave, thoughtful man
was beside her, who smiled, but like one to whom
Smiles were uncommon.
“The lady called out, ‘There she is ; it is
she " And the youth jumped down and opened
the carriage-door with the air of one who knows
he gives pleasure; and I ran out, and the lady
SP!ead out her arms, and cried ‘Minette ; and the
Yºice was the voice"I had heard in the garret at
Marseilles. +
“And there was
arms, and laying her
the countess weeping in my
two hands on my shoulders,
| could not bring the dead to life.
and pushing me back to look in my face, and then
saying I was not old and worn with care like her,
and then turning to smile on her husband, who
kept pressing his youngest little boy into my arms
and calling all the children to come and embrace
the woman who had saved their !º and re-
united them. And when I looked at her, then I
saw it was indeed that lovely and terrified girl
grown into a careful, anxious, yet still loving
WOIſlän, -
“The exiles' lot had been theirs, and they still
wore the exiles' looks. And the neighbors all
stood round, and wondered, for they had never
heard a word of my adventures.”
“Well,” said our fine gentleman, after a pause,
and I almost thought he wiped a tear from his eye,
“did your manner of life change then They did
something for you, did they not º'
“I wanted nothing to be done for me,” the little
old woman rather proudly answered. “They
As to anything
else I had more than I wanted. They wished me
to go to live with them, for Monsieur de Renzi was
to have his wife's property and to bear her mur-
dered father's title, and all the children were made
to beg me to go with them.
“But when they were gone I was more alone
than ever. I had seen her with her husband and
her children, and I often said to myself, “The
woman that does not provide a home for her heart
is a fool.” Certainly 1 had been robbed of mine;
but now I began to feel that anything was better
than to live solely for oneself. I told you that the
old widower my father wanted me to marry, had a
son a good many years older than myself. He had
married, and his wife died, and left two sweet chil-
dren, whom I loved fondly. They were almost
always with me ; they loved me, and I could not
do without them. The father told me he would
marry again, and I could not bear to think that
those children might have a step-mother who
would not make them happy. Perhaps this was
only a trick of his—I do not know ; but when he
saw my anxiety he persuaded me it was better to pre-
vent the danger and be the step-mother myself. It
was for the children's sake I did it; but I certainly
did not feel so desirous to save them from a cruel
step-mother until after I had seen the countess and
her happy family. Besides, he declared. I had
been his first love, and there is a great deal in that,
especially when the man is a widower. So, very
soon after the exiles had passed through Vevay on
their return home I married the father of those
children, and they are content with their step-
mother. - .
“And there—there—there !” cried the pretty
old woman, tugging a great wicker-basket from
under the seat, ºf there is my house, and there are
the children looking for me! Stop, stop, conduc-
teur ! this is Vevay. What nonsense to write up
on that post “The road for Italy' Bon jour, mes
amis bon jour ! Ah, I forgot, to tell you in my
story that the revolutionists guillotined their friend
Monsieur Emile. Bon jour! bon jour !”
THE * EcRIVAIN PUBLIC.”
41
From Fraser's Magazine.
THE “ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.” A skETCH FROM
PARISIAN LIFE.
CHAPTER I.-A MISTRESS.
Who has resided in Paris for any length of time
without becoming acquainted, at least by sight,
with some of those humble temples of literature
which abound in that city, resembling cobblers'
stalls, kept by the very poorest of the brethren of
the quill, who announce their calling to the world
y the somewhat magniloquent title, inscribed on
their little bricks, of ºf Ecrivains Publics!” How
many, a tale of love in humble life, how many an
lºtrigue, how many a reputation, lie at the mercy
of these humble and busily employed agents of illit-
°rate Paris! They are said to be a class of men
Who, though steeped to the lips in poverty, invari-
ably display the most scrupulous integrity and dis-
°retion towards their employers; and, according to
§. report, the confessionals of St. Roch or
otre Dame de Lorette are not more sacred than
the secrets confided to the penmanship of these
ºniserable scribes. Their boutiques are usually found
in retired parts of the town, where a spot of waste
§round, or a friendly gable of a house, affords space
for their erection, without the awkwardness of a
emand for rent. A description of this class of the
$ons of literature, so totally unknown to fame, would
e worthy the pen of the Fielding of former days,
9; the Charles Dickens of our own. But, as we,
Alas! have no skill in this admirable species of por.
traiture, we propose to lay before the reader a
tomance of modern Paris, an “ower true tale,” in
which one of these worthy public littérateurs en-
*cted a not undistinguished part, and one which
*mply bears out the high character for integrity
*nd honor ascribed to the brotherhood.
he reader must accompany us to a small apart-
"ment on a second floor, in a retired, quiet street,
Situated in the most aristocratic quarter of Paris,
the Faubourg St. Germain. Though small, the
*90ms were neat in the extreme; and while nothing
'hat could properly be called luxury was visible,
ºcept one of Erard's grand pianos may be thus
°nominated, the presence of a presiding taste was
*Verywhere apparent, and threw a certain air of
"pretending elegance over the modest sojourn.
ly"...ºng lady was seated near the window busi-
y employed at her embroidery-frame. Her eyes
Yere steadily and earnestly bent upon her work;
ºccasionally she raised her long dark eye-lashes to
9 timepiece which stood on the mantel-shelf, the
*nds of which seemed to move too rapidly for her
§hes. Her dress was simple and becoming, but
. it been directly otherwise, no style of dress
. | conceal the captivating beauty of her form
* features. The former was exactly of that char-
..” which a painter would most prize as a model
eminine grace and elegant proportions; and her
§ºntenance, beaming with intelligence and feeling,
C ** a living portrait of some of those immortal
ºtions with which the pencil of Raffaelle has
°nchanted the world.
clo . length she raised her head, and regarded the
C *k, with an air of satisfaction. Her work was
Ompleted. She rose and rang the bell. An old
*Wºn: appeared. #
sh ºrian,” said her mistress, in a tone which
%d her satisfaction, “it is finished. Look:
bat do you think of #1,”
ºn, having put on her spectacles with the
cxxv. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI.
air of a grand judge, proceeded to examine the
work.
“Ah,” said she, “how beautiful! What colors!
Only let me dispose of it, and I’ll get you a far
better price than you were paid for the last.”
“You know very well,” replied her mistress,
“that it is already sold to the same house, and the
price agreed upon.”
“The Jews?” muttered Marian.
“Nay, Marian,” said her mistress, “you must
not forget that these good people have given me
constant employment, and so saved us much
trouble.”
“Ah!” returned the servant, in a tone of impa-
tience, “you could have done without them if you
would but have spoken one word.”
A look of some severity from her mistress cut
short the further loquacity of Marian, who with
Some embarrassment added,— -
“I meant, by your teaching the piano, dame!
at ten francs a lesson ''”
“You know it displeased M. Alfred.” º
“That is true enough; and after all I like this
better than your teaching—obliged to be abroad in
all sorts of weather, and coming home sometimes
so harassed and fatigued. At present you never go
out at all, except when M. De Monville gives you
his arm, and that is not too often.”
Another look from her mistress again arrested
the garrulity of the old servant, which, be it ob-
served, was seldom without a slight infusion of
malice. While she had been speaking, the former
detached her work from the frame, and carefully
rolling it up, -
“Here,” said she, “go with this at once before
M. Alfred arrives; it is now near his hour. Put
this frame also out of the way that he may not see
it.”
“Take care, take care,” said the old woman;
“you know how he hates mystery.”
“Alas! Heaven knows how it pains me to con-
ceal anything from him. But this—”. She made
a sign, and Marian took the things and went out,
leaving her mistress plunged in melancholy reflec-
tion; for this brief conversation had brought her
situation—the present and the future—sadly and
painfully before her.
Louisa Chatenay was but three years old when
she experienced the loss, always deplorable, of her
mother. Her father, a highly learned and esteemed
professor in a provincial town, had spared neither
care nor cost on her education; and. his best and
most distinguished pupil was his darling Louisa.
To a singular aptitude for all kinds of elegant
literature, he saw i. she added a decided taste for
music. Instructors were procured, and her progress
was even more rapid in this most fascinating of the
sciences than in the other branches of her educa-
tion, as though there existed some hidden sympathy
between the enchanting art and the soul of the fair
musician, now become a charming girl of sixteen.
Her playing seemed less execution than inspiration;
and though unequal to the tremendous crashes of
the modern tornado school, which makes one feel
even for the unfortunate instrument, her facile com-
prehension of the great masters appeared rather
divination than study. Her voice, too, was mag-
nificent, a rich mezzo Soprano, which thrilled in the
solemn strains of the divine Pergolèse, or the touch-
ing melodies of the too-early-lost Bellini, (for her
exalted admiration of the master-spirits of the times
gone by did not render her insensible to the beauties
of the moderns-so ignorant was Louisa of the rules
42 The “ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.”
laid down by modern criticism.) At this period
Louisa was, both in mind and person, everything
that the fondest father could desire; and though
she, perhaps, enjoyed a greater share of liberty than
a mother's anxious vigilance would have allowed,
her natural prudence and a sensitive delicacy of
character supplied the want of experience.
Among the more intimate friends of her father
was a family named Preville; the children had been
infant playfellows, and their friendship afterwards
continued without interruption. During the age
of childhood a marriage had even been talked of
between the little Louisa and the elder boy, Julian
Preville; and although no mention had been made
of this project of late years, the parents on both
sides, particularly the father of Louisa, looked for-
ward to it as an event which, though not certain,
might be regarded as ſar from improbable. The
boy, who was some two or three years elder than
Louisa, was, perhaps, even more sanguine in his
hopes.
These hopes, however, if he really entertained
them, were neither shared nor thought of by Louisa.
Whether it was that the hour of her heart's awak-
ening had not yet come, or from whatever other
cause, she continued to regard Julian with the
kindness due to the friend of her childhood, but
without a ray of warmer feeling; and her life
glided on peacefully and tranquilly until her eigh-
teenth year. She was now struck with a dreadful
calamity—the death of her father.
He died suddenly, leaving no fortune. Louisa
would have been nearly a beggar, but for a trifling
income derived from her mother. Julian Preville,
now engaged in commercial pursuits, was absent at
the time; his family learning the extent of Louisa's
poverty, prudently evinced no desire to renew the
recollection of the formerly projected marriage; and
with the advice of her friends she determined upon
proceeding to Paris, where she had an old relative,
the only one left her in the world, but the amount
of whose assistance on her arrival was, counselling
her to employ the little money she had remaining in
perfecting her talents, and to receive lessons before
commencing to give them.
Louisa, however, soon succeeded in procuring a
few pupils, and her talents were already securing
for the friendless girl a modest independence, when,
at the residence of a family of rank in which she
gave lessons in music, she met M. Alfred de Mon-
ville—an event which materially affected the color
of her future life. Without entering into details of
the growth of their acquaintance, it is only neces-
sary here to state, that, struck by her uncommon
beauty, he became an assiduous and devoted ad-
mirer, and that the passion thus commenced was
daily augmented by a further knowledge of her
ſmind and character. He was also a passionate
lover of music, and this led to a dangerous intimacy
between them. His assiduities and devotedness
made an impression upon her heart; and, not
unnecessarily to prolong our narrative, Louisa for
the first time felt the loss—the irreparable loss of a
mother.
Six months had passed; and although the affec-
tion of Alfred seemed constantly to increase, during
his absence a corroding sentiment of sorrow and
remorse would frequently intrude. Her sole happi-
ness rested upon the continuance of his love, and
she knew that his family were unceasingly urging
him to a union with a young lady of rank and for-
tune. Louisa had other motives for uneasiness—in
the character of her lover himself. With a ten-
derness and depth of affection, almost without
example, mixed with great nobleness of mind, he
displayed some defects which she could not regard
without inquietude. Of these, jealousy and a prone-
ness to suspicion were the principal. On this
account she had long since given up her music-les-
sons, for he had, with some justice, objections to a
profession which led her so much into public with-
out adequate protection. But in sacrificing this
source of income, Louisa would accept of nothin
in return from her lover, giving him to understan
that the small succession left her at the death of
her father was sufficient for her wants. We have
seen how the deficiency was supplied.
The servant had not left the house many minutes,
when Louisa was roused from her reverie by the
ringing of the bell. “Marian went in time,” men-
tally exclaimed she, as she hastened to open the
door. -
M. de Monville entered. . He was a young man
of dark complexion, tall and well-made, apparently
about thirty years of age. His manner and appear-
ance bore that unmistakable impress of high life
which is, perhaps, never to be imitated with success.
Habits of serious study had imprinted something of
precocious gravity upon his features; and though
naturally kind and indulgent, the expression of his
dark and piercing eye denoted the suspicious, or, at
least, highly impressionable disposition to which we
have already alluded, and which is not altogether
unfrequent with those who have passed more of
their time in company with books than with the
world.
De Monville looked round on entering, and
inquired for Marian.
“I have just sent her out,” said Louisa, without
further jº. -
“I am glad we are alone,” rejoined Alfred. He
entered the little saloon, and taking both the hands
of Louisa in his own, he imprinted a tender kiss
on her forehead. There was something in his man-
ner which seemed to indicate that he had something
of importance to communicate; and in the course
of a long and interesting conversation between the
lovers, which we generously spare the reader, he
acquainted her that the constant importunities of his
mother and friends on the subject of his marriage
had at length forced him to come to a deter-
mination.
“Well!” said Louisa, turning rather pale.
“Well,” continued he, “I have chosen a wife.
I have not sought her among those who, gifted with
birth and fortune, conceive that they can dispense
with the amiable virtues and acquirements which to
my mind constitute the real ornaments of life... I
have found one, kind, modest, gifted, and loving—
one whose heart has made sacrifices for me, which
a life of devotedness only can repay. Louisa, will
you accept my hand and name?” *
Is it necessary to state the reply of Louisa? The
noble and generous offer which comprised in her
eyes not only happiness, but the establishment of
honor and reputation, was received with tears of
love and gratitude. &
A long conversation followed, chiefly upon their
future arrangements; in the course of which Alfred
entreated her to give him a small gold ring which
Louisa's mother had tied round her neck with her
dying blessing, praying Heaven that it might be as
a talisman to shield her child from evil. This gift
Louisa had guarded with religious love and rever-
ence. Alfred had before frequently solicited it in
vain. He now claimed it in the right of her future
husband.
Louisa promised that it should be her wedding-
THE “Ecrivain PUBLIc.”
43
gift to him. . He was fain to be satisfied with this
Promise, for before he could reply to it the entrance
of Marian put a stop to their further discourse.
The old servant was evidently in a very bad
umor. She made signs to her mistress that she
had not found the shopkeeper at home, and that she
had brought back the embroidery unsold.
, Alfred perceived some of this dumb show, and
inquired what it meant.
“Nothing,” said Louisa, with a smile.
.* Always mysterious !” returned Alfred, taking
his hat, hâlf angrily.
d “No,” said iſſa, arresting his ill-humor with
lSS.
Alfred was satisfied—or nearly so, and tenderly
...took his leave.
CHAPTER II.-OBSTACLES.
Duning the hours which the lovers were passing
*.happily together, a scene was proceeding in a
eighboring street at the Hôtel de Monville, Rue
* Grenelle, the dénouement of which, if realized,
Pºomised effectually to interfere with their plans.
e mother of Alfred was at that time receiving the
ºnal—nay, almost solemn visit of the Countess de
hâteauneuf, a lady immensely rich, of the ancient
Roblesse, and influentially connected with the high-
*st personages of the court. The countess had an
§ly daughter, and hence her present visit to
adame de Monville. The negotiations had been
§oing on for some time; the present interview was
*g, and the ladies, in separating, had lost some-
ing of the stiff and ceremonious dignity which
*arked their meeting. The two mothers had
*greed to the marriage of Alfred and Mdlle. de Châ-
Cauneuf.
d Madame de Châteauneuf had scarcely quitted the
ºwing-room, attended by her hostess, at one door,
When a personage of some consequence in our story
$ntered by another. This was a lady, who had
Probably reached her twenty-sixth year, but whose
*atures still retained the charm and freshness of
Yºuth. The expression of her countenance was
..plete with winning modesty and in harmony with
er movements, which were marked by serene
§§ntleness and grace. The beauty of Madame Val-
º: was not of that description which captivates
ind ºf sight, but it stole upon the heart, and left an
*ible impression. A slightly brown complexion,
if colored under the sunny skies of Italy, was
ºsted by her deep blue eyes and fair hair—
|..ii. which not unfrequently mark an organ-
si on uniting two opposite natures, the deep pas-
* of the South with the voluptuous languor of
. East. This charming person, notwithstanding
hºr external advantages, was far from ha py.
ºried by her parents at an early age to M. Wal-
. * man more than double her years, she had
º known the felicity of mutual affection, nor
ºn the tranquil comforts of ordinary wedded life.
* husband was a man without either vices or
Virtues n * *
much properly so called. His mind was too
co
Il
G
9 ºppreciate or even to think of his wife. M
inve . novel mercantile scheme, or extraordinary
Ver "lion, particularly if there appeared anything
in § impacticable about them, was certain to find
Valmont an active and zealous patron. But
.."º. undertakings he had taken up had
ni. . one, result—failure. At last, nearly
the resid it sill as sanguine as ever, he embarked
Ileo sidue of a once large fortune in a miscella-
**argo, with which he freighted a vessel for
absorbed in commercial or other speculations.
the antipodes. A newly invented soap, and some
thousand cases of eau de Cologne, formed a large
portion of his cargo, upon the sale of which he cal-
culated upon realizing at least 500 per cent. in Aus-
tralia, and thus being enabled to reconstruct his
shattered fortunes. To direct so important an op-
eration he had himself embarked for New South
Wales, leaving Madame Walmont behind him in
France, in possession of so much of her fortune as
he had been by law unable to touch.
The mother of Alfred, who was a distant rela-
tive and had always been much attached to Mad-
ame Walmont, invited her to take up her abode in
her hôtel during her temporary widowhood—an
offer which Madame Walmont gratefully accepted,
as affording her not only a home and society, but
the kind of protection which is necessary to a young
woman in a position of some difficulty as well as
delicacy.
Matilda Valmont had now been several months a
member of the family, during which time her amia-
ble character had ingratiated her into the most inti-
mate confidence of Madame de Monville and Alfred.
Indeed, had the heart of the latter not been entirely
absorbed by his passion for Louisa, he might have
found himself in dangerous proximity with his
beautiful cousin.
Madame Walmont stood for a few moments after
entering the room plunged in deep thought ; but
her countenance brightened on the reëntrance of
Madame de Monville, who returned accompanied
º another friend of the family—a M. St. George.
his gentleman appeared some forty years old. He
had quitted the army to become partner in a Paris
banking-house, of which one of his friends was at
the head, and without remarkable talents of any kind,
M. St. George before long found himself master of a
considerable fortune, the acquirement of which, after
the manner of most successful adventurers, he at-
tributed solely to his own excessive cleverness.
Without possessing the manners, and still less the
feelings, of a gentleman—for the French army,
whatever be its other merits, is decidedly the worst
school in the world for that species of knowledge
—his military habits had given him a certain frank-
ness, which found favor in many of the aristocratic
saloons of the Faubourg St. Germain; and, perfect-
ly alive to the advantages of such a connection, the
ex-captain assiduously cultivated the good graces
of the noble owners. In this he succeeded so well,
particularly where the reigning powers happened to
be vested in the hands of elderly ladies, that M. St.
George was in certain families of distinction the
chosen counsellor, friend, and agent in all cases of
difficulty. He had been apparently sent for on the
present occasion by Madame de Monville to be con-
sulted upon some affair of importance, for the old
lady told Matilda that she had to speak to him on
particular business.
“You wish to be alone!
said Matilda, rising.
“Order the carriage, my dear, and drive to the
Champs Elysées. The day is beautiful, and it
will do you good. ...You are looking a little pale.”
Madame de Monville, as she spoke, pressed the
hands of Matilda affectionately. “By the way,”
she added, “you received letters with news of M.
Valmont last night; I have not seen you since.
hope it was satisfactory—he is well!”
* Quite,” returned Madame Walmont with a
slight alteration of voice—“quite well. Thanks,
dear madam, for the interest you take in all that
concerus me. Perfectly satisfactory.” -
I will leave you,”
44
The “EcrivalN PUBLIC.”
With an amicable salutation to St. George, Ma-
tilda retired to her apartment.
She had no sooner quitted the room, than Mad-
ame de Monville acquainted her confidant that she
had concluded the arrangements for the marriage of
Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf and her son. St.
George was proceeding to congratulate her upon
this splendid alliance, when she informed him that
she had discovered the existence of a serious ob-
stacle ; one which, she feared, from the character
of Alfred would be almost insurmountable.
This obstacle was her son's passion for Louisa,
with which Madame de Monville appeared ac-
quainted. -
St. George treated it lightly, as an attachment
natural at the age of Alfred, but which he had too
much good sense to permit to stand in the way of
an advantageous marriage. He would see the
person in question himself—a milliner! a dan-
seuse f
“Neither,” said Madame de Monville. “I
hear she is of honest parents, and has received a dis-
tinguished education. Of course, a creature with-
out morals.”
St. George readily assented to this conclusion.
“I will explain matters frankly to her,” con-
tinued he. “Persons of this class don’t want dis-
cernment. Alfred is rich, the thing must be done
handsomely. A present of £500, perhaps much
less, will remove every difficulty. Make yourself
erfectly easy. I'll answer for settling the affair.
here does she live?”
“In the Rue St. Romain, near this.”
“I’ll see her at once,” said St. George, rising
and taking his hat.
Madame de Monville, however, advised him first
to see her son on the subject; as, if he were really
so attached to his mistress as represented to her, he
would be disposed to resent any interference of
which she might complain to him, and as in that
case she would, doubtless, represent everything that
was said so as to suit her own views, it would be
better to apply to her only as a last resort, should
Alfred be inflexible. For herself, Madame de Mon-
yille confessed her reluctance to enter upon the
snbject with her son, knowing the determination
with which he adhered to any resolution once taken,
and doubting her own firmness, from knowing the
influence he had over her mind.
St. George at once set about the task he had
thus undertaken, for, be it observed, he was never
so much at home as when meddling with the affairs
of others. His interference, as might be anticipat-
ed, was very ill received by the young man. St.
George, however, had no superfluous delicacy to be
wounded, and returned to the charge with such
boldness and pertinacity that, after several warm
fiscussions, a serious quarrel was nearly occurring
between them in consequence of his speaking of
Lºuisa,in a tone which might be expected from his
principles, but which M. de Monville warmly re-
sented. St. George, however, wisely considered
that, though an ally of the mother, it was no part
of his mission, to fight a duel with the son; he,
therefore, resolved to change his tactics and appeal,
*S he originally intended, to Louisa herself.
In the mean time Alfred was wearied and annoyed
by these discussions, and still more by the change
of manner of his mother, to whom he was affec-
tionately attached, and who, while she forebore to
urge him on the subject of Mademoiselle de Châ-
teauneuf, omitted no occasion of showing how ear-
nestly she desired his marriage with that lady.
The time he passed at home would have flown
heavily indeed had it not been that he had there one
friend, his kind cousin Madame Walmont, to whom
he could confide all his annoyances, all his hopes;
his love for his Louisa, their intended union—all
was confided to her friendly ear. She used to
question him on the beauty and accomplishments of
his future wife, and charmed him by listening to his
delighted descriptions until she appeared nearly as
much in love with her as Alfred himself.
. But before these anticipations could be realized,
a grand obstacle had to be removed—the terrible
marriage with Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf, which
his mother had so near at heart. The negotiations
were silently proceeding, and the day next but one
was fixed upon for the formal introduction of the
two families at a grand dinner, given by Madame
de Monville. Alfred owned his perplexity to his
cousin. The union was impossible, yet he shrank
from acquainting his mother with his refusal,
which he knew would so seriously grieve her.
“There is a good angel who watches over true
love,” smilingly observed Madame Valmont.
“Who knows, perhaps an objection may come
from the other side? Hope!”
The day following Alfred was greatly surprised
to learn from his mother that she had received an
excuse from Madame de Châteauneuf, who could
not dine with them as had been arranged. She
was suddenly about to quit Paris with her daugh-
ter for a short time. No further explanation
was given, but the chagrin and disappointment
visible in her countenance showed that something
had taken place to affect the threatened matrimo-
nial project. Madame de Monville left the room to
write a note, requesting to see M. St. George.
“My dear cousin,” said Alfred to Madame Wal-
mont, joyously, “this looks like a rupture. Is it
One 1”
“I hope so,” returned Matilda.
“The ‘good angel’ that watches over true love
is then yourself?”
“Silence 1” said Matilda, “silence '''
“But how has it occurred? Tell me, dear
cousin, that I may thank you—that I may 5 y
“Hush ’’ interrupted Madame Walmont, in a
low voice. “What I have done is nothing. I saw
you unhappy, and this is my sole excuse. Go,
think only now of your Louisa. Marry her, as she
is worthy of your heart. Adieu ! in a short time
your mother will yield to your prayers and forgive
you. Farewell ?” º
In order to keep aloof from the little family dis-
cussions which were now likely to occur, Matilda
accepted an invitation to pass a few days with a
friend in the vicinity of Paris. g
Nothing further was said of the marriage with
Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf. Yet Alfred could
not obtain the consent of his mother to his union
with Louisa. When she appeared disposed to
yield, St. George, who seemed to consider that his
Credit as a man of business would be compromised
were this marriage to take place, reproached her
with weakness. At length, however, she did yield
a reluctant assent; but on condition that she should.
not be asked to see her daughter-in-law. With
this De Monville was fain to be content for the
present, relying upon the good offices of his gentle
cousin, and upon that great softener of all asperities
-Time, for a reconciliation at some future period.
Alfred possessed in his own right a small proper-
ty, delightfully situated about twenty leagues from
Paris. It was arranged that the marriage should
The “ECRIVAIN public.”
45
take place there, in order to avoid all unnecessary
Publicity. As the château had not been inhabited
9. Some years, it was requisite to put it into a
State fit to receive its new mistress; and for this
Purpose Alfred determined to proceed thither to su-
Perintend in person the alterations and repairs. He
"as to be absent a week, and to return two days
Previous to the celebration of the marriage. It was
the first separation of the lovers, and, brief as it
Yas to be, they parted with ominous grief—many
*s on one side, deep sadness on both.
M. St. George resolved to take advantage of his
absence and make a last effort to put a stop to the
*ge. He accordingly saw Louisa two or three
€S. -
. On the return of Alfred to town he descended at
§ mother's hôtel previous to hastening to Louisa.
e concierge handed him a letter—it was anony-
*ous ! What this letter contained will be seen in
the following pages.
cHAPTER III.—THE LETTER.
The eight long days of absence had expired.
Louisa was anxiously expecting De Monville
º she was startled by a violent ringing at the
“'Tis he ſ” cried Louisa, joyously flying to-
Wards the door, “’t is he '''
De Monville entered.
ouisa's joy was short-lived. He was no longer
° same being. His face was deadly pale, and
she could only gaze on him in silence. Without a
Yºd, he entered and closed the door behind him.
ith hasty strides he entered the inner room. She
ollowed him.
is penetrating glance seemed to dive into the
Pest recesses of her heart. One of his hands,
Placed under his cloak, was agitated by a convul-
*ē motion; with the other he seized Louisa's arm
* forced her to remain near him. His look, his
*hºe, were dreadfil.
Y Heavens !” cried she, “what is the matter?
ºn terrify me!” -
'De seated,” returned he.
ture e sat down at once, awed by his tone and ges-
º De
tion h
dee
Monville endeavored to surmount the emo-
e was laboring under. He remained silent
sº few seconds, as if enjoying the increasing
C ºn of Louisa, and then, without taking his
7. from her face, he exclaimed—
Th nd so you have deceived me!”
her i ° poor girl drew back in stupor. It was now
On ºn to gaze in silence, to feel her words expire
ºr lips. De Monville, who still held her arm,
S *
ğ. º roughly, and, in accents of fury, ex-
*
{
pºwer, answer me, I say.” -
the . was in vain he tried to awaken her from
thou º trance. ... She did not reply, for the
enj . that he could believe her guilty had never
rº her mind. All her fears were realized; the
ad ection of the intrigues, the manoeuvres she
SuS $9 dreaded, assailed her at once, The horrible
i. darted across her mind that Alfred no
i. º her—that, vanquished by the importu-
reak . his family, he sought but a pretext to
ope off his engagements with her. An abyss had
ned under her feet, and she had sunk into it.
agº. Monville, astonished at his easy triumph,
{ } endeavored to restrain his feelings.
This Will be calm,” said he, “Listen to me.
*terview is most probably our last. If you
cannot justify yourself it will lead to an eternal
separation. But I will not judge without hearing
you. If you have deceived me, Louisa, you are
very ºilº, for I had placed boundless confidence
in you. I should have blushed to set a spy over
your actions. I loved you, and would have sacri-
ficed all for you—family, friends, all.”
She moved; she understood at last that he ac-
cused her of perfidy, of infamy. A flush of indig-
nation covered her face and forehead, and when
Alfred's glance again demanded an answer, it was
met by a look of pride, but with the calmness of
death.
A fresh pause ensued. Alfred continued.
“Speak candidly Louisa. Am I the only man
who has entered this apartment since my de-
arture ?”
“Ah! is that all !” said she, coldly. “Yes, a
friend of yours—M St. George.” tº
“St. George "exclaimed Álfred, surprised.
“Yes; he endeavored by his counsels and per-
suasions to prepare me for the meeting of to-day.”
“He shall explain his conduct. But I do not
mean him; you do not mention another, a young
man, whose mysterious visits have been made
known to me.”
“Indeed ''” said Louisa, recollecting a circum-
º: she had forgotten. “What have you been
told 12”
“What have I been told tº cried De Monville,
crumpling in his rage a paper he had just drawn
from his breast. “I have been told that the night
before last a young man, muffled up in a cloak, se-
cretly visited you, introduced by your servant; that
he remained with you two hours; that he had be-
fore paid you similar visits, though you never
spoke to me respecting him, or mentioned his
name ; in a word, that he knew you before I did,
that he loved you, that you were to have been his
wife. Is it true : Must I name him tº
. “It is needless,” said Louisa, coldly and haught-
ily. “Who gave you these particulars?”
“This letter,” said Alfred. “Can you deny its
contents?” . 5.
“By whom is it written 4"
“It has no signature; but that is of no conse-
quence if its contents be true.” *
“An anonymous letter!” replied Louisa, with a
contemptuous smile. “You believe an anonymous
letter! A dastardly denunciation is stronger in
your mind than all the proofs I have given you of
my affection : You esteem me so highly that the
first slanderer who chooses to blacken me in your
eyes is believed without even being obliged toyer-
ify his calumny by his name! Ah! what will be
our future life?'" - r
“Instead of accusing others defend yourself. If
the author of this letter is a calumniator, I’ll dis-
cover him; and, by Heaven! I'll punish him.
But if he have only opened my eyes to your false-
hood—if he prove me to be the victim of your per-
fidy, I am his debtor for more than life. Listen,
and tell me which of these titles he deserves.”
Then unfolding the paper, he read, in a voice
nearly stifled by agitation, as follows:—
“Sir, A person who takes an interest in your
honor deems it a duty to assume the veil of an
anonymous friend to acquaint you with the charac-
ter of the woman who is soon to receive your name.
I know not if you be the first in her affections, but
you are not the first who was to have led her to the
altar. A young man, named Preville, whom she
46 THE “ EcrivalN PUBLIC.”
has known from her childhood, was to have married
her; but this match was far from being so advanta-
geous as that offered her by your love. She has,
therefore, broken off with him, although she still
continues to receive his visits. AM, however, they
must now separate, she saw him the evening before
last to bid him adieu. Your absence from Paris
favored this rendezvous, which lasted for two hours.
He then quitted her, as he had arrived, taking the
utmost precaution to avoid discovery.”
“Can it be possible!” exclaimed Louisa.
“What a web of falsehood M. Preville—”
“Ah!” cried De Monville, “you acknowledge
he has been here? "
“Yes! but hear me in your turn.”
“No I have heard enough—too much,” said
De Monville, in a voice of mingled fury and despair.
“Listen to me Alfred. Do not accuse me with-
out allowing me to answer. I am innocent. My
only error is to have made a secret of his visits. I
did so partly because I dreaded your jealous suspi-
cions, but chiefly because I held them of so little
consequence as not to be worth remembering or
naming. Yes, it is true that, almost in childhood,
our families being neighbors and friends, in Prov-
ence, a union was talked of between us. But I }
never entertained a feeling towards him beyond the
coldest indifference ; and, grown up, the project, if
ever really contemplated, was no longer thought of.
Since I have been in Paris, business has two or
three times led M. Preville to town, and he never
failed to bring me tidings of my old friends. The
day before yesterday he again returned, and it is
true that he called in the evening, and true that he
remained some time, for I had much to tell. I con-
cealed nothing, neither my love for you, nor your
generous conduct, nor our approaching union. As
to the precautions he is said to have used, I know
nothing of them. His visit was of no importance;
I did not expect it, and if I did not mention it, it
was because it had escaped my memory.”
De Monville's suspicions were shaken by this
simple recital. As she spoke he became less agi-
tated and began to feel ashamed of his credulity.
Half convinced of his error, he was ready to fall
down at her feet and supplicate the pardon of the
woman he adored, when his eye fell upon the latter
part of the letter, which he had not read. He hesi-
tated and determined to make a last trial.
“Pardon me, dearest,” said he, “if I have sus-
pected you unjustly. The excess of my love ren-
ders me distrustful. Besides, the secrets you con-
fess to have concealed from me must serve to excuse
my firsts transports. Can you forgive me!”
She placed one of her hands on her heart, and
offered him the other. He covered it with kisses.
“Ah!” said she, “Alfred, how you have
grieved me ! I did not think it possible to suffer so
much and live.” s
“And now, dearest,” said De Monville, “as a
pledge of our reconciliation, give me that ring you
have so often refused mé—your mother's ring.
The more your heart values the gift, the dearer
will the sacrifice be to me.”
She replied, smiling, “Why this new desire?
What value can it have in your eyes!”
“Does it not contain my Louisa's hair, cut from
her forehead when she was a child? Do not refuse
me. Give it me, I ..". you ! I know where
you keep it; in, a small box in your secretary.
Give me the key!”
His looks were tender and caressing, but his
this, because
voice trembled with a strange emotion. Louisa
remarked it.
“Ah!” said she, “is it thus you sue for par-
don?”
“I will have it!” cried De Monville, giving
vent to the passion he had hitherto suppressed with
a struggle; “I’ll take it by force l’”
“Still suspicious !”
“Still mysterious !”
“Well, sir, I will explain all. If I have refused
till now to allow you to open my 'secretary, it is
because it contains papers which would have let
you see that, unable to live on my small income,
as you imagined, I have supported myself on the
produce of º labor. I did not acquaint you with
was too proud to receive your gifts.
Was it a crime !”
De Monville heard her; he wished to believe
what she said: but, like a fatal poison, the letter
burned his hands. He resumed, with a bitter
smile,
“And thus you have again deceived me!”
He snatched the key from her hand. Stupified
at his violence, she sunk half fainting in a chair.
De Monville opened the secretary, searched—
seized the box—opened it—the ring was gone !
“Ah!” cried he, casting on her a look of con-
centrated fury, “I knew it!”
At these words Louisa rose, ran to the secretary,
and searched in vain for her ring. -
“My ring !” she exclaimed. “Where is it?
Where is my ring 3’’
** Gone ”
“Stolen, stolen?”
“Yes, stolen,” said Alfred. Then taking her
rudely by the arm he read aloud from the letter,
“The proof that all ties are not broken off be-
tween this woman and her former lover—a proof
that they still love each other—is, that she made
him a present of a ring, a family ring, given her by
her mother, enclosing some of her own hair.”
“Now,” cried De Monville, “can you deny it!
You refused to give me the ring, you refused to
give me the key. Falsehood upon falsehood, infa-
my upon infamy!”
Jn a frantic voice she called her servant, “My
ring, Marian' where is my ring? What have you
done with my ring?”
“You know Marian is not here,” said De Mon-
ville, with a smile of scornful bitterness. “Fare-
well, madam; tell your lover he can return.”
Louisa had fallen senseless on the ground.
De Monville cast a last look at her as she lay, pale
and motionless. He took a few steps towards her;
but indignation arrested this movement of returning
tenderness.
He threw a purse of gold upon the table and dis-
appeared.
cIIAPTER Iv.—THE “ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.”
EIGHTEEN months after the terrible scene we have
just narrated, we find De Monville seated in his
study in the Rue de Grenelle. He had grown pale
and much thinner, and ºppeared several years older
than at that period. He was married. Madame
Valmont, his cousin, of whose estimable qualities
we have before spoken, had become his wife. A
few words are necessary to explain this change in
. situation of the two relatives towards each
OLIlêT.
After De Monville's rupture with Louisa a vio-
The “EcRivAIN PUBLIC.”
47
ºut ſever had for some time endangered his life.
9 must have died had it not been for the tender
*nd unremitting care of his mother and his gentle
Sºusin. And on his recovery, though broken in
*Pirit, gratitude and friendship bound him to exist-
*e, for their sakes more than for his own. But
* deepest melancholy succeded the exhaustion of
his ſever. He allowed himself to be transported to
the Country, agreeably to the advice of his physi-
*S, who hoped that a purer air would restore his
§nken energies, and a change of objects aid in ob-
*śting the impressions of the past.
, His mother and Madame Walmont accompanied
!ºn to a fine old château they possessed down in
9ttººine. They had some intention of getting M.
* George to bear them company; but though
lfred, morally convinced that he had written the
**nymous letter, was grateful to him for having
'Pºned his eyes, still he felt his presence oppres-
§vely painful. Whatever recalled the perfidy of
* he had loved excited in his mind the most uncon-
“ollable emotions. He even cherished a hope that
** would write to him and justify herself. But he
*er heard of her since the moment of their part-
; • Ashamed of his weakness, he never suffered
"...ºf to breathe her name, and those around him
. of course silent on the subject. It was in
* State he left town, concealing from all the pas-
** which was preying on his peace—too deeply
... ged to think of a reconciliation, and yet too
"g to seek consolation by imparting the source
is distress.
it each hour that passes sheds a drop of balm
...the most poignant of our griefs. Every new
*y extirpates one by one the thorns which have
Wººd the heart. It is true the first months of
i. ſonville's sojourn in the country gave no visi-
. Sºgn of improvement in his health. In vain for
j Nature spread forth herbeauty and luxuriance;
Q * Sunny days, the balmy nights of summer
illy weighed down his sinking frame. But by
* and little the warmth of summer declines,
h ºn appears with her empurpled shades and
ji". of dew, and with its coming gloom the in-
"felt his grief diminish and his health improve.
tº: *ºness of the season suited the melancholy
ings 9f his mind, and he at length relieved his suffer-
# y imparting them.
was now accompanied in his rambles by his
Iſlo # º * T * : *
º: and his cousin, and each day saw his inti-
She % With the latter increase. It was natural that
o had been the confidant of his hopes should
Vent first to console him. To her alone did he
v." to speak of the lost Louisa. In their long
ev. now become a daily custom, in the long
.* passed at the fireside, she listened to his
rº. to his sufferings. She wept for the sor-
*had undergone, and he found his unhappy
. consoled by the tender sympathy of
p.
be the
d . "as at length induced to acquaint him with
She . Which she had until then concealed, lest
She §: have increased his afflictions by her own.
con. been unwilling to deprive him of a single
WaS . by letting him know that she herself
dj "ºppy. , Her husband, M. Valmont, was
time bef lis sad news had reached her but a short
betra *re Alfred had found himself so cruelly
yed.
s Dé Monvi
*exhaustibl
§usin evor
treasur
Ile was struck with admiration at the
° fund of kindness which made his
ready to sacrifice herself for others.
° of a heart was now at liberty. Their
conversations henceforward gradually became long-
er and more frequent, and although they lost nothing
of their charming familiarity, they often became
timid and embarrassed on both sides. The name
of Louisa was less frequently pronounced, and one .
evening, Alfred, holding Madame Walmont's hands
in his, and fixing on her a tender inquiring glance,
asked her if she would complete her work and
reconcile him entirely to existence. +º
“We have both suffered,” said he. “You,
united to a man who could not appreciate your
worth, I from a fatal, misplaced passion. We are
now both free; you from a chain which was forced
upon you, I from a delirium—a dream! We both
require the repose of a sincere, tranquil affection.
Will you be mine !”
She did not then reply: but two months after-
wards their marriage was celebrated at the château.
The year following their union was passed in the
country. The death of the mother of Alfred,
which took place during that period, seemed to in-
crease their affection for each other.
They returned to town about the beginning of
the winter. De Monville resumed his avocations,
but sought in study, rather than in the enjoyments
of wealth and luxury, a diversion to the melancholy
which still hung over him, and which now seemed
to have become a part of his character. Durin
their long absence, his friend M. St. George ha
contracted other intimacies and visited him but sel-
dom, and when he did, carefully abstained, by the
advice of Madame de Monville, from all allusion to
the past.
In addition to his usual occupations, Alfred had
his family papers to regulate, to examine title-deeds,
and copy a number of letters and other papers.
He had requested a friend to recommend him a
person to whom he could intrust this copying, and
this brings us to the point of time described at the
opening of the present chapter. . . .
Alfred, as we have said, was seated in his study.
Madame de Monville opened the door and told him
the person recommended as a copyist was come.
“‘Will you see him now,” said she, “ or shall I
desire him to wait!” * †
De Monville wished him to be shown in imme-
diatelv. tº #
“Will you allow me, my dear,” said his wife,
“to remain in the room!” &
“Certainly, if you desire it. But as we have to
speak of papers, business, ciphers, our conversation
will be the reverse of amusing. Why do you wish
to stay 1" - i
“I have but spoken a few words to your copyist,
and, if I do not greatly mistake the person, he is a
most diverting original.” 9 y
“Oh, remain, then, by all means'
He ordered him to be shown in. *
An old grey-headed man presented himself on
the door being opened, and his delºt, seemed fully
to justify the lady's anticipations. , He was attired
in a very old surtout, which, perhaps, had origin:
ally been black, but, from, exposure to wind and
weather, had become a kind of ambiguous brown.
It was buttoned to the topmost button, as if to
disguise the absence of a waistcoat; his trousers,
of the coarsest material, were so short, as to leave
a considerable distance between their nether ex-
tremities and his shoes, or rather sabots, for this
part of his costume was made not of leather but of
wood, such as are worn by the French peasantry
and individuals of the very poorest class in Paris.
With all these indubitable marks of extreme pow-
48 THE * ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.”
erty, there was a something in his aspect which
created a liking, and even commanded respect.
Though somewhat bent by age, he was tall and
uncouthly massive of frame, and the broad German
cast of his plain features bore an impress of ex-
treme simplicity and a kindliness’ of heart which
not all the marks of pinching want and privation,
too visible in every lineament, could change or
conceal.
As the door was opened, this strange-looking
figure stopped at the threshold to make an awk-
ward, over-polite bow; a manifestation of respect
which he thrice repeated, advancing a step at each
salutation, with a solemnity so ludicrous that Mon-
sieur and Madame de Monville had considerable
difficulty in restraining a burst of laughter. When
the poor man had concluded this ceremony, he No
raised his eyes and cast a bashful, humble look
around the room. Suddenly his features assumed
an expression of extreme surprise, and he remained
with his mouth open, gazing bewilderedly upon De
Monville, who, to the great astonishment of his
wife, exclaimed in a tone of animation unusual
with him—
“What! my old friend, Reinsberg 1"
“M. de Monville,” said the old man, “how
kind of you to remember me! not to forget the
professor who taught you the rudiments of an art
now despised, and of which I am, I fear, the last
representative l’”
De Monville here introduced the old man in form
to his wife, as having been professor of writing at
the College Charlemagne when he was a pupil.
The cordiality of his reception put the old man
quite at his ease.
“It was very different,” said he, “at the time
I gave you your lessons, now more than eighteen
years ago. I beg pardon, madam, if I speak so
freely before you, but I grow young when I think
of bygone times. Dô not, I entreat, pay attention
to my wardrobe. I have brushed and cleaned these
poor habiliments as well as possible; but they are
very, very old, and miserable. I was ashamed to
knock when I saw this rich hôtel ; and probably if
you had not accidentally been here, your servants
would not have admitted me, but turned me from
the door for a beggar. This thought made me
timid, and I fear you must have thought me very
ridiculous in presenting myself as I did. Such,
madam, is Fº humiliating both to mind and
body; for I once knew how to enter a room in a
proper manner, and have often scolded and punished
young ladies as rich and as charming as yourself.”
Madame de Monville smiled with such kind affa-
bility, that the poor professor felt quite at home.
“Indeed,” said he to De Monville, “I am de-
lighted to see you !”
“And I also,” said, De Monville, shaking the
old man kindly by the hand.
“Come, you are still the same—kind, and with-
out pride ; you set me so much at ease that I will
ask permission to sit down at the fire while you
explain what I can do to be useful to you. It is
long since I saw any fire in my own room, save
that ºf a candle, and I go to bed often with the
SUIIl.
He drew an arm-chair towards the chimney, sat
down, stretched out his legs, placed his elbows
upon his knees, and held his wrinkled hands to the
ſire.
De Monville, who found his old professor as
simple and good natured as formerly, looked at him
with complacency.
“I see, my poor old friend,” said he, “Fortune
has not been kind to you : but since you sometimes
thought of me, why did you not come to see me !
You would have been always welcome.”
“I was, perhaps, wrong; but you who have
been always rich know but one side of charity. It
is easy to give, but it is difficult to beg.”
“Well, at all events, I thank the chance that
has again brought us together. There is some-
thing here to employ you for a few weeks, and you
must allow me to set my own price upon your
work.”
“We must fix a fair price, sir, and the little
talent I have remaining is at your service.”
“You live in our neighborhood?”
“I occupy a small room in the Rue St. Romain,
4.” -
Reinsberg did not perceive that his answer star-
tled both De Monville and his wife. A short
silence ensued, during which they looked at each
other with an air of constraint.
“Come, sir,” said the old man, “what am I to
do for wou!”
De Monville placed before him the packet of
papers he ...! him to copy; and the old man
was about to depart, but Alfred detained him.
Afraid to interrogate him openly, the words, “Rue
St. Romain, No. 4,” rang in his ears. If his wife
had not been present, he would have questioned
him at once on the subject nearest to his heart.
“And what have you been doing these many
years!” inquired De Monville.
“Something that ill-suited me. ... I lost my situa-
tion as a writing-master in a school, and my pupils
ſell off, not because I was unable to teach, but be-
cause a new style of tuition had come into fashion,
by which the entire art of ºpy was taught
in a dozen lessons. What could ſ do? I was
forced to take a little shop, or, more truly, a stall,
and became a public letter-writer. The trade was,
perhaps, more profitable than that I had lost; but
it made me a kind of accomplice in so many in-
trigues and so much wickedness that I became dis-
gusted with it. More than once I thought of giving
it up; and a circumstance which, in spite of me,
troubled my conscience—a letter I had been weak
enough to copy for a miserable reward, made me at
length finally abandon it.”
“A letter?” said De Monville, with seeming
indifference. +
“Yes, an anonymous letter, which contained a
most serious accusation. I must tell you, I always
held in contempt accusations that the authors were
ashamed to sign. My opinion through life has
been, that truth can show itself barefaced any-
where. Don't you think so, sir?”
“I do,” said Te Monville, so much taken up by
the old man's discourse that he did nºt look at his
wife, who had become of a deathlike paleness.
“But how could this letter affect you so much as
to induce you to give up your business!”
“Because it might have injured, or, indeed,
have been the death of an innocent person; it
might also, it is true, have enlightened another and
unmasked the blackest perfidy.”
“And why,” observed Madame de Monville, in
a calm voice, but not free from a certain tremulous-
ness—“why, for your own tranquillity, not believe
the second supposition as probable as the first 1”
. The poor professor lifted his eyes to heaven and
sighed.
“Qnce I could have done so, madam, but now
The “ECRivAIN PUBLIC.”
49
. Now!” repeated De Monville.
Now I cannot,” said Reinsberg, sadly. “It
wº a presentiment, too soon, too fatally realized '''
Of whom did the letter speak?” asked De
Monville.
. Qf a young woman.”
4 & And to whom was it directed 1"
... “That I never knew. It was a boy who brought
| me to be copied, and he had orders to have the
*ction written by another person; nor would he
ºform me whether he had received his directions
Tom a man or a woman. Such mystery made me
...easy; the singular precautions taken appeared to
* So strange and sinister that I had a superstitious
...ding. of evil to spring from it. It was not
° first time I had felt my apprehensions excited
"W Such letters, but never to such an extent. The
*9te I reflected the more convinced I became that
Il had made myself an instrument of evil to the in:
º by this deed. So I closed my shop and
i. up my residence in Rue St. Romain. The
C it two nights I passed in my new habitation were
*m and silent; but, about the middle of the third,
... stilled moans as of a person in extreme
...ing. The next day I was informed that the
"...ºnent opposite mine was occupied by a young
ºnan, whose life was despaired of.
A few days had elapsed, when one afternoon,
* I returned home, I was surprised to see her
99 standing wide open. I looked in—no one in
º: first room; I called—no answer; the silence
t . alarming. I entered the inner room, and
j I saw, stretched on a bed, the pallid, inani;
Te . form of a once beautiful young woman. I
. aced her poor head, which had fallen off the
.." upon her pillow ; and, by the aid of a bottle
im. ts, which stood on the chimney, after some
in ° restored her to consciousness. I found, on
§y, that her servant had left her that very day;
thout inquiring into her pecuniary resources, I
º a nurse. She had, fortunately, a few pieces
Iła gold, and the unfortunate Mademoiselle Chate-
# for I forgot to tell you her name * }
Rei * Monville rose with a convulsive start, and
aS ºberg, interrupting himself, saw him pale as
i. his face bathed in tears; he looked at
ey ºne de Monville, despair seemed written upon
*y feature.
Her husband approached her; he
ºr hand and said—
In Matilda, these tears, which ſlow in spite of
i. *lf, are an offence to your love. I feel it; pray
** the room, and forgive me!”
he looked down, and replied in a low voice, but
º tone of indescribable anguish, as she with-
§ {
i. knew you still loved her?”
einsberg had risen also, he was confounded,
€ . he saw himself alone with De Monville,
.*ely knew whether he ought to go on or
had' ut Alfred, delivered from the restraint he
TIn "ntil then imposed upon himself, seized his
... With frantic eagerness, and exclaimed—
Is she deadº
“Yes.” i-
* Monville sank on a chair, and covered his
Cess yº his hands. For a few moments he suc-
B . y endeavored to suppress his feelings, but
Tamo was beyond his strength: and his whole
..º.º.º.º.º.
Reinsberg. c rose, and, pressing the hand of
& 4 *- ſº
he. xcuse this weakness, my old friend,” said
The old professor wiped his eyes, but he spoke
InOt.
“And she was calumniated 4” said Alfred.
“She was.” th
** Who told you So?”
“Herself. The proofs of her innocence are un-
deniable.”
“What proofs 3 Explain—tell me all you
know !” - *.
“Her sufferings were long protracted,” said the
old man, “and I passed whole days and nights by
her bedside. I tended her as a father, and gained
her entire confidence; she told me her miserable
story; that the day before that fixed for her mar-
riage, her lover came to her residence excited to
madness by an anonymous letter, in which she was
accused of infidelity to him. She showed it to me.
Judge of my feelings when I recognized my own
writing ! It was the letter about which I had felt
such an ominous presentiment. I besought her—
for, as I had involuntarily injured her, I wished to
repair the wrong I had done her—to tell me the
name of the person to whom the infamous calumny
had been written, that I might acquaint him with
his error. She was inflexible. “It is too late
now,” said she, laying her white thin hand upon
her bosom, “death is already here. Why impor-
tune him? Tet him forget me, though it is cruel
to he thus forgotten. I still love him so tenderly,
that it would be yet more cruel for me to know I
had afflicted him with unavailing regrets.” Her
dying agony was long, and she bore her sufferings
with a resignation more like that of a heavenly
spirit than a poor being of human clay. One even-
ing the nurse and I were seated near her. She
saw my tears, for I had begun to love her as my
own child, and the hour of separation was visibly
at hand. “Nay,” said she, in her low angelic
voice, “do not weep, my last, my only friend, but
rejoice, for your poor Louisa's sorrows and suſter-
ings are at an end.’ My hand was in hers, I felt a
faint pressure, and all was over !”
No words can do justice to the feelings with
which De Monville listened to the old man's tale.
For some time after he had closed his mournful
narrative, he remained gazing silently, on the
ground. At length, suddenly starting to his feet;
as if his last refuge lay in doubt, he approached
Reinsberg.
“You say she was calumniated, but the proof;
—where is the proof?”
“Listen,” said the old professor. “It appears
that she had satisfactorily explained the visit ºf a
person mentioned in the anonymous letter. The
circumstance which occasioned the rupture was the
abstraction of a ring. This ring he was accused
of having given to her pretended lover, and she
was unable to account for its loss. Now this ring
had been stolen by her old servant, a woman named
Marian, who had been bribed to purloin it from her
desk. The day I first saw poor Louisa, this
wretched woman, stung by remorse, had suddenly
left her, but had left behind her a written account
of her crime, without, however, naming the person
who had bribed her. . She had laid this letter on
the bed of her dying mistress during her sleep, not
daring to confess it herself, and supplicated her
pardon. Louisa fainted on reading the letter, and
then it was I first entered her room, as I have told
ou.”
y “Enough, enough 1” said De Monville. “It
was I who received that anonymous letter, I who
murdered the unfortunate Louisa' But who can
50
The “EcrivalN PUBLIC.”
have formed such an infernal plot? Iſad my poor
lost angel no suspicion?”
“She mentioned no one, but she spoke to me
sometimes of a friend of her intended husband's
family.” *
“M. St. George Ah! he it was, without a
doubt' my mother's confidant. Could they have
plotted together! Oh, no, no! my mother could
not—would not No, he acted alone. I remem-
ber his opinions on the subject.”
“If you were more calm,” said Reinsberg, “I
would give you the proof you require—the original
of the letter.”
“Have you got it still?”
“Yes, I kept it: I have it at home.”
“Bring it me to-morrow—nay, this evening—
this very moment—I must have it. Let us go for
it at once '''
When the old professor saw the eagerness and
the sinister expression of satisfaction which lighted
up the features of De Monville, he repented hav-
ing owned that he had the letter still in his posses-
810II.
“We could not find it now. I must search for
it,” said he. “Perhaps I have mislaid it. Be-
sides, I will not give it you till I know what you
intend to do with it.”
“I want a proof, that's all,” replied De Mon-
ville, with apparent calmness.
“Very well, I now take my leave, and will
bring it you to-morrow, if I find it, as I trust I
shall.”
It was dark. Reinsberg took leave of his friend,
and returned to his humble home. He was nowise
embarrassed about giving him the letter he desired.
He had merely thought it prudent to take some
precautions respecting the use he intended to make
of it, and the assumed calmness of Alfred had com-
pletely satisfied his more than pacific nature.
De Monville did not think his old friend quite so
simple-minded as he really was; for as soon as he
was alone, he said to himself, “IIe will not bring
it me ; but I do not want it.”
An hour afterwards a servant was despatched to
carry three letters; two were directed to a couple
of De Monville's friends, the third was to M. St.
George.
CHAPTER W.—THE UNEXPECTED WISIT.
ScARCELY had ten minutes elapsed after Reins-
berg's return home when he was disturbed by a
low tap at his door. As he was busily occupied in
looking over his old papers to find the manuscript
he had promised Alfred for the next morning, he
did not answer the summons. Indeed, as he ex-
pected no visit and had heard no one ascend the
narrow staircase, he concluded the noise must have
been occasioned by some window left open, and
agitated by the wind. He, therefore, quietly con-
tinued his search. In a few seconds his attention
was again drawn to the sound of somebody groping
at his door, evidentl y feeling for a bell-rope. Alas!
a bell was an article of household luxury long un-
known among Reinsberg's domestic chattels. Soon
after the visitor gave an audible knock.
“Who’s there! What do you want?” said the
rofessor.
The stranger returned no answer, but knocked
again. ?? --->
“Come to-morrow,” said the old man. “Come
back to-morrow ; I am in bed, and have no }".
infortunately, the light was seen through the
chinks of the door, and contradicted his assertion.
“Open pray open ''” said a gentle, timid voice.
“You have nothing to fear. Do you not recog-
nize me?”
Reinsberg opened the door. A female covered
with a veil entered with precipitation. She ap-
peared a prey to the most violent agitation. She
removed her veil to breathe more freely, and the
old professor uttered an exclamation of surprise on
seeing the alteration a few hours had wrought in
the features of Madame de Monville.
“Shut the door,” said she. .
Before he did so, Reinsberg looked down the
staircase.
“You are alone, ma'am!”
“Nobody knows, or is to know, I am here. If
ever you should be interrogated on the subject,
swear you will not betray me.”
“Madam,” replied the professor, whose sur-
prise was increased by the excited manner of his
visitor, “I do not like to bind myself by an oath,
which it is sometimes both difficult and painful to
keep. Be kind enough to let me know the motive
of your visit.”
“I conceive your prudence, but fear nothing.
The discretion I require is far more necessary for
me than for you.”
She looked around the room, and, after a pause
of a few seconds, added, “We must speak low,
must we not! Our conversation can be heard in
the next room?”
“Yes, madam, it was in this room I overheard,
without listening, the moanings of the unfortunate
Louisa. You had left the room, madam, when I
terminated the sad recital.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted she, in a brief, agitated
voice, “this Louisa is dead: I know that.”
“Ah, your husband has had time to relate it to
you since I left 1"
“I have not seen him.”
“Is he aware of your being here?”
** No.”
“But, madam, should he remark your absence
this evening!”
“This evening ! oh, he 'll not think of inquiring
about me this evening ! I am far enough from his
thoughts.”
Notwithstanding his want of penetration and his
complete ignorance of the passions, Reinsberg be-
gan to guess the secret pain which had so altered
the charming features of his visitor, and given
them such an air of wildness. He remembered the
tears De Monville had striven in vain to conceal
from her, the words he used when he prayed her
to withdraw. He saw that jealousy had stung her
to the heart. Still he could not discover the mo-
tive of her visit to him. She motioned him to take
a seat at her side.
“You have kept the copy of the anonymous let-
ter?”
Reinsberg looked at her with surprise, not clear-
ly understanding whether she interrogated or aſ-
firmed a fact she was certain of.
“You have kept it. You are to give it to-mor-
row to my husband. Do not endeavor to deny it.
I was in the next room, and overheard all you
said. You must give me the copy of that letter.”
“I have promised it, madam, to your hus-
band.” -
: To him or to me, what does it signify 1"
“If you were here with his consent.”
“You will tell him you have mislaid it, and he
will believe you without hesitation. You told him
you were not quite certain of finding it.”
The “EcrivalN PUBLIC.”
51
: I greatly fear I spoke the truth.”
Mo; you first declared you had it in your pos-
*ssion, and I see you have already begun to look
Sº it. . I must have the copy of this letter!” said
**, with energy, increasing to wildness. “Give
* me-sell it me ! Set on it what price you will.
* have it. You are poor, and I can make you
Though she spoke with such rapidity that Reins-
*g could not interrupt her, she had opened her
reticule.
b “Take this,” continued she, “here are four
ºnk-notes of 1000 francs each " Seeing the poor
ºr's look of bewildered astonishment, she
ook it for sordid hesitation. “It is not enough, I
*9W it is not. I had no more in my desk. But
. ** shall have whatever you desire; triple this
ºn, 20,000 francs, if you demand it—my whole
*une: Besides, here are my jewels. Look, take
them !” y
sº features, lately so, pale, were now flushed
tre animated, her eyes shone with unnatural lus-
mo her hands, with a motion so rapid as to be al-
º unperceptible, emptied her reticule . A neck-
. of the finest pearls, rich jewelry, diamonds,
i. fell in a shower upon the table.
{Il he poor man looked at her in utter bewilder-
°ºt. There lay before him more money than he
* seen throughout his whole life. And this un-
º: fortune was thrown at his feet—all his
.." ; he had but to extend his hand, and it was
und But these were not the thoughts which dwelt
º his honest mind. Between the wealth he had
in "...º. and the destitution which was abridg-
§ is old age, no idea of speculation rose even
Il an instant; and it was with tears in his eyes,
.* a voice tremulous with pity, that he said—
.#ow unhappy you must be, madam?”
thai. fºlſTM º hut it depends on you
cease to be so. ou can restore me to re-
Pºe, to happiness! Will you accept my offer!”
he recital of this melancholy event has re-
O the remembrance of past affections. I ought
B ºve perceived it and interrupted my story when
..ºted you to withdraw. I should not have
"ºne an ill-closed wound. You must pardon
I ha º, for the ill I have involuntarily caused.
00r still present to my memory the death of this
.*, so infamously calumniated. Had you
Prot a her as I did, madam, had you heard her
º: her innocence, you would not, now require
rd undeniable * to be convinced of it. . But
get . madam, I am again afflicting you, and for-
Ous What I did not know till now, that love is jeal-
ory º of the grave. You tremble lest the mem-
part * he formerly loved should rob you of a
irº, his tenderness. I shall ever, madam, re-
tress myself with having occasioned you this dis-
resto ut how can the possession of this letter
desi *... you to happiness! What can make you
** it so ardently as to be ready to purchase it
§ price of your whole fortune!”
gi. Matilda had no aislºy answer to
repl 9 this question, or was too much agitated to
º, we cannot tell, but she remained silent.
..ºberg continued—
On i. I found M. de Monville, so determined
the w ing this letter, I was afraid he might know
G A. and that it might lead to a duel with
ension or of it. He convinced me these appre-
.* were groundless. But what must Iihink
{
‘Yes,” exclaimed Matilda, seizing the idea
vived
thrown out by the old professor, “your friendship
for him anticipated the danger my love would pre-
vent. I fear for his life. You now understand
why I came here at this hour of the night—why my
coming must remain a secret. I know—no matter
how—I know who wrote this letter; my husband
will recognize the hand, he will challenge the
writer, and I shall lose him a second time through
this wretched girl. Give me, then, the letter—let
me annihilate this proof; and when the fact is re-
duced to a mere suspicion, when the writer can
deny it with security, I shall be happy—at least,
delivered from all fears for my husband's life.
The letter—the letter! On my knees I entreat
you to give it me!”
“Rise, madam;” said Reinsberg, “I regret too
deeply what has taken place not to restore you to
peace if it be in my power. But take back, your
money and your jewels. I shall accept of nothing;
it is a reparation that I owe you, not a proof that I
sell.”
And so saying, the noble-minded old man re-
turned Madame de Monville her money and jewels.
He then rose and went to his desk, and having
looked over the papers for a short time, returned
towards her. On beholding the sheet of yellow
paper he held in his hand, she sprang forward and
seized it with a convulsive grasp. As she perused
it, the extraordinary change of expression her
countenance exhibited would have been ill ex-
plained to a more penetrating eye than that of
Reinsberg by the pleasure of preventing a duel:
her joy was a species of delirium. It seemed as
if the stronger of the opposite dispositions combined
in her character—a contrast we have already re-
marked—had broken loose, and, disdaining all con-
trol, all dissimulation, burst through the wall of .
iron which had so long compressed it. Her ſea-
tures seemed to have taken another character.
She was no longer a gentle, timid, supplicating wo-
man, but a lioness. And as if her hands were not
sufficient, she tore the letter with her teeth, col-
lected every particle of it, and burnt it piece by
piece at the candle. As it consumed, her brilliant
eye followed the progress of the flame, as if it had
been the suffering of an expiring victim. . When
all was destroyed, she blew upon the black ashes,
and dispersed them with a breath.
“Nothing more—nothing more—not a trace-
the letter never existed Saved, saved ‘’’ ex-
claimed she; “I am saved " And she laughed,
she wept, in a breath. She clasped the old man
round his neck before he had time to express his
surprise at her frantic joy. tº
“It is to you I am iſſued for my happiness,”
said she. “Never, never shall I forget it! You
have refused my gifts, but come, and see me; my
fortune is yours, as I have already told you.
Farewell —it is late. I have your word. You
will be discreet, will you not! Farewell—fare-
well! Do not come out, I need no protector. My
ong danger is past.”
he opened the door, Sprang to the staircase,
and, despite the darkness of the place, such was
the lightness of her tread, that Reinsberg could
º hear her step. "The street-door closed, he
turned to the window, and through the glass,
dimmed by frost, and snow, he perceived, by the
faint light of the lamps, a slight female figure turn-
ing the street-C0tner.
he old professor was some minutes before he
recovered himself, and then a thousand different
ideas crowded themselves into his poor brain. An
52
The “ EcRIVAIN public.”
evil thought was the last he could conceive ; and
if the thoughts of his hopeless penury for a mo-
ment intruded, it seemed as if the gifts he had re-
fused would have laid heavy on his conscience had
he accepted them.
He wrote to De Monville, and told him that he
had searched in vain for the letter; that he had
kept it a long time, but that it was no longer in
existence. He went to bed, but he could not drive
away the vague forebodings of evil which haunted
his mind.
CHAPTER VI.-EXPIATION.
MATILDA returned home ; her husband had not
inquired for her. The next morning at day-break,
De Monville rose from the secretary at which he
had been writing since the preceding evening,
after having received answers to the three letters
which he had despatched. He read over some
letters and sealed them. One, a very long one,
and bathed with his tears, was directed to his wife.
Another, which covered several sheets of paper,
was to be delivered to his notary, to whom he had
intrusted his title-deeds: it contained his will. He
placed them both in his pocket-book, and left the
others on the mantelpiece. His wife's apartment
was separated from his by a small room, the door
of which opened into his library. ... He laid his
hand on the lock, and paused to listen; all was
calm.
“She is asleep,” said he, “I can go out, and,
if Heaven be just, return without having disturbed
her rest. In two hours it will be all over; he or I
I must go '''
He muffled himself up in his cloak, took a case
of pistols from the table, and turned the key gently
in its lock. At the same instant the door opened
on the other side, and he found himself in the
presence of his wife, pale, haggard, and in a dress
which attested that she had been up all night.
De Monville drew back some steps. Matilda
entered the study, pushed the door to with violence,
and without a word, without asking or giving an
explanation, with a rapid and imperious gesture,
she opened his mantle, and snatched the case of
pistols from her husband's hands,
“You are going to fight a duel ?” said she.
De Monville, who had scarcely recovered from
his surprise, replied—
“I am this morning to act as a second to one of
my friends. Do not be uneasy, my love, and let
me go.” i
“You cannot deceive me; you are going to
fight a duel !” -
“My dear—”
“No useless words, no false oaths You are
flºg to fight; no one has told me so, but I know
it.”
“Fight !—For what?—With whom 1”
“With whom 1—with the man who you suppose
wrote the anonymous letter, and whom you think
you know. Why?—to revenge, the death of a
woman you have always loved, always regretted.
I know it to be so. Does not the heart feel its
abandonment 4 Does jealousy require to be warn-
ed? Does it want eyes 1 - Did I not see you yes-
terday, while the old man was speaking to you,
cntirely absorbed by the remembrance of your mis-
tress 1 You thought, indeed, of me—poor, aban-
doned creature 1-but only to tell me to withdraw,
and not to disturb your affliction_by my presence.
And do you think that because I retired I neither
saw your tears nor heard the resolution you took?
Now tell me again you are not going to fight a
duel !”
“Matilda,” replied he, in a low, solemn voice,
“it has always been my fate to test too severely
the inexhaustible goodness that makes you an an-
gel. You alone were just towards her whom your
title of wife to-day makes you detest. When I
was sinking under my grief for her loss, you alone
consoled me. For two years past, every day has
witnessed fresh proofs of your devoted love; and,
believe me, without the unforeseen revelation of
yesterday, which has cast me so violently back up-
on the past, no complaint, no regret, no sign of
remembrance, should ever have escaped my heart.
Seek, then, my Matilda, in that virtue no woman
but yourself possesses, fortitude equal to the trial
of to-day ! Yes, I am going to meet an antagonist.
I no longer endeavor to deceive you. You have
nothing to fear from love, for it is not in the power
of revenge to bring back to life the being I have
adored ; but the wretch by whose slander she
perished, must receive the just reward of his infa-
my. To-day, to-morrow, twenty years hence, as
long as my arm can wield a sword, or aim a pistol
at his heart, I shall seek satisfaction and revenge
for the death of poor Louisa. I wished to avoid
you; I dreaded your tears, your reproaches, your
despair But my last thoughts were for you.
Here is the letter I wrote to you, in which I bade
you farewell. Receive it now, since a fatal chance
has placed you on my road. Do not endeavor to
detain me. It is a reparation I owe, and in risking
my life I expiate in some sort my wretched credu-
lity, and the error I should have been the first to
disbelieve.”
Matilda stood before him dumb, motionless, her
hands joined ; but when she saw him preparing to
depart, she seized him violently by the arm.
“What?” cried she, with an accent of concen-
trated rage, “I must be again resigned ' patience,
forever patience? Another can know the passion,
feel and awaken a heart to love; but my lot is ever
the coldness and the insensibility of the marble !
No, no ; it shall not be thus. You ask too much ;
you ask for one act of virtue more. I ask of
Heaven but to preserve my reason, which I feel
ready to abandon me, to prevent the fatal secret of
my heart ascending to my lips; that my voice may
expire before, in my madness, I reveal the terrible
truth I?’
“What do you mean?” demanded De Monville,
alarmed, and, in spite of himself, impressed with a
vague foreboding of something horrible, “What
does this folly imply?”
“Must I again explain why I suffer? Can you
deceive met Was this woman, then, so very
beautiful! She must have been S0, since even the
recollection of her is stronger than my love Tell
me how could she have loved yºu with a passion
deeper than mine?” Here Matilda threw herself
jº upon her knees befºre him. “Promise me,”
said she, “that you will not go—that you will
forget this woman—for my sake—for me, a be-
wildered, wretched suppliant at your feet !”
De Monville was moved, but not shaken. He
felt the distress of his wife, and knew how violent
must be her grief to dictate such passionate and
incoherent language: . But her words fell upon his
ear more than upon his heart. Since the eve, his
whole thoughts, his whole soul, were devoted to
the memory of Louisa. He disengaged himself,
and advanced towards the door.
Matilda rose precipitately, and gazed on him for
The “Ecrivain PUBLIC.”
53
*ºw seconds, as if to be certain he was going to
Quit her.
h “And so,” said she, “you leave me! All I
º, said to detain you is vain. You mean to
“I must,”
... And return here avenged or dead!”
Yes.”
... And you leave me during your absence to my
Solitude and despair In the presence of your
ilversary no thought of me will make your heart
* Quicker or your hand less steady. And what
**its me! You will return to deplore her loss,
... be brought back a corpse—perhaps, a dying
ºn, whose last accents I shall hear repeating the
*ºne of Louisa. Oh, on such terms I would
*her, a thousand times rather see you dead at my
*! Alfred, Alfred, you cannot know the agony
}*, cause mé! You cannot know that you are
"Ying me to madness : But,” she exclaimed with
ºlden vehemence, and placing herself before the
§r, “you shall not go—you shall not fight !
ºis your antagonist!, St. George, is it not!”
{ { Who else can it be?”
... And if he refuse!”
He will not refuse.
Swer.”
... But if he deny
I have received his an-
having written the letter, what
will ou then do?” .
hi. will brand him as a coward. I will collar
with one hand, and strike him to the earth
in the other."
II And then he will fight, and you will perish :
. me!” said she, approaching him, and speak-
§ in a hoarse, unnatural whisper, “it was not he
... Wrote the letter.”
ful Who then?” asked De Monville, with a fear-
ºpprehension of the truth.
nº ºne whom you cannot strike. .9ne who can-
*, will not let you expose your life. One who,
er knees, again beseeches you to remain ;
9m her love for you alone has rendered criminal;
ºse love for you now betrays her. It was I'”
M *...this frightful revelation, the features of De
*Wille assumed a ghastly hue; he laid his hand
€ ºne chimney to support himself, but speedily
Covered.
&
te ºou-you !” repeated he, after an interval of
ille silence.
hand es, I ''” said she, endeavoring to take his
i. but he shuddered at her touch, and cast
;Viºlently from him.
tlS º looked earnestly upon her; and in an instant,
the . all was explained; his mind fathomed
abys ºpths of that profound , dissimulation, the
Il() * of that heart, a volcano burning beneath its
§ At length, he cried—
M What had she'done to you, madam?”
:*::ilda advanced towards him. *
You ! °, ask me what she had done. She loved
Was i. was her crime. ... Do not ask how I
jº. ormed of the visits of M. Preville. I was
wa. With gold I bought all the secrets I
and to * know. It was I who wrote the letter,
fjº §. recaution related by the old pro-
ºbtain d esterday evening I went to his lodging,
dej º paper written in my own hand, and
ring § i". bribed Marian, and she stole the
Tess f Yai to serve as a proof against her mis-
: * did all this, and it seems to me a dream ;
believe it myself. I cannot even
hi. scarcely
A. | have revealed my ºil secret to you.
t But why have I
With
*y reason wanders.
spoken 4. Because your life was in danger—be-
cause I desired to save you !”
“It was, then, to you her servant delivered the
ring tº said De Monville, with a look of inde-
scribable fury. “Give it me!”
“It is no longer in my possession—I have not
got it. Your looks terrify me—your voice makes
me tremble ! Have you no pity for me?”
“Had you any for her?”
“Her, always her?”. +
“Do you forget she is dead—that you are her
assassin? Pity for you!” said he, with a frightful
laugh; “pity!—never, never!”
“And have I not suffered? Have Inot been jeal-
ous? Am I not still so? Did I not suffer when, victim
to a passion which has made me the wretch I am, I
saw you day after day leave the house to visit her?
Did I not devour my tears in silence? Calm and insen-
sible to all appearance, did not my heart beat with
joy even at the sound of your footsteps! Did I
not tremble with rapture at the tone of your voice,
or when your hand touched mine ! And what has
been my lot for the last two years? During the
day, SHE, she alone occupied your thoughts. At
night, in your dreams, her name alone was on your
lips. Did I ever complain! And to-day, when
the fear of losing you has driven me to madness,
and forced me to speak, you cast me from you
without pity! Your eyes Fº not a tear for my
agonies, your heart not an excuse for my guilt—
guilt occasioned by excess of love . She could
die, for you loved her. But what will be my fate,
to live, if you love me no longer! Oh, pity me,
Alfred—pity me, pity me ! Let fall on me but one
look of former times—of yesterday, and I will
leave you ! You will deplore her loss; and when
the bitterness of grief is past, I will return—I will
kneel to you and crave forgiveness '''
She had crept close to him; he thrust her back
again.
“Infamous woman ''” exclaimed he.
the riº, if you still possess it!”
“What will you do with it!” w
“Cover it with kisses before your eyes, that you
may witness, before our eternal separation, how
fondly I loved her to whom it belonged!” º
“Separation '' exclaimed Matilda, rising with
the energy of despair—“separation Ah, this is
too much! You think me weak and trodden down
to earth 1 Separation : Am I not your. Wife?
How will you obtain it? Will you say I killed
your mistress through jealousy % Where is the
proof!—The letter?' I have destroyed it ! Never
will I quit you with life!”
“Madam, after this hour, we shall never more
see each other on earth.” º
“Every day—I will daily. importun? you with
my love, my complaints, my jealousy.'
“Silence, madām, silence '''
“Ah! you think you have suffered because you
have lost a mistress; and another woman, whose
mind you have distracted, obtains from you, as the
price of her love, but thrºats of a separation. No,
no ; we are bound, indissolubly bound to each
other; no power on earth shall separate us. Our
life may be a hell, but, accustomed to suffer, I ac-
cept my lot.”
Wild and distracted, she had seized her hus-
band's arms, who vainly endeavored to free himself,
and who felt himself provoked beyond endurance.
At this moment, the study door was suddenly
thrown open, and three men entered. De Mon-
ville, making a last effort to disengage himself,
* Give me
54
THE “ Ecrivain PUBLIC.”
pushed his wife rudely from him.
and fell to the ground.
Alfred turned to the intruders.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “the hour fixed for the
duel is past ; without doubt, M. St. George, this
is the object of your visit. An instant later and I
should have been on my way to apologize for the
letter I wrote you yesterday. Pray accept my
apologies' You see the cause of my delay—a
domestic quarrel, which I cannot hide as I have
done the preceding ones. My wife desires a sep-
aration, which I would not consent to. But I no
longer object to it. Your testimony” as to what has
She staggered
* It may be necessary to explain to the English reader,
that in France it is necessary to prove an act of violence
on the part of the husband to afford grounds for a claim
of separation made by the wiſe. º
just taken place shall be my punishment for an act
of brutality 1 blush for too late.”
He drew near his wife, and said, in a low
voice—
“Madam, if you refuse to agree to a separation,
I will dishonor you in the eyes of these gentlemen
by acquainting them with your crime.”
A month afterwards the separation was legally
pronounced. Two months had scarcely elapsed,
when De Monville appeared in mourning for the
death of his wife ; and before the year was over,
Reinsberg followed a rich funeral, which came out
of an hôtel in the Rue de Grenelle.
The old professor was handsomely provided for
by his friend, but he never quitted his humble garret
in the Rue St. Romain.
TWO SYSTEMS OF ASTRONOMY.
A very curious production, entitled Two Systems
of Astronomy, has been issued by a Mr. Isaac
rost. The author, a shrewd man on some points,
and a sturdy reasoner, undertakes to prove that the
Newtonian system is entirely false, and that the
Mosaic account of the Creation is to be taken in its
exact and literal sense. He maintains that things
are, as we see them by the eye; that the sun and
stars revolve round the earth, which is the great
centre of the universe; and that the firmament is a
material concave separating us from heaven. In
his view the real size of the sun does not greatly
surpass its apparent size; the moon shines with a
lustre of her own, and the stars are mere spangles
set in heaven to heighten the glory of creation.
The author clings to his convictions with the sin-
cerity of undoubting faith; and has illustrated the
two systems of astronomy, that of Newton, and
that of the Scriptures, (as Mr. Frost terms his own
theory,) by a number of beautiful plates. Some
of his objections to the Newtonian system are sub-
tle, and he pounces on the vague and extravagant
assertions of those astronomers who love the mar-
vellous more than the exact with great dexterity.
As for example in this passage:–
“A gentleman once said he would convince me
of the error of my (what he termed) foolish notions
in about ten minutes, and for this purpose he intro-
duced Bonnycastle on Astronomy.” Opening the
book, he showed me the following *. and
requested me to read it, and say what I thought of
t :-
“‘The celebrated Huygens carried his thoughts
so far upon this subject as to believe that there
might be stars at such an inconceivable distance
from the earth that their light, though it is known
to travel at the rate of ten millions of miles in a
minute, has not yet reached us since the creation
of the world !”
“When I had read the aforesaid, I asked him if
it had ever crossed his mind to think how many of
the other stars' light the light of such stars would
interfere with in their progress to our earth, seeing
their light expands as it travels 1 when he closed
the book, saying such an idea had never entered
his mind before.”
The author apparently belongs to some peculiar
sects of religionists, as the Muggletonians, or some
body of the kind. It is interesting to observe the
stoutness with which he maintains his opinions,
holding the evidence of his own sense against all
deductions of reason, and asserting the probability
that the sun is not above six miles distant, and that
the firmament is the veritable floor of heaven.
Such a man in these days is a marvel. We are
afraid he has been born some centuries too late.
Had he lived in the age of Galileo or Columbus he
would have been an ugly customer for either. It
may be imagined that when he comes to deal with
the mathematical reasoning necessary to the higher
astronomical calculations, his conceptions are very
vague and cloudy. Thus, for example, he asserts
that the earth cannot be more distant than three
times its own radius from the sun. The proof of
this is so badly expressed that it is almost unintel-
ligible; but after many efforts we find that it in-
volves either the absurdity of supposing that two
tangents can be drawn to a circle through the same
point in its circumference, or that the difficulty is
overcome of seeing through a stone wall at the
equator—a fact which has hitherto escaped the ob-
servation of experienced navigators. The objec-
tions urged by Mr. Frost te the Newtonian theory
are, such of them, at least, as can lay no claim to
originality, plausible enough. Such are the small
visible alterations (to the naked eye) of the plan-
ets, great alterations of distance notwitlistanding,
and the apparent impossibility of return in a planet
when farthest removed from the sun, on account
of the weakness of the sun's “attraction” at a dis-
tance; but these objections have been satisfactorily
answered over and over again. One word only on
his assertion that the book is the result of many
ears of careful study. There is no doubt of it.
ut we must value works according to the grasp
of the mind that produces them, not according to
the time employed in their composition; A dog is
a very intelligent animal, yet he could never be
brought to work a rule of three sum that is mere
play to a schoolboy. Hºwe we said enough to
show how it is that Mr. Frost cannot comprehend
Newton's theory! The volume has been got up
at some expense, and the astronomical illustrations,
printed in oil colors, are extremely beautiful. It is
altogether a curiosity—an offering at the shrine of
sincerity which few persons have the heart to
make. If higher intellects would imitate Isaac
Frost's courageous honesty the world might be the
better for their labors.-Britannia.
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF MISS ROBINSON CRUSOE.
55
CHAPTER IX.
Punctually each day I visited this fish-pond;
. each day observed the increasing sagacity of
° finny-creatures. I am now very certain that, as
*y dear father used to say, we much underrate the
* Perceptions of fish. I now believe with him,
*fish think. “Who shall say,” my respected
Parent was wont to ask, “that a lobster does not
*eason 4 Take a lively lobster: put him in a sauce-
Fº full of cold water; then put the saucepan on
. fire. As the fluid becomes heated, conveying
S *ge sensations to the lobster, he begins to rea-
...tº suspect that he is not in the sea. Faintly,
jºidly, perspiring, he gropes with his claws for
tl *9Cean bed; and they move scratchingly against
Pºçe of iron or tin that he knows is neither rock,
º °lay, nor shingle. And then, too late, he feels
. he is being cooked; and as his life ebbs away
in lot and boiling water, he sees, with his project-
l 8 °yes, into the future. He sees himself as scar-
Sel ** a soldier of the line. And then he sees him-
ºf placed in a dish ; and one, or two, or three
ºn! ºnen, with twinkling eyes, looking down
upon him. And then he feels himself passing in
ºnal Pieces down the throats of the two or three
*lemen, who smack their mouths, as though
St y would never have a bellyfull. Now the lob-
*” my dear father would say, “feels, though
ſº *s not words to express as much ; the lobster
º * as I began to feel when I got into the court
C °hancery; even as i felt when I found myself
.."; up after the suit had risen to boiling point,
J. Was completely done.” Thus j. father
Ul uld hold forth' whilst my mother would move
ºasily in her chair, and with the amiable freedom
* Wife, beg him not to make a fool of himself.
m. I shared in the risible unbelief of my
fish ºr; but then I dreamt not of the sagacity of
for I had not angled with a wedding-ring.
Cà Very soon undeceived. Doubtless, the un-
ght fish quickly began to take count of the
. number of their companions ensnared by that
lº %f gold wire, and so became shy accordingly.
i. this as it may, sometimes for half a day and
... would I angle with the ring, and never so
i. ** get a nibble; lots of fine, brilliant young
WO i. With waistcoats of gold and silver scales,
i. Some, floating and swimming, and flirting
* the hook, and making-believe to bite; and
* with a sudden twist and plunge of the tail,
b . tº the other side of the stream. You may
Ima º that this vivacity, this weariness of the fish,
my i ºne frequently moralize; again and again led
§ºghts back to a delicious world of routs and
lºng the fish become every day more shy, I
Went Winy golden hook and tackle for a time; and
Imuch º, when it was fine, with my pistol, as
See if ºr the pleasure of practising at a mark, as to
migh I could kill anything that, when killed, I
º turn to better account than my turkey. To
ãºn. delight, I discovered that the place
wild ed with rabbits. To be sure, they Were #S
wº.". skittish as colts; always running away
Own they saw me. At length, however, lying
and #."; Some high grass, I got a shot; fired,
€6n i. ed a she-rabit which, fortunately, had six-
fell tººls rabbits near her. When their mother
ogº th “Poor little things all gathered themselves
took t. ºld never stirred a foot. Whereupon I
the e old one and ſlung her across my shoulder;
gown *time placing all the little rabbits in my
* in a form, and so carried them all to my
hut, I cooked the old rabbit, first skinning it. “It
might have been ermine,” I thought, “and then
what hopes of muffs and tippets.” However, as it
was, I felt grateful; for I knew the cold and rainy
weather must-Set in, when even rabbit skins would
be better than no skins at all.
And now, I am about to enter into the most
dreadful and melancholy relation of a silent life.
Consider it, my sisters; a silent life. An exist-
ence in which the tongue of woman becomes silent
as echo when not spoken to–dear echo I that, lady-
like, always has the last word—silent as an un-
untouched lute. As well as I can recollect, it was
the 30th of September that, my foot—which I had
already imagined dancing upon bleeding hearts in
an Indian ball-room—first touched this inhospitable
island. After a few days, it came into my mind
that I would keep an exact reckoning of the time as
it passed. I felt the more secure in doing this, that
my journal would he quite private. At first, I
thought of putting down the days and weeks on
paper—but straying on the beach, an accident de-
termined me otherwise.
It will be remembered, that I spoke of a magnif.
icent mirror that, with all the strength of woman I
tore from the state-cabin. This mirror was dashed
by the envious and relentless ocean from my raft,
and sent, shivered in pieces, to be shared among
the sea-nymphs. By a strong effort of the soul, i
had wrenched this mirror from my daily thoughts—
when, one morning, bending my steps towards the
beach—there had been an unusually high tide—I
saw, washed upon the shore, that very mirror.
Here, I thought, is one drop of honey in my cup of
bitterness. I turned the mirror up—it was lying,
as I thought, upon its face—and discovered that
there was nothing but the frame. The shell was
there, but the gem was rifled. There was, indeed, its
wooden frame, but its reflecting soul was gone."
Soothing this new and most unnecessary afflic-
tion as best I might, I resolved to turn my disap-
pointment into some sort of profit. Whereupon I
took the skeleton of the looking-glass, and set it up
in the earth. And then upon its sides I cut ever
day a notch, with double notches for what I recol-
lected were opera nights. And this incident, too,
made me prettily moralize. “Had the glass re-
mained,” F. to myself—though I do not think,
had anybody been present, I should have extended
the confidence—“had the glass remained, that,
without incision of knife, might have told of depart:
ing years;”—told, I must say, more truly than, I
fear, I did; for, whether it was idleness, whether
it was woman's instinct, I cannot say, but certain it
is, I was always behind-hand marking my days-
marking, in the long-run, two instead of ten. It
may, I know, be urged by the calumniators of our
sex, that this on my part was design. But no: I
repeat it; I think it was pure instinct—nothing but
instinct.
I should observe that, among many things which
I brought out of the ship were pens, ink, and pa-
per; but of these I was extremely sparing; re-
solving to write my life, and not knowing to what
extent the materials might extend. I also found in
the bottom of an old chest a prayer-book, that,
strange to say, had nothing perfect but the mar-
riage service. This, I confess it, was an omen
that at first a little revived me. And then, let me
add, I was not without a companion. No : there
was the cat—the very cat that had seemed to glare
and mew perpetual celibacy at me—that cat had
smuggled herself among the things upon my raft,
and was the tenant of my hut.
56 THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF MISS ROBINSON CRUSOE.
After a time, considering my situation, I began to
put down my thoughts in writing; making a sort
of debtor and creditor account of my position, thus:
EVIL. GOOD.
I am thrown upon a Then I have this con-
desolate island, without alsolation—there's nobody
blessed soul to speak to. to scandalize me.
I am singled out to be! I might have been mar-
a single woman, when Iried early to a brute, and
might have been a wife been a grandmother at
and a parent. eight-and-thirty
And so summing up this short account, I thought,
as my dear mother used to say when she buttered
her crumpets, that much might be said on both sides.
CHAPTER X.
HAviNG now brought myself to look upon soli-
tude and a single life as my future doom, I deter-
mined to make the misfortunes, as far as I could,
endurable. Looking upon my hut as my home for
the natural course of my life, I resolved to furnish
it with all the necessaries in my power. The sur-
gical instrument case, of which I have before
spoken, was of the highest service to me. It ena-
bled me to cut down a large supply of osiers, which
grew in great abundance, as I afterwards discover-
ed, at what I take it was the north-north-eastern by
west part of the island. As a child I always dis-
played great precocity and taste in the manufacture
of rush baskets. Indeed, I could make rushes in-
to anything. This faculty was, at my need, of the
greatest service to me ; and thus, in progress of
time, I had completely furnished my hut with
chairs and tables and stools, and, at length, a bed-
stead—for I grew tired of the hammock—of wicker
work. Of course, this was the result of a long
period ; but then, time was of all things the cheap-
est and most plentiful commodity with me. My
furniture, when completed, had a very light and
pleasing effect; and, I assure you, made me often
think with a sigh of pity upon the vanities of ma-
hogany and satin-wood. As I continued to make
improvements in my hut, I found I required a lad-
der; this I managed to make of rope and wicker;
by which means I was enabled to climb into an
upper chamber, drawing up my ladder after me.
I had seen no signs of a human animal ; neverthe-
less, I thought it was only a proper precaution to
be F. against the worst.
She rainy season having set in, I began to write
my journal, to which—as it is at this moment in
the hands of a distinguished publisher, and will, in
the season, appear under the title of Nights with
the Cannibals—I shall no further allude. (It will
be sufficient for me, if the withering satire con-
tained in that aquafortis volume shall be the means
of awakening the Savages to a proper sense of Al-
mack's and the Italian opera.)
During the time employed upon my wicker-work,
I continued to make daily rambles about the island,
to see what I could catch. I discovered to my
great delight, that the place abounded with ring-
doves. Imanaged to obtain some of the young,
which I brought to my hut. These beautiful
creatures—emblems of "household and conjugal
affection-increased exceedingly; and thus, in pro-
cess of time, I never wanted a ring-dove for my
supper. It went to my heart, of course, to kill
them, at first, but custom and hunger soon recon-
ciled me to the inconvenience. After a time, rum-
maging about, I found whole hives of wild honey
ºfwax. The latter was of especial service to
me, as, my candles § every night shorter and
shorter, I know not what I should have done for a
light; for to have slept without a candle—and in an
uninhabited island—would have been insupportable.
The wax, however, with cotton that I ravelled out
from some articles of dress, made me very endure-
able tapers. I had, in my time, burnt better wax;
but for home-made lights they were not the worst.
About this time, I was fortunate enough to be
visited by an earthquake. I say fortunate ; ſor
though, while it lasted, I was very much terrified
—and very much wished for one of the earthquake
gowns that Horace Walpole, I think it is, says was
very much in fashion in his time, when earthquakes
used regularly to visit London—nevertheless, as
the island and the sea being well shaken, caused
the wreck of the ship that lay at the bottom of the
ocean, to be thrown high and dry ashore—I was
enabled to come at a great many articles that, in
my hurry and confusion, I had been unable to carry
away upon my raft. -:
It was on one of my visits to the wreck, that
going down upon the beach, I discovered what, at
first, I took to be a strange sea-monster, lying upon
the shore. At length, after much examination, I
concluded that the creature was a turtle. I
remembered that I had once seen such a thing at
the door of a London tavern, when a child, with
my father; and how my honored parent, to my
surprise, suddenly paused before the fish, contem-
plating it with an emotion that, at that time, I was
far too young to understand.
With considerable difficulty I carried the turtle
to my hut, resolving to dress it. Whereupon I
immediately consulted that precious volume, the
Cookery Book, fortunately discovered in the cler-
gyman's cabin. I knew that I had not the proper
means of dressing the turtle, and therefore felt (by
anticipation, of course) what the inimitable and im-
mortal Soyer has since delivered to the world. “Is
it not bad enough to have sacrificed the lives of
these animauz bienfaisans to satisfy our indefatiga-
ble appetites, without pulling and tearing to atoms
the remains of our benefactors! It is high time,
for the credit of humanity, and the comfort of quiet
families, to put an end to the massacre of these
innocents.” With these thoughts, I addressed
myself to the Cookery Book. I knew very well
before I opened it that I had not a single ingredient
proper for the dressing; nevertheless I. took a
strange, a wayward delight in reading t e directions
—they afforded me such pleasures of the imagina-
tion. It was something in that dreadful solitude
even to read of “a quantity of very rich broth of
veal,”—“green onions, and all sorts of seasoning
herbs,”—“cayenne and the juice of lemons;”
with, as a crowning delight, ‘‘ two bottles of
Madeira !” Thinking of these things, and looking
at my turtle—and knowing, at the same time, that
it must be eaten plain; not honored by any dress-
ing—so to speak—soever, I could not help com-
paring its fate with my own. Here it was, a beau-
tiful turtle—a turtle that, in London, would have
fetched I know not how many pounds—a turtle
that would have gathered about it the choicest
company of the land, cºoked with exceeding care,
and praised with exceeding praises; yet neverthe-
less doomed to be eaten in a desolate island, with-
out a drop of veal broth, a pinch of cayenne, a
§lueeze of lemon, or a single glass of Madeira.
Thinking thus of the turtle, and pondering upon
my own condition, the reflective and sympathetic
º: will not, cannot be surprised to learn that—
wept.
Let me, however, conclude this chapter in good
spirits. The turtle's eggs I found delicious.
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.-No. 126–10 OCTOBER, 1846.
From Tait's Magazine.
JAMES MONTGOMIERY.
* "Ronge GILFILLAN, AUthon of “A GALLERY of
L1TERARY PontRAITs.”
SoME four or five years ago, the inhabitants of a
*ge city in the north of Scotland were apprized,
by handbills, that James Montgomery, #. of
heffield, the poet, was to address a meeting on the
*ject of Moravian missions. This announcement,
in the language of Dr. Caius, “did bring de water
"tº our mouth.” The thought of seeing a live
}*, of European reputation, arriving at our very
!oor, in a remote corner, was absolutely electrify-
.g. We went early to the chapel where he was
*"ounced to speak, and cre the lion of the evening
ºared, amused ourselves with watching and
. yzing the audience which his celebrity had col-
*d. It was not very numerous, and not very
£elect. Few of the grandees of the city had con-
§§ended to honor him by their presence. Stranger
*ill, there was but a sparse supply of clergy, or of
* Prominent religionists of the town. The church
. chiefly filled with females of a certain age, one
Wo Stray “hero worshippers” like ourselves, a few
3.ngladies who had read some of his minor poems,
"Whose eyes seemed lighted up with a gentle firé
Pleasure in the prospect of seeing the author of
. “beautiful verses on the Grave, and Prayer,”
Q two or three who had come from ten miles off
ë ** and hear the celebrated poet. When he at
. appeared, we continued to marvel at the
b Pºt of the platform. Instead of being supported
y the élite of the city, instead of forming a rallying
ºre of attraction and unity to all who had a sym.
lºy with piety or with genius for leagues round
** few obscure individuals presented themselves,
° seemed rather anxious to catch a little éclat
f 4. º º
. * him, than to delight to do him honor. The
H *g was rather advanced ere he rose to speak.
i. ºppearance, so far as we could catch it, was
He © In keeping with the spiritual cast of his poetry.
but was talſ, thin, bald, with face of sharp outline,
.. expression; and we looked with no little
i. on the eye which had shot fire into the
wº. Island, and on the hand, (skinny enough we
Spok ..) which had written “The Grave.” He
i. i. a low voice, sinking occasionally into an
Pan i. le whisper : but his action was fiery and his
allu º striking. In the course of his speech he
struggl. with considerable effect, to the early heroic
in º . Of Moravianism, when she was yet alone
dark eath-grapple with the powers of Heathen
"ºss, and closed (when did he ever close a
§peech oth º - †
.9therwise 4) by quoting a few vigorous verses
from himself. ) by quoting g
wº; the meeting, we remember, with two
* "g questions ringing in our ears:
this .# Q ns ringing 1 first, Is
si of what value reputation, which in a city
ackn *Xty thousand inhabitants, is so freezingly
..ºledged? Would not any empty, mouthing
º any “twopenny tear-mouth,” any paint-
yº. Pld Savage, any clever juggler, any dexterous
iºn. the fiery harp-strings of , the popular
cxxv. ºve enjoyed a better reception than this
WI. LIVING AGE. WOL., XI, 4
true, tender, and holy poet? But secondly, Is not
this true, tender, and holy poet partly himself to
blamei Hashe hot put himself in a #. position?
Has he not too readily lent himself as an instrument
of popular excitement? Is this progress of his alto-
gether a proper, a poet's progress? "Would Milton,
or Cowper, or Wordsworth have submitted to it?
And is it in good taste for him to eke out his ora-
tions by long extracts from his own poems?
Homer, it is true, sang his own worses; but he did
it for food. Montgomery recites them, but it is for
fame.
We pass now gladly—as we did in thought then
—from the progress to the poet-pilgrim himself.
We have long admired and loved James Montgom-
ery. We loved him ere we could admire him : we
wept under his spell ere we did either the one or
the other. We will not soon forget the Sabbath
evening—it was in golden summer tide—when we
first heard his “Grave” repeated, and wept as we
heard it. It seemed to come, as it professed to
come, from the grave itself—a still small voice of
comfort and of hope, even from that stern abyss.
It was a fine and bold idea to turn the great enemy
into a comforter, and elicit such a reply, so tender
and submissive, to the challenge, “O Grave, where
is thy victory?” Triumphing in prospect over the
Sun himself, the grave proclaims the superiority and
immunity of the soul—
The Sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
But thou ! immortal as his Sire,
Shalt never die.
Surely no well in the wilderness ever sparkled
out to the thirsty traveller a voice more musical,
more tender, and more cheering, than this which
Montgomery educes from the jaws of the narrow
house. Soon afterwards we became acquainted
with some of his other small pieces, which then
seized and which still occupy the principal place in
our regards. Indeed, it is on his little poems that
the permanency of his fame is likely to rest, as it is
into them that he has chiefly shed the peculiarity
and the beauty of his genius. James Montgomery
has little inventive or dramatic power; he cannot
write an epic: none of his larger poems, while
some are bulky, can be called great; but he is the
best writer of hymns (understanding a hymn sim-
ply to mean a short religious effusion) in the lan-
guage. He catches the transient emotions of the
pious heart, which arise in the calm evening walk,
where the saint, like Isaac, goes Qut into the fields
to meditate; or under the still and star-fretted mid-
night; or on his “own delighful bed;” or in pensive
contemplations of the “ Common Lot;” or under
the Swiss heaven, where evening hardly closes the
eye of Mont Blanc, and stirs lake Leman's waters
with a murmur like a sleeper's prayer; wherever,
in short, piety kindles into the poetic feeling such
emotions, he catches, refines, and embalms in his
snatches of lyric song. As Wordsworth has
expressed sentiments which the “solitary lover of
nature was unable to utter, save with glistening eye
and faltering tongue,” so Montgomery has given
poetic form and words, to breathings and pantings
58
JAMES MIONTGOMERY.
of the Christian's spirit, which himself never sus-
pected to be poetical at all, till he saw them reflect-
ed in verse. He has caught and crystallized the
tear dropping from the penitent's eye; he has
echoed the burden of the heart, sighing with grati-
tude to IIeaven; he has arrested and fixed in mel-
ody, the “upward glancing of an eye, when none
but God is near.” In his verse, and in Cowper's,
the poetry of ages of devotion has broken silence,
and spoken out. Religion, the most poetical of all
things, had, for a long season, been divorced from
song, or had mistaken pert jingle, impudent famili-
arity, and doggerel, for its genuine voice. It was
reserved for the bards of Olney and Sheffield to
renew and to strengthen the lawful and holy wed-
lock.
Montgomery, then, is a religious lyrist, and as
such, is distinguished by many peculiar merits.
His first quality is a certain quiet simplicity of lan”
guage and of purpose. His is not the ostentatious,
elaborate, and systematic simplicity of Wordsworth;
it is unobtrusive, and essential to the action of his
mind. It is a simplicity, which the diligent student
of Scripture seldom fails to derive from its pages,
particularly from its histories and its psalms. It is
the simplicity of a spirit which religion has subdued
as well as elevated, and which consciously spreads
abroad the wings of its imagination, under the eye
of God. As if each poem were a prayer, so is he
sedulous that its words be few and well ordered.
In short, his is not so much the simplicity of art,
nor the simplicity of nature, as it is the simplicity
of faith. It is the virgin dress of one of the white-
robed priests in the ancient temple. It is a sim-
plicity which, by easy and rapid transition, mounts
into bold and manly enthusiasm. One is reminded
of the artless sinkings and soarings, lingerings and
hurryings of David's matchless minstrelsies, which
come and go like the sounds of music borne on the
wind. Profound insight is not peculiarly Mont-
gomery's forte. He is rather a seraph than a
cherub; rather a burning than a knowing one. He
kneels; he looks upward with rapt eye; he covers
at times his face with his wing ; but he does not
ask awful questions, or cast strong though baffled
glances into the solid and intolerable glory. You
can never apply to him the words of Gray. He
never has “passed the bounds of ſlaming space,
where angels tremble as they gaze.” He has
never invaded those lofty but dangerous regions of
speculative, thought, where some have dwelt till
they have lost all of piety, save its grandeur and
gloom. He does not reason, far less doubt, on the
subject of religion at all; it is his only to wonder,
to love, to weep, and to adore. Sometimes, but
seldom can he be called a sublime writer. In his
“Wanderer of Switzerland,” he blows a bold horn,
but the echoes and the avalanches of the highest
Å; will not answer or fall to his reveille. In his
“Greenland,” he expresses but faintly the poetry
of Frost; and his line is often cold as a glacier.
His “World before the Flood” is a misnomer. It
is not the young, virgin, undrowned world it profes-
scs to be. In his “West Indies,” there is more of
the ardent emancipator than the poet: you catch
but dimly, through its correct and measured verse,
a glimpso of Ethiopia, a dreadful appellant, standing
with one shackled foot on the rock of Gibraltar,
and the other on the Cape of Good Hope, and
“stretching forth her hands” to an avenging God.
And although, in the horrors of the middle passage,
there were elements of poetry, yet it was a poetry
which our author's genius is too gentle and timid |
fully to extract. As soon could he have added a
story to Ugolino's tower, or another circle to the
Inferno, as have painted that pit of heat, hunger, and
howling despair, the hold of a slave-vessel. Let
him have his praise, however, as the constant and
eloquent friend of the negro, and as the laureate of
his freedom. The high note struck at first by Cow-
per in his lines, “I would not have a slave,” &c.,
it was reserved for Montgomery to echo and swell
up, in reply to the full diapason of the liberty of
Ham’s children, proclaimed in all the isles which
Britain claims as hers. And let us hope that he
will be rewarded, before the close of his existence,
by hearing, though it were in an ear half-shut in
death, a louder, deeper, more victorious shout
springing from emancipated America, and of saying,
like Simeon of old, “Lord, now let thy servant de-
part in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salva-
tion.”
The plan of the “Pelican Island” was an unfor-
tunate one, precluding as it did almost entirely hu-
man interest, and rapid vicissitude of events; and
resting its power principally upon the description of
foreign objects, and of slow though majestic pro-
cesses of nature. Once, and once only, in this and
perhaps in any of his poems, does he rise into the
rare region of the sublime. It is in the description
of the sky of the south, a subject which indeed is
itself inspiration. And yet, in that solemn sky,
the great constellations, hung up in the wonderin
evening air, the Dove, the Raven, the ship .
Heaven, “ sailing from Eternity;” the Wolf,
“with eyes of lightning watching the Centaur’s
spear;” the Altar blazing, “even at the footsteps
of Jehovah’s throne;” the Cross, “meek emblem
of redeeming love,” which bends at midnight as
when they were taking down the Saviour of the
world, and which greeted the eye of Humboldt as
he sailed over the still Pacific, had so hung and so
burned for ages, and no poet had sung their praises.
Patience, ye glorious tremblers! In a page of this
“Pelican }; a page bright as your own beams,
and like them immortal, shall your splendors be yet
inscribed. This passage, which floats the poem,
and will long memorize Montgomery's name, is the
more remarkable, as the poet never saw but in
imagination that unspeakable southern midnight.
And yet we are not sure but, of objects so transcend-
ent, the “vision of our own” is the true vision,
and the vision that ought to be perpetuated in song.
For our parts, we, longing as we have ever done to
see the Cross of the South, would almost fear to
have our longings gratified, and to find the reality,
splendid as it must be, substituted for that vast
image of bright quivering stars, which has so long
loomed before our imaginations, and so often visited
our dreams. Indeed, it is a question, in reference
to objects which must, even when seen, derive their
interest from imagination, whether they be not best
seen by its eyes alone.
Among Rºy's smaller poems, the finest
is the “Stanzas at Midnight,” composed in Switz-
erland, and which we see inserted in Longfellow's
beautiful romance of Hyperion, with no notice
or apparent knowledge of their authorship. They
describe a mood of his own mind while passing a
night among the Alps, and contain a faithful
transcript of the emotions which, thick and sombre
as the shadows of the mountains, crossed his soul
in its solitude. There are no words of Foster's,
which to us possess more meaning than that simple
expression in his first essay, “solemn meditations
of the night.” Nothing in spiritual history is
JAMES MONTGOMIERY.
59
*e interesting. What vast tracts of thought
9°s the mind sometimes traverse when it cannot
sleep What ideas, that had bashfully presented
themselves in the light of day, now stand out in
ºld relief, and authºritative dignity How viv-
"...ºf before us the memories of the past !
ºw do, alas! past struggles and sins return to
ºollection, rekindling on "our cheeks their first
*ce blushes unseen in the darkness How
"º", a light is cast upon the great subjects of
ºthal contemplation? What a “browner hor-
*” falls upon the throne of death, and the pale
§ngdoms of the grave What projects are then
ºned; what darings of purpose conceived, and
°W fully can we then understand the meaning of
the poet,
“In lo
When nely glens, amid the roar of rivers,
hen thought revisits themi"
() And when, through the window,
One full glance of a clear large star, how startlingly
*Seems, like a conscious, mild, yet piercing eye;
'%' strongly it points, how soothingly it mingles
With our méditations, and as with a leash of fire,
. them away into still remoter and more mys-
ºlous regions of thought ! Such a meditation
...gºmery has embodied in these, beautiful
d º: but then he is up amid the midnight and
Cat ; stars; he is out amid the Alps, and is
º: ing on his brow the living breath of that
d §st inspiration which moves amid them, then
"d then alone.
Mo e mentioned Cowper in conjunction with
jºinery in a former sentence. They resemble
lici other in the pious purpose and general sim-
*ty of their writings, but otherwise are entirely
.net. Cowper's is a didactic, Montgomery's a
Omantic piety. Cowper's is a gloomy, Mont-
§ºmery's a cheerful religion. Cowper has in him
.*rce and bitter vein of satire, often irritating
º jºyº; we find no traces of any such thing
- ...] ſontgomery's writings. Cowper's wither-
torn ºunciations seem shreds of Elijah's mantle,
cloth off in the fiery whirlwind. Montgomery is
j in the softer garments, and breathes the
Wi. genius of the new economy. And as poets,
is e. with more imagination and elegance,
...'", estitute of the rugged strength of senti-
rich h. exquisite keenness of observation, the
W
umor and the awful personal pathos of
owper.
# *k * tº:
$
º Montgomery's prose we might, say much
00t Was favorable. It is truly “Prose by a
...tº, borrow the title of ºne of his works.
m. the poet every now and then dropping his
º showing his ſlaming eyes. It is enough
Prose º confute the vulgar prejudice against the
wº. poets. Who indeed but a poet has ever
will i. gr can ever write good prose, prose that
is com ** , What prose, to take but one example,
W ºlº to the prose of Shakspeare—many
tion º: very best passages, as Hamlet's descrip-
that dr . alstaff's death, the speech of Brutus,
mi. . grace before meat of Timon, which is
ii. ropy the quaintest and most appalling
Supper .*, and seems fit to have preceded a
gomervº n Eblis, &c., are not in verse! Mont-
POS *7° prose criticism we value less for its ex-
iti * * • , º, º = . . tº º
* of principles, or for its originality, in which,
respects it is deficient, than for its generous and
eloquent enthusiasm. It is delightful to find in an
author, who had so to struggle up his way to dis-
tinction, such a fresh and constant sympathy with
the success and the merits of others. In this point
he reminds us of Shelley, who, hurled down at one
time, by universal acclamation, into the lowest
abyss of contempt, both as an author and a man,
could look up from it, to breathe sincere admiration
toward those who had usurped the place in public
favor to which he was, and knew he was, entitled.
We are not reminded of the Lakers, whose tarn-
like narrowness of critical spirit is the worst
and weakest feature in their characters. Truly
a great mind never looks so contemptible as
when, stooping from its pride of place, it ex-
changes its own high aspirations after fame, for
poor mouse-like nibblings at the reputation of
the still nights were moonless, have I known others.
§s that no tongue can tell; my pale lip quivers
|
;
Many tributes have been paid of late years to the
Pilgrim's Progress. The lips of Coleridge have
waxed eloquent in its praise; Southey and Macau-
looks in on us lay have here embraced each other; Cheever,
from America, has uttered a powerful sound in
proclamation of its unmatched merits: but we are
mistaken if its finest panegyric he not that con-
tained in Montgomery’s preface, prefixed to the
Glasgow edition. In it all the thankfulness
cherished from childhood, in a poet's and a Chris-
tian's heart, toward this benign and beautiful book,
comes gushing forth ; and he closes the tribute
with the air of one who has relieved himself from
a deep burden of gratitude. Indeed, this is the
proper feeling to be entertained toward all works
of genius; and an envious or malign criticism upon
such is not so much a defect in the intellect as it is
a sin of the heart. It is a blow struck in the face
of a benefactor. A great author is one who lays a
priceless treasure at our door; and if we at once
reject the boon and spurn the giver, ours is not an
error simply, it is a deadly crime.
The mention of Bunyan and Montgomery in
conjunction, irresistibly reminds us of a writer who
much resembles the one, and into whom the spirit
of the other seems absolutely to have transmi-
grated: we mean Mary Howitt. She resembles
Montgomery principally in the amiable light in
which she presents the spirit of Christianity.
Here the Moravian and the Friend are finely at
one. Their religion is no dire fatalism, no gloomy
reservoir of all morbid and unhappy feelings, dis-
appointed hopes, baſſled purposes, despairing pros-
pects, turning toward heaven, in their extremity,
for comfort, as it is with a very numerous class of
authors. It is a glad sunbeam from the Womb of
the morning, kindling all nature and life into
smiles. It is a meek, womanlike, Presence in the
chamber of earth, which meanwhile beautifies, and
shall yet redeem and restore it—by its very gentle-
ness righting all its wrongs, curing, all its evils,
and wiping away all its tears. . Had but this faith
been shown more fully to the sick soul of Cowper'
were it but shown more widely to the sick soul of
earth,
- Soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.
And how like is Mary Howitt to Bunyan
Like him, she is the most sublime of the simple,
and the most simple of the sublime; the most
literal, and the most imaginative, of writers. Hers
60'
PROPOSALS FOR A CONTINUATION OF IWANHOE.
and his are but a few quiet words: but they have
the effect of “Open Sesame ;” they conduct into
deep caverns of feeling and of thought, to open
which ten thousand mediocrists behind are bawling
their big-mouthed talk in vain. In “Marion’s
Pilgrimage,’ (thanks to the kind and gifted young
friend who lately introduced us to this beautiful
poem,) we have a minor “Pilgrim's Progress,”
where Christianity is represented as a child going
forth on a mission to earth, mingling with and miti-
gating all its evils; and is left, at the close, still
wandering on in this her high calling. The alle-
gory is not, any more than in Bunyan, strictly pre-
served ; for Marion is at once Christianity personi-
fied and a Christian person, who alludes to Scrip-
ture events, and talks in Scripture language; but
the simplicity, the child-likeness, and the sweet-
ness, are those of the gentle dreamer of Elstowe.
Why does she not more frequently lean down her
head upon his inspired pillow !
We return to James Montgomery only to bid
him farewell. He is one of the few lingering stars
in a very rich constellation of poets. Byron, Cole-
ridge, Southey, Crabbe, Campbell, Shelley, Keats,
&c., are gone : some burst to shivers by their own
impetuous motion; others, in the course of nature,
having simply ceased to shine. Three of that
cluster yet remain, in Wordsworth, Moore, and
Montgomery. Let us, without absurdly and
malignantly denying merit to our rising lumina-
ries, (some of whom, such as Browning, Tenny-
son, and Baillie, we hope yet to see emulating the
very highest of the departed,) with peculiar ten-
derness cherish these, both for their own sakes,
and as still linking us to a period in our literary
history so splendid.
From Fraser's Magazine.
PROPOSALS FOR A CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE.
WOLS. II. AND III.
MY DEAR MARQUIs, I may now say (for having
ventured to address you once, I feel as if I had
grown quite familiar with you)—well, then, my
lord, to resume the thread of the little discourse
broken off last month, do you know that, consider-
ing the excellence of the theme I proposed to you,
and, perhaps, of my own manner, of handling it—
but that is not for an author, but a kind British pub-
lic to decide—I feel quite sorry that I ever let it
slip, or allowed myself to compress into a few
magazine pages, matter which might fill many
magazines—many volumes—a romance teeming
with noble subjects of chivalry and adventure;
which might equal in length with Clarissa Harlowe,
and in thrilling dramatic interest the best of our
own productions. But the deed is done now. The
#9Qse is slaughtered, as it were, that might have
laid many golden eggs: let us fall too, since he is
dead, and eat him with as much relish as may be.
Well, then. In my last, if you remember, I
only alluded cursorily to the death of Arthur,
duke ºf Brittany, whose murder by his uncle,
King John, is a subject so full of interest, that I am
surprised nobody has taken it up. The late Mr.
Shakspeare, indeed has touched it; but how
slightly, and in how trivial a manner: Why a
man knowing the mystery of novel-spinning, might
have been whole volumes killing that young prince.
His escapes, his hopes, his young loves, his battles,
his surprise, his defeat, his lingering agony, and
º downfall, might go through a set ythap.
ters of interest so thrilling, that they should almost
turn your hair gray with excitement and terror.
In a rare historical work, with which I have had
the good luck to fall in at the Britannic Museum,
and written in his early days by the celebrated Sir
Hume, Lord of Montrose, and electrifying our
chamber of deputies with the thunder of his male
and vigorous word-in Sir Hume's History of Eng-
land I find the following notice of the above-
named Prince Arthur and his uncle :-
“The young Duke of Brittany, who was now
rising to man's estate, now joined the French army,
which had begun hostilities against the king of
England. He was received with great distinction
by Philip ; was knighted by him, espoused his
daughter Mary, and was invested, not only in the
duchy of Brittany, but in the counties of Anjou
and Mayne, which he had formerly resigned to his
uncle. Every attempt succeeded with the allies.
Tillieres and #. were taken by Philip after
making a feeble defence. Mortemar and Lyon fell
into his hands almost without resistance. The
prince next invested Goudmai, and succeeded in
making himself master of that important fortress.
The progress of the prince was rapid, but an event
happened which turned the scales in the favor of
John, and gave him a decided superiority over his
enemies.
“Young Arthur, fond of military renown, had
broken into Poictou, at the head of a small army,
and passing near Mirabeau, he heard that his
grandmother, Queen Eleanor, who had always op-
posed his interests, was lodged in that place, and
was protected by a weak garrison and ruinous forti-
fications. He immediately determined to lay siege
to the fortress, and make himself master of her per-
son. . But John, roused from his indolence by so
pressing an occasion, collected an army of English
and Brabançons, and advanced to the relief of the
queen-mother. He fell on Arthur's camp before
that prince was aware of the danger; dispersed his
army; took him prisoner together with the most
considerable of the revolted barons, and returned in
triumph to Normandy. The greater part of the
prisoners were sent to Normandy, but Arthur was
shut up in the castle of Falaise.
“The king had here a conference with his
nephew, represented to him the folly of his preten-
sions, and required him to renounce the French
alliance. But the brave though imprudent youth,
rendered more haughty by misfortunes, maintained
the justice of his cause; asserted his claim not only
to the French provinces, but to the crown of Eng-
land; and in his turn required the king to restore
the son of his elder brother to the possession of his
inheritance. John, sensible from these symptoms
of spirit that the young prince, though now a pris-
oner, might hereafter prºve a dangerous enemy, de-
termined to prevent all future peril by despatching
his nephew, and Arthur was never more heard of
*...*. “ . The king, it is said, first proposed to
William de la Bray, one of his servants, to despatch
Arthur; but William replied, that he was agentle-
mán, not a hangman; and positively refused com-
pliance. Another instrument of murder was found,
and was despatched with proper orders to Falaise:
but Hubert de Bourg, chamberlain to the king, and
constable of the castle, feigning that he himself
would execute, the king's mandate, sent back the
assassin, spread the report that the young prince
was dead, and publicly performed all the ceremo.
nies of his interment. But finding that the Bretons
vowed revenge for the murder, and that all the re-
CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE.
61
Yºlted barons persevered more obstinately in their
rebellion, he thought it prudent to reveal the secret,
and to inform the world that the Duke of Britanny
Was still alive. This discovery proved fatal to the
Yºung prince. John first removed him to the castle
% Rouen, (where he himself was living, passing his
*me with his young wife in all sorts of indolence
* Pleasure,) and coming in the nighttime, ordered
rthur to be brought before him. The young
Pºince, aware of his danger, and now more subdued
y the continuance of his misfortunes and the ap-
Proach of death, threw himself on his knees before
is uncle and begged for mercy. But the barbarous
§rant making no reply, stabbed him with his own
*nds; and, fastening a stone to the dead body,
threw it into the Seine.”
º, am sure, my dear lord, you will see that it is not
Without a purpose that I have quoted the above
Pºssage from the recondite work of M. Hume.
* What a scope it affords to the novelist! and trace
*... by one the noble scenes which with common
skill and perseverance could be depicted.
h In chapter I. (this I consider vol. ii. of the Ivan-
°. Continuation) we have the raising of the stand-
§d Ban and Årrier-ban; the trooping in of the
*ºtons; the songs of the Armorican bards; the
ºst interview between Arthur and the Princess
*ry of France. The Desdichado is of course
* go-between in all these matters of love and
Politics.
k 9hapter II. Young Arthur is made a belted
.ght; the watch in the chapel; the blessing of
t **rms; the young knight sports his spurs at Bout-
i. and Tillieres. Fancy the way in which
O *nhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, rescue him on every
**sion. Vive Dieu ! I see the whole scene, the
Fº and pomp of chivalrous war represented so
*ly, that I could turn off hundreds upon hun-
** of gallant pages in the description.
in Chapter III. He hears of his grandmother (that
..al, old fiend) at Mirabeau; and nothing will
Ord ce him but posting thither, ventre-à-terre, in
Te °r to chastise the old harridan. In vain Ivanhoe
..ºnstrates and says, “Reflect, my liege, that 'tis
...dmºther. and that sort of thing. The
Tú () trong prince (whom the old lady used to whip
pu * Anmercifully in his youth) will go—and to his
ºshment.
* grandmother, I would suggest, should be a
{} frightful and disgusting old character; and
with "ror inspired by her vices might be tempered
migh * Strong dash of humor. Comic dialogue
. º place across the wall between the be-
. i. the besiegers, and the sarcasms of the
nº. dam (standing shrieking through a speaking-
to .*.* the western º might be made
goo With tremendous effect. I always think it is
Q yo to have your broad farce as close as possible
him. §. deep tragedy. In fact, Will Shakspeare
"..ºlf-º our Williams,” as jules Janin calls him
an "...is quite a jocular play of this King John,
quite monarch himself, in spite of some failings,
Wijºble, gentlemanlike fºllow. Well,
* i.” Arthur and his grandmother are parley-
\ments § the wall and bandying family compli-
bitteri, Ş. I need not tell you would be pretty
3t i. the son of Geoffrey Plantagenet and
Eleanor Putable old divorcée of a dowager, Queen
takes º * comes the king with his host and
Quarrel. Young Arthur prisoner in the midst of the
º: of the scene will be redoubled by
°w between King John, the prince, and
most
t
the old lady, who kindly suggests all sorts of tor-
ture for her grandson, and upon his ordering her
on her allegiance to kneel down and acknowledge
him as her rightful king, snaps her snuffy old fin-
gers in his face, and quite does away with the ef.
fect of his chaleureuse improvisation upon King
John himself. This is Chapter V. It ends with
special instructions on the lººr, part to tor-
ture, and do away with young Arthur; and the
cortège and the royal prisoner march away to Rou-
en, where John's, young, queen is residing with
Lady Rowena and a number of English ladies in
her court. -
Chapter VI. A description of the pleasures,
masques, and drunken debaucheries in which the
hog of Rouen wallows. King John had his court
there, and a description of its pleasures will read
with double zest from the contrast of the fate hang-
ing over young Arthur. Revelry and champaigne,
minstrels and fair ladies, in the first floor; toads
chains, racks, and darkness, in the dungeons of the
basement. But what call have I to point out to
such a master the light and shade of the novelist's
art 1
By the way, as we are at Rouen, might not the
grandmother of Joan of Arc be introduced with
good effect? Nothing would be more easy than
for her to prophesy that France should, ere long,
be freed from the dominion of the Anglais; and
die or be disposed of afterwards. These prophe-
cies, written seven or eight hundred years after-
wards, are always, I need not say, fulfilled most
accurately, and give an indescribable air of know-
ingness to a writer and authenticity to a narra-
tive.
Ivanhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, are, of course,
undergoing every variety of disguises and making
the most frantic exertions to liberate the interesting
young captive. -
If the death of Arthur do not offer a good theme
for Chapter VII., there is no use in writing histori-
cal romances at all. Fancy Hubert de Burgh re-
lenting, Arthur flattering himself with hopes of an
escape. Ivanhoe and his friends in a boat at the
water-port of the castle, ready to receive the young
prince, for whose flight every arrangement had
been made; and in the midst of the breathless in-
terest and hurry attendant upon the plot in steps
King John and kills his nephew with his own
hands !
The clocks of the cathedral and St. Ouen were
tolling twelve. The cafés and theatres were
closed. The burghers had retired to their rest,
and the city was enveloped in silence and darkness,
as the Desdichado, unmooring his shallop from the
stairs of the hostelry, which he had selected for his
residence by reason of its proximity to the river,
paddled off quietly towards the castle. Its black
enormous towers loomed gloomily against the mid-
night sky; the water moaned and plashed against
the huge walls and buttresses, which rose up gi-
gantic out of the stream, and the stars winked
overhead. The banner of England and Normandy
floated lazily from the topinost donjon, and, save
the sentinel who paced upon his watch there, his
armor glinting faintly in the starlight, all seemed
asleep in the royal palace. Beauty in her bower,
the warrior weary of carouse or battle, the states-
man dreaming of chicane—all slumbered—no, not
all. One red light flared through the bars of one
chamber. Wilfrid knew it. It was the chamber
where the young prince was held captive.
The red light was reflected into the black stream
62
OF IWANHOE.
CONTINUATION
beneath, and flared and quivered like a flaming
sword in the water.
The knight, with muffled oars, paddled his little
bark stealthily under that casement, and looked
every moment for the signal agreed upon, and for
the appearance of the ladder of ropes, with which
Gurth, disguised as a Carthusian friar, had supplied
the prince the day previous. All was ready. Raoul
de Frontignac had bribed the keeper of the Paris
gate; Bertrand de Clos Vougeot was won over,
and had intoxicated the guard there ; the good
knights, Alured d’Auriol and Philibert de Franco-
ni, were in waiting, with spare horses and fifty
trusty lances. Life—liberty—love—the crown of
Fngland, were awaiting the fair-haired boy, a pris-
oner in yonder chamber º:
One o'clock struck, but the signal was not given,
and the Desdichado grew anxious. Shadows
passed before the light in the chamber above—
passed rapidly; he thought he heard a cry—a
scuffle—a scream! “It is the turnkey that they
are slaying,” thought the bold knight, Wilfrid of
Ivanhoe, and pitied the poor varlet whose death
was unavoidable. Half past one struck, and a fig-
ure came to the window. “St. Waltheof be
praised ''” said the knight, inaudibly, as he clung
to a cranny in the masonry under the casement,
and awaited the fall of the expected rope-ladder.
“By St. Peter's teeth,” said a voice from the
window, “the springald had sawed the stanchions
of the window, too !” and loosening a bar, he
ſlung it into the river. It passed within an inch of
the motionless and terror-stricken Ivanhoe, and
sank flashing into the black depths of the Seine.
Ivanhoe recognized the harsh and brutal voice;
the plot was discovered, and by John of Plantage-
net! Another bar followed its iron companion,
and was flung into the stream; and the next mo-
ment a mass, as of something in a sack, was
brought to the window.
“The old witch of Domremy, whom we burned
yesterday, prophesied that he should escape by this
window,” cried, with a horrid laughter, the same
voice which had thrilled the bosom of Ivanhoe ;
“and by it my fair nephew escapes. Drop him
down, good De Burgo: LAIssez PASSER LA Justice
DU Roy.”
It was the dead body of Arthur Plantagenet that
his true servitor bore to the shore.
You, perhaps, do not comprehend what Arthur
Plantagenet, has to do with the main story of Ivan-
hoe, and Rebecca, and Rowena ; but this can be
explained in a twinkling, and it will be seen how
necessary, as well as agreeable and interesting,
such an episode may be considered.
Among the ladies-in-waiting upon John's young
queen, we have mentioned as the most correct and
distinguished the Lady Rowena of Athelstane, who
discharged her duty as mistress of the robes to her
august sovereign.
When the death of the princely Arthur became
known, as it was by the agency of Sir Wilfrid of
Ivanhoe, who bore the corpse to Philip Augustus,
proclaimed King John of England a traitor and
murderer, and nailed his glove of defiance upon his
palace-door before he carried away the body of his
young victim, such a storm of indignation was
raised against the tyrant who had done the deed,
&A caused that dastardly spirit to quail. with rage
and fear. All the courts of Christendom proclaimed
him felon; true knights, indignant, threw up his
tervice, and the nobles scornfully quitted his court.
It is known what the brute did under these cir-
cumstances. Furious at the contumcly of his sub-
jects, he seized hostages wherever he could, and
demanded that the eldest sons of the nobility
should be brought to his court. Some of these
noble dames refused to give up their children to the
dastardly butcher and tyrant.
“Shall I give him my son, my Cedric,” said
one, “that he may slay him like his nephew Ar-
thur !”
This, I need not say, was the Lady Rowena ;
and now you begin to understand how, in Chapter
IX., she naturally comes on the scene again, and
that she is drawing pretty near to the end of her
career. The Biographie Universelle says, little
knowing that Rowena was the lady in question—
“La femme d'un baron au quel on vint faire cette
démande, répondit, “Le roi pense-t-il que je confie-
rai mon fils à un homme qui a 6 gorgé son neveu de
sa propre main Jean fit enlever la mêre et l'en-
fant et la laissa Mouriſt DE FAIM dans les cachots.”
I picture to myself, with a painful sympathy,
Rowena undergoing this disagreeable sentence.
All her virtues, her resolution, her chaste energy,
and perseverance, shine with redoubled lustre in
this brief Chapter X., in which her sufferings are
described ; and, for the first time since the com-
mencement of the history, I feel that I am partial-
ly reconciled to her. While she is languishing in
the dungeon of the castle, Philip Augustus is thun-
dering revenge at the gates of Rouen, Wilfrid of
Ivanhoe, seeking for the blood of the tyrant, is
foremost in battle, storm, and scaladoe. The cas-
tle is carried by his valor. The dastard John flies,
after a cowardly resistance, and gives up his fair
Duchy of Normandy, that had been held by the
princes of his race for three hundred years. As
Ivanhoe and his hardy companions rush up the
walls, yelling to the recreant king to turn and de-
fend himself like a man, the scoundrel flies, and
Ivanhoe finds—what!—his ex-wife in the last
stage of exhaustion, lying on the straw of Arthur's
dungeon, with her little boy in her arms. She has
preserved his life at the expense of her own, giv-
ing him the whole of the pittance which her gaol-
ers allowed her, and perishing herselſ of inanition.
There is a scene ! I feel as if I have made it
up, as it were, with this lady, and that we part in
peace in consequence of my providing her with so
sublime a death-bed. Fancy Ivanhoe rescuing
her, their recognition, the faint blush upon her
worn features, the pathetic way in which she gives
little Cedric in charge to him, and his promises of
protection.
“Wilfrid, my early loved,” slowly gasped she,
removing her grey hair from her furrowed temples,
and gazing upon her boy fondly as he nestled on
Ivanhoe's knee, “promise me, by St. Waltheof
of Templestowe-promise me one boon.”
“I do,” said Ivanhoe, clasping the boy, and
thinking that it was to that little innocent the pro-
mise was intended to apply.
“By St. Waltheof'.
“By St. Waltheof'."
“Promise me that you will never marry a
Jewess 1'.'
“By St. Waltheof'.” cried Ivanhoe, “this is
too much ' Rowena l’” But he felt his hand
grasped for a moment, the nerves then relaxed, the
pale lip ceased to quiver—she was dead
And I ask any man, or novelist, whether this is
not a satisfactory
END OF vol. II, 4
CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE.
63
. When Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe had restored Ced.
* to his father, the tipsy thane, Athelstane,
England had no further charms for him; and a
residence in that island was rendered the less
*greeable by the certainty that King John would
*g him if ever he could lay hands on the
º follower of King Richard and Prince
Tthur.
But there was always in those days a home and
9°cupation for a brave and pious knight. A saddle
$º a gallant war-horse, a pitched field against the
90rs, a lance where with to spit a turbaned inſi-
el, or a road to Paradise carved out by his scime-
*-these were the height of the ambition of good
*"d religious warriors; and so renowned a cham-
Plon as Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was sure to be well
*ceived wherever blows were stricken for the
§use of Christendom. Even among the dark
emplars, he who had twice overcome the most
famous lance of their order was a respected though
** a welcome guest; but among the opposition
Sºmpany of the Knights of St. John he was ad-
§red and courted beyond measure; and always
*ſectioning that order, which offered him, indeed,
* first rank and commanderies, he did much good
§vice, fighting in their ranks for the glory of
ºven and St. Waltheof, and slew many thou-
*nds of the heathen in Prussia, Poland, and those
... "age northern countries. The only fault that
°, great and gallant though severe and ascetic
§§ of Heydenbraten, the chief of the order of
§ John, found with the melancholy, warrior,
W ºse, lance did such good service to the cross,
r ...hat he did not persecute the Jews as so
*gious a knight should. He let off sundry cap-
§es of that persuasion whom he had taken with
. Sword and his spear, saved others from torture,
actually ransomed the two last grinders of a
ºrable rabbi, (that Roger de Cartright, an Eng-
ish knight of the order, was about to extort from
d ° elderly Israelite,) with a hundred crowns and
81mmal ring, which were all the property he
jººd. Whenever he so ransomed or benefited
{l i. this religion, he would moreover give them
Out tle token or a message, (were the good knight
Iſle ºf money.) saying, “Take this token, and re-
C ºber this deed was done by Wilfrid the Disin-
i. for the services whilome rendered to him
tlino ebecca, the daughter of Isaac of York 1") So
O ng themselves, and in their meetings and syna-
§º. and in their restless travels from land 10
Chri when they of Jewry cursed and reviled, all
n. as such abominable heathens will, they
Or . excepted the name of the Desdichado,
dich € doubly-disinherited as he now was, the Des-
*:::Diado.
north le, he was thus making war, against, the
i.ºrn infidels, news was carried all over Chris-
Gndom
good
Dani
dSS
of a catastrophe which had befallen the
Qause in the south of Europe, where the
sh Christians had met with such a defeat and
een acre it the hands of the Moors, as had never
"...nown in the proudest days of Saladin.
of t .#. the 9th of Shaban, in the 605th year
dmun- ja, is known all over the West as the
gain." ºrk, the year of the battle of Alarcos,
illus ºver the Christians by the Moslems of An-
efeat on which fatal day Christendom suffered a
enins . signal; that it was feared the Spanish
on. *Would be entirely wrested away from the
"...ºf the cross. Ón that day the Franks
and 30,000 prisoners. A man-
i. 150,000 men
y
**d among the unbelievé's fºr a dirhem ; a
donkey, for the same ; a sword, half-a-dirhem ; a
horse, five dirhems. Hundreds of thousands of
these various sorts of booty were in the possession
of the triumphant followers of Yakoob-al-Mansoor.
Curses on his head..! But he was a brave warrior,
and the Christians before him seemed to forget that
they were the descendants of the brave Cid, the
Kanbitoor, as the Moorish hounds (in their jargon)
denominated the famous Campeador.
A general move for the rescue of the faithful in
Spain—a crusade against the infidels triumphing
there, was preached throughout Europe by all the
most eloquent clergy; and thousands and thou-
sands of valorous knights and nobles, accompanied
by well-meaning varlets and vassals of the lower
sort, trooped from all sides to the rescue. The
straits of Gibel-al-tarif, at which spot, the Moor,
passing from Barbary, first planted his accursed
foot on the Christian soil, were crowded with the
galleys of the Templars and the Knights of St.
ohn, who flung succors into the menaced king-
doms of the Peninsula; the inland sea swarmed
with their ships hasting from their forts and
islands, from Rhodes and Byzantium, from Jaffa
and Askalon. The Pyrenean peaks beheld the
pennons and glittered with the armor of the knights
marching out of France into Spain; the ut
it is manifest that if we go on giving a full descrip-
tion in the best manner of historical novels, this
Magazine will never be able to contain the last
volume of Ivanhoe, whereof I think you begin to
perceive what is the nature of the conclusion. Sup-
pose Ivanhoe has taken shipping in Germany—
from Bohemia say—and has landed safely in Wa-
lencia, like a good Christian knight, and is busy in
robbing, killing, and pillaging the Moors there, the
deuce is in it, if, with historical disquisitions and
picturesque descriptions, we may not get through
half a volume, leaving but one half more for the
main business of the whole romance.
# tº: $ *
#
The escalade successful, and the Moorish garri-
son of Xixona put to the sword, the good knight,
Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, took no further part in the
proceedings of the conquerors of that ill-fated
place. A scene of horrible massacre and frightful
reprisals ensued, and the Christian warriors, hot
with victory and flushed with slaughter, were, it is
to be feared, as savage in their hour of triumph as
ever their heathen enemies had been. Among the
most violent and least scrupulous was the ferocious
knight of Saint Iago, Don Beltran de Cuchilla y
Trabuco y Espada y Espelon; raging through the
vanquished city like a demon, he slaughtered indis-
criminately all those infidels of both sexes whose
wealth did not tempt him to a ransom, or whose
beauty did not reserve them for more frightful
calamities than death. The slaughter over, Don
Beltran took up his quarters, in the Albaycen,
where the Alfaqui had lived who had so narrowly
escaped the sword of Ivanhoe; but the wealth, the
treasure, the slaves, and the family of the fugitive
chieftain, were left in possession of the conqueror
of Xixona. Among the treasures Don Beltran
recognized with a savage joy the coat-armors and
ornaments of many brave and unfortunate com-
panions-in-arms who had fallen in the fatal battle
of Alarcos. The sight of those bloody relics added
fury to his cruel disposition, and served to steel a
heart already but little disposed to sentiments of
mercy.
after the sack and plunder of the
place Don
Three º
eltran was seated in the hall-cour*
64
CONTINUATION OF IWANHOE.
lately occupied by the proud Alfaqui, lying in his
divan, dressed in his rich robes, the fountains play-
ing in the centre, the slaves of the Moor minister-
ing to his scarred and rugged Christian conqueror.
Some fanned him with peacock's pinions, some
danced before him, some sang Moors’ melodies to
the plaintive notes of a guzla, one—it was the only
daughter of the Moor's old age, the young Zutulbe,
a rosebud of beauty—sat weeping in a corner of
the gilded hall, weeping for her slain brethren, the
pride of Moslem chivalry, whose heads were black-
ening in the blazing sunshine on the portals with-
out, and for her father, whose home had been thus
made desolate.
THe and his guest, the English knight Sir Wil-
frid, were playing at chess, a favorite amusement
with the chivalry of the period, when a messenger
was announced from Valencia, to treat, if possible,
for the ransom of the remaining part of the Alfa-
qui's family. A grim smile lighted up Don Bel-
tran’s features as he bade the black slave admit the
messenger. He entered. By his costume it was
at once seen that the bearer of the flag of truce
was a Jew—the people were employed continually
then as ambassadors between the two races at war
in Spain.
“I come,” said the old Jew, (in a voice which
made Sir Wilfrid start,) “from my lord the Alfaqui
to my noble señor, the invincible Don Beltran de
§. to treat for the ransom of the Moor's
only daughter, the child of his old age and the
pearl of his affection.”
“A pearl is a valuable jewel, Hebrew. What
does the Moorish dog bid for her?” asked Don
Beltran, still smiling grimly.
“The Alfaqui offers 100,000 dinars, twenty-
four horses with their caparisons, twenty-four suits
of plate-armor, and diamonds and rubies to the
amount of 100,000 dinars.”
“Ho, slaves!” roared Don Beltran, “show the
Jew my treasury of gold. How many hundred
thousand pieces are there !”
chests were produced in which the accountant
counted 1000 bags of 1000 derhems each, and dis-
played several caskets of jewels containing such a
treasure of rubies, smaragds, diamonds, and
jacinths, as made the eyes of the aged ambassador
twinkle with avarice.
“How many horses are there in tily stable 1"
continued Don Beltran; and Muby, the master of
the horse, numbered three hundred fully capari-
soned ; and there was, likewise, armor of the
richest sort for as many cavaliers, who followed
the banner of this doughty captain.
“I want neither money nor armor,” said the
ferocious knight; “tell this to the Alfaqui, Jew.
And I will keep the child, his daughter, to serve
the messes for my dogs, and clean the platters for
my Scullions.”
. “Deprive not the old man of his child,” here
interposed the knight of Ivanhoe; “bethink thee,
brave Don Beltrán, she is but an infant in
$ )
years.
“She is my captive, Sir Knight,” replied the
surly Don Beltran"; “I will do with my own as
becomes me.”
“Take 200,000 dirhems!” cried the Jew ;
“more -anything ! The Alfaqui will give his
wife for his child!”
“Come hither, Zutulbe'—come hither, thou
Moorish pearl!” yelled the ferocious warrior ;
“ come closer, my pretty black-eyed houri of
And ten enormous
heathenism Hast heard the name of Beltran de
Espada y Trabuco 1"
“There were three hrothers of that name at
Alarcos, and my brothers slew the Christian
dogs ’” said the proud young girl, looking boldly
at Don Beltran, who foamed with rage.
“The Moors butchered my mother and her little
ones at midnight, in our castle of Murcia,” Beltran
said.
“Thy father fled like a craven, as thou didst,
Don Beltranſ' cried the high-spirited girl.
“By Saint Iago, this is too much ſ” screamed
the infuriated nobleman ; and the next moment
there was a shriek, and the maiden fell to the
ground with Don Beltran's dagger in her side.
“Death is better than dishonor l’’ cried the
child, rolling on the blood-stained marble pave-
ment. “I—I spit upon thee, dog of a Christian '''
and with this, and with a savage laugh, she fell
back and died.
“Bear back this news, Jew, to the Alfaqui,”
howled the Don, spurning the beauteous corpse
with his foot. “I would not have ransomed her
for all the gold in Barbary !” And shuddering,
the old Jew left the apartment, which Ivanhoe
quitted likewise.
When they were in the outer court, the knight
said to the Jew, “IsAAc of York, dost thou not
know me !” and threw back his hood, and looked
at the old man.
The old Jew stared wildly, rushed forward, as
if to seize his hand, then started back, trembling
convulsively, and clutching his withered hands
over his face, said, with a burst of grief, “Sir
Wilfrid of Ivanhoe —no, no!—I do not know
thee ''”
“Holy mother what has chanced?” said Ivan-
hoe, in his turn becoming ghastly pale; “where
is thy daughter—where is Rebecca?”
“Away from me !” said the old Jew, tottering,
“away ! REBEccA 1s—DEAD !”
iſk jº # * #
When the disinherited knight heard that fatal
announcement, he fell to the ground senseless, and
was for some days as one perfectly distraught with
grief. He took no nourishment and uttered no
word. For weeks he did not relapse out of his
moody silence, and when he came partially to him-
self again, it was to bid his people to horse, in a
hollow voice, and to make a foray against the
Moors. Day after day he issued out against these
infidels, and did nought but slay, and slay. He
took no plunder as other knights did, but left that
to his followers; he uttered no war-cry, as was
the manner of chivalry, and he gave no quarter, in-
somuch that the “silent knight” became the dread
of all the Paynims of Granada and Andalusia, and
more fell by his lance than by that of any the
most clamorous captain of a troop in arms against
them.
* k # # #
We must now turn to Valencia, which had been
conquered by the Moors from the descendants of
the Cid, and of which, as space is valuable, we
will omit all antiquarian description. The ensuing
chapter, may be flavored with this, a discrétion, as
the cookery-books say; but the fact is, we have
metal more attractive in Valencia, where Rebecca
is no more dead than you and I; on the contrary,
she is more beautiful than ever, and more melan-
choly too. The dear creature her lot in life was
sadness, and yet I feel quite glad again as (in
PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART.
65
*gination) I catch a glimpse once more of her
Sweet noble face.
º had caused old Isaac to start so, and tell
ter? #. abominable fib to Ivanhoe about his daugh-
that º fact is, that she had turned Christian. Now
thou º was among her own people, and never
girl § to see her dear champion more, the poor
W eclared her convictions, and owned that she
* of the religion of Ivanhoe.
noiſ. to make a grand scene of this an-
pro Sement. Some young men of her people are
º to her for husbands. . She scorns Ben
sº ; she dismisses Ben Houndsditch; she turns
º: with loathing from Ben Minories; and when
!. by her father and friends in a solemn con-
yelli 10n, declares herself a convert. Fancy the
ur "g of the Rabbins, the rage of her father, the
sº i. the old female Hebrews, and the general
She ºf Jewry. She is persecuted; but does
... Not a jot. When did such a true
€rs º to persecution! She has received num-
º messages which Wilfrid has sent by the
is . relieved; has heard in many quarters of
º and virtue; cherishes one of the tokens
'rus he sent, and which young Bevis Marks, the
.." Israelite, had brought, (to be sure the
Ilot W. the ring turned out to be glass, and was
dSS *th twopence halfpenny;) but she loves this
and # more than her father's best diamonds;
wept o not choose to describe how long she has
tº 9Verit, and kissed it, and worn it.
toº. Was consigned to bread and water in a back
her łº, the Ghetto of Valencia; and this is why
houn er took such a dislike to Ivanhoe, and an-
*d the death of his daughter.
eas." is wished to spin out the novel, what is
who s than to cause Abou-Abdallah-Mohammed,
s. *ceeded his gallant, father, Jakoob-Alman;
Mal; as I read in the Arabian history of El
*y, to fall in love with the Jewish maid, and
º to make her the first of his wives! but this
it is § to your own better judgment. Meanwhile,
si.”. that events are drawing to their conclu-
famou he same historian recounts, how at the
i."...battle of Al Akab, called by the Spaniards
Ai.as, the Christians retrieved their defeat at
i. and killed absolutely half a million of
of i. "medans. Two hundred and fifty thousand
in.” of course Don Wilfrid took to his own
that f: and became rather easier in spirits after
... .ºus feat of arms. Soon after that King
how #. ºne of Aragon laid siege to Valencia; and
W think all things are pretty clear.
down th ls the first on the wall, and who hurls
cho...ſººn standard of the ProRººt....Whº
lem'. °º the head of the Emir Abou-Whatdyecal-
Shriek ho, attracted to the Jewish quarter by the
bº. ºf the inhabitants, who are being butchered
Panish soldiery, passes over a threshold
th." finds old Isaac of York, Égorgé on the
here by the way,) and into the back-kitchen,
pined i; many years in solitary confinement has
seri...—who but Ivanhoe]. I shall not de;
i. Scene of recognition, though I declare I
of it . affected as I think of it, and have thought
Since . time these five-and-twenty years—ever
study of * boy at school I commenced the noble
slopés, f'...ºr since when, lying on sunny
j beau; lf-holydays, the fair chivalrous figures
Yisible to ºl shapes of knights and ladies were
that "...Tº since I grew to love Rebecca,
longed °ºst, creature of the poetic world, and
"...” her righted.
hat she and Ivanhoe were married follows of
course, for Rowena's promise extorted from him
was, that he would never wed a Jewess. Married
I am sure they were, and adopted little Cedric,
whose father had drunk away all his fortune; but
I don't think they had any other children, or were
subsequently very boisterously happy. Of some
sorts of happiness melancholy is a characteristic,
and I think these were a solemn pair, and died
rather early.
“Ah l'heureux temps que celui de ccs fables! “ ”
Le raisonner aujourd'hui s'accrédité,
On court, hēlasſ après la vérité !
Ah croyez moi l'erreur a son mérite.”
With which remarks from Voltaire
I have the honor to be,
M. the Marquis' most devoted admirer,
M. A. TITMARSH.
[WE copy from the New York Tribune the following
notice of a work which deserves all that is here said of
it. . The Reviews which Miss Fuller contributed to that
paper were marked with a star; and we have often
admired not only their great merit, but the rapidity with
which they were produced.]
Papers on Literature and Art : By S. MARGARET
#. Parts I., II. (pp. 164, 183, 12mo.)
Wiley & Putnam's Library of American Books,
Nos. 19, 20.
THE simple statement that a selection of Marga-
ret Fuller's writings has been submitted to the
public, is perhaps all that is appropriate in these
columns. Their author is so widely known as long
presiding over the literary department of the Tri-
bune, as is also the fact that, though at present in
Europe, her connection with this journal is un-
broken, but will be maintained through a series of
letters from the Old World, that to speak of her
and of these volumes as we think they merit might
be plausibly regarded as indirect commendation of
our own columns. A few words with regard to
some of her prominent characteristics are all we
shall proffer. *
Marked individuality, true independence, we
reckon first among these. Sympathizing freely
with all lofty and generous aims, Miss Fuller be-
longs to no sect, to no party, to no school in litera-
ture or philanthropic effort. You rarely perceive,
from her writings themselves, that it is a Woman
who speaks to you, though, if reminded of the cir-
cumstance, you find nothing inconsistent therewith.
You meet no especial display of delicacy or senti-
ment, but the lucid and vigorous outpouring of a
clear, cultivated, lofty human intellect, enriched by
a thoughtful observation of life and the amplest
acquaintance with literature. Each sentence em-
bodies an idea, which has not been entrusted to
paper until maturely considered and deemed fit to
stand as its own apology.
ishes or obscurities of style are recognized as pro-
ceeding from anything else than haste or inatten-
tion—perhaps rather from an undue attention to
the thought, which is so Vividly present to the
writer's mind that the possibility of the words em-
ployed failing to convey it exactly to the reader
does not suggest itself. We think few men are,
we are sure no woman now in America is, so well
calculated to discharge worthily and usefully the
duties of a critic as she. The extent of her
acquaintance with literature, especially that of
modern continental Europe, the habit of indepen-
dent investigation and untrammeled judgment, give
to her critical essays a value which can hardly be
overestimated.
The occasional blem-
66 THE DISPONENT.
THE DISPONENT.
CIIAPTER I.
In the common style of colloquial intercourse to
be met with in what is usually denominated general
Society—namely, that periodical collision of a num-
ber of persons, of which a large majority repeat
what they hear, and a small minority think what
they say, and those by no means all think rightly—
it naturally follows that the emptiest sophistries
will pass current equally as well as the profoundest
truths—nay, generally much better ; as, like all
meretricious imitations, they are most calculated to
please common eyes at first sight. A favorite
futility which, as such, has doubtless never been
out of vogue at any time, but which from the pecu-
liar character of the age enters largely into the
small-talk of respectable people of the present day,
consists in extolling the simplicity which accompa-
nies a state of nature, and lamenting the refine-
ments which follow in the train of civilization.
Implying by the first, that fabulous purity, when
“wild in the woods the noble savage ran ;” and
by the Second, those perverted luxuries to which a
false cultivation has given birth; and thus contriv-
ing to give in one breath a wrong idea to a right
definition, and a wrong definition to a right idea.
The simplicity of savage life God help the
poor creatures | Where is there the most perverted
artificiality of the falsest and foulest civilization
that can for one instant be compared with it ! If
there be a state of society where it seems to have
become natural to man to outrage Nature; if
there be a scene on which the angels of heaven
must gaze with tears of pity—if so keen a pang as
that of a helpless sympathy be permitted to mingle
with their bliss ;-it is when the brute force and
the brute will of uncivilized man are left to riot
without control—when not his nature, but its cor-
ruption, is the law of his life. '
Even in those countries where the lowest orders
of peasantry are nominally civilized, because nomi-
nally Christianized, but where want, oppression,
and ignorance leave them but a degree better than
the Savage, the same facts support the same argu-
ments. The simplest comforts, within every one's
reach, are the last they care for—the natural affec-
tions within every heart, the last they indulge—
their habits are senseless—their social relations
artificial—their very costume frequently studiously
inconvenient—the simple dictates of the law of
Nature, in short, the last to which they resort.
When people, therefore, talk of the simplicity of
Nature and the refinements of civilization as anti-
thetical qualities, they are only idly repeating what
has been but idle repetition ever since people have
talked at all. In point of fact, these are synony-
mous things; that difference only existing which
must ever exist between a divine idea and a human
reality. If the much-to-be-desired simplicity of a
state of nature be not among us, or rarely. So, it is
because we are too little refined and civilized, and
nºt too much. For it is only in the paths of
Christian wisdom, goodness, knowledge and sense;
that such a state can be attained; and such real
and only civilization is man's real and only nature.
Is it not a mystery, for instance, that in those
arts of the world where man is nursed on pover-
ty's hardest fare, and bred among nature's roughest
scenes, the choice of a wife, instead of being the
voluntary act of the natural feelings of the heart,
should be conducted upon a system only to be com-
pared in manner with the regular mariage de conve-
nance of the most artificial nation in the world, and
in motives with the mercenary heartlessness of the
vitiated worldling of any time or country? Yet
this is the case in many countries that night be
mentioned, the North American Indians included,
and especially in the German provinces of Russia,
wrested from Sweden during the last century,
where the scene of our narrative lies;—marriages
here being contracted through the intervention of a
third person, and frequently without the parties
having once met—or where previous acquaintance
does exist, simply because that circumstance has
aſſorded the gentleman the opportunity of judging
of the lady's capacity for labor, or of ascertaining
the amount of her dowry.
The usual form on these occasions is for the
young man to engage the services of an old wo-
man, who usually officiates for a whole parish in
succession, to propose to the girl of whose qualifi-
cations he has heard the requisite report. The old
woman sets about her business very cleverly—
dwells on the good looks or fine disposition of her
client, and especially on the vehemence of his at-
tachment—for even a savage knows the sort of
flattery most acceptable to a woman's heart. If
she succeed in obtaining a favorable answer, the
parties meet, frequently for the first time in their
lives, the following Sunday at the clergyman's
house, for the ceremony of betrothal; if not, the
old woman is sent to a succession of ladies on a
similar errand until she does—for when once a
Livonian peasant has made up his mind to be mar-
ried, he thinks the sooner he gets it over the bet-
ter.
It was a fine morning in the month of March.
the earth lay deep in her case of snow, but the sun
was bright and early on its road, and, in spite of
the winter landscape, there was a feeling of spring
in the earliness of dawn; that feeling, indeed,
which is most trying to the southern-born foreigner,
as reminding you of what other countries are al-
ready enjoying, and which here is still long to be
“the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.”
With the clergymen of these remote regions the
Sunday is always, independent of its religious
duties, a day of much occupation ; for the peasants,
of which their congregations are solely composed,
and who frequently come from great distances,
take the opportunity, either before or after the ser
vices, for consulting their pastor on such matter;
wherein his advice or assistance can be of use, an
these are not a few. * * * , a
The worthy pastor of this district was already
up and preparing for the duties of the day, when
he was summoned into the little room set aside for
the registeral business of his office—no sinecure
beneath the jealous fancies of the Russian goverſ.
ment—and where he always received his humble
visitors. He was a good man, and very populº
with his peasantry, who, if their pastor be not their
friend, rarely know any other; and to whose spirº
itual, worldly, and bodily ailments he was in the
habit of administering as far as lay in his power:
-to the first, as well as any Christian dignitary iſ:
the world; and to the two latter, as fir as ver
slender means and homely knowledge permitted.
On this occasion, however, his help was required i
another way; for on entering the room he fount
couple awaiting that ceremony of betrothal whic
in these remote districts is still the relic of a fail
of richer poetry amidst the poverty of Lutheranis.
The pastor was a theorist in the way of physiº
nomical expression, and had had so much opport"
THE DISPONENT,
67
.# for study in the raw and rough countenances
of his poor parishioners, that he ſancied he knew
º only what a countenance said, but what it con-
*d as well. In this latter respect they gave
"Perhaps the most opportunity for observation,
º: many a poor peasant stood. abjectly before. him
ºth that stolid vacuity of expression in which it re.
º * nice eye to pronounce between the crust
Sio abit and the kernel of nature. In such occa-
in ns is this too he was doubly interested to exam-
*; for the ceremony of betrothal, although not
inding in law, has been made by long custom as
iº in feeling as that of marriage which fol-
In the present instance there was much to occu-
. him in the party, which consisted of three per-
...-a young girl, a middle-aged man, and an old
S ºn-and the pastor looked with an earnest and
Śrutinizing glance from the one to the other, as
'* girl and the old man came forward in turn,
.*d his hand, and then made that painfully hum:
...nºt ungraceful inclination of the body, ac-
...ied by a supplicatory action with the hands,
§h is the national obeisance of the people.
Sal bre is much in the habits of obeisance and
W *tion among the lower orders of a country,
ºn tells you either the form of religion or the
* of government—here it seemed no less to
lºcate tyranny and injustice than to testify re-
Spect.
Still This done, both the parties stood stock
and the middle-aged man, or the bridegroom,
OW Such he was, having merely made a servile
.." stepped up to the girl's side. She was pret-
ºnd very young; hard and vacant labor had not
.... wid her forehead, nor exposure to the air
all jºid her skin ; her hair too, which, as with
alik ° inhabitants of these regions, man and woman
bri . was allowed to grow its full length, was
l] §ht-colored and glossy, and fell in pretty waves
º her. shoulders, and not too much over her
º while the little hollow circle of pasteboard,
W. *h the maidens of this part of the province
* fastened on the crown of the head, accorded
jºlly with the round and flowing lines of her
ri .# face, and was easily imagined to represent a
w) *! chaplet for the occasion. The figure too,
*h was enclosed in the tight-fitting short-waisted
º: of coarse grey homespun cloth, was slight,
º and round. The gay striped petticoat hung
tund . down, and altogether, with the bent head
of a Swncast eye, there could be no prettier picture
dr ºrthern maiden on her betrothal day. So
ther all was in character with the occasion; yet
ov. was something also too foreign to it to be
Kind °oked. The pastor was accustomed to all
a. of manner, from the most incomprehensible
jº, to the most awkward sheepishness; but in
fi." the young girl there was something distinct
gen ºther. Her hands, which partook of the
er . delicacy of her whole appearance, were
...y restless; and, when she looked up for a
j. she showed an expression of bewilder-
i...her natural to her age nor to the occasion.
the ol She exchanged a few petulent whispers with
&r i. man behind her, evidently her father, with
dull . hurry of manner than usually ruffles the
es. of a Livonian woman's soul—in which
ăș." Seemed the character on one side, and
ay a ation on the other. Behind them, on a chair,
other # piece of chintz, some red, beads, and
00m i. es of woman's finery, which the bride-
II] *ngs on such occasions, and to which the
* Pointed once or twice in furtherance appa-
rently of his words. But this appeal was more
violently resisted than any other; and she looked
as if she would have spoken aloud, when, observ-
ing the minister's eye was upon her, down went
the head again, and she stood immovable.
The man, who stood firm at the girl's side, was
anything but a match for her in appearance. He
was a coarse ugly fellow, of above forty years of
age, with reddish hair, watery eyes, and a large
mouth. His face was bluff and full; but whether
it was very open or very impudent, very honest or
very much the reverse, the pastor could not deter-
mine. He was evidently rather above the condition
of a peasant; wore his hair short, and his clothes
of the common coat and waistcoat cut. He was
very much at his ease, and seemingly well pleased
with his bride; from whom, however, he never got
so much as a look.
The clergyman now addressed a few questions
to each, as is usual on such occasions, relating to
their knowledge of the fundamental doctrines of
Christianity. The man answered with tolerable
readiness and accuracy; but the young lady was
not very audible in her replies, and her confusion
increased so much, that, knowing she had passed
through the rite of confirmation but a year before,
the pastor thought it would be charity to shorten
this part of the ceremony. He therefore pro-
ceeded at once to an exhortation upon the duties
and obligations of married life—given with much
feeling and good sense, but combined with particu-
lars which, to a stranger, might have appeared
ludicrous. He reminded the man that he did not
take a wife only for the convenience of having his
clothes mended, nor the woman a husband only for
the privilege of wearing a matron's cap ; that the
wedding feasting would be soon over, and the wed-
ding presents soon spent ; that there would be
much need for hard labor, and little time for idle
pleasure ; but that honest labor would be their
pleasure, if there were love and harmony beneath
their roof. That it was to be their high privilege
to help one another in the burthens of this life, and
their higher privilege still to encourage one another
on the road to a better one. And besides this, and
similar admonitions which they could understand,
he added as much that they could not—knowing
from experience that this would probably leave the
deeper impression of the two.
e then asked the man, Ian, whether he was
willing to be betrothed to this girl, Anno, and
whether he was able to maintain her in comfort;
to the first of which questions he received an im-
mediate affirmative; and, to the other, the informa-
tion that he was Disponent or Bailiff upºn a neigh-
boring estate, which indeed he already knew, and
which was in itself sufficient guaranty for the
comforts of Anno's future establishment.
The pastor therefore turned to the girl with a
much diminished sense of the disparity between her
tender youth and the bridegroom's coarse maturity.
It was true, the report, of the peasants did not
speak very favorably of the latter; but in a coun-
try where the general character of the people is
phlegmatic and inert, and the general standard of
maintenance too often only a degree above starva-
tion, he knew that the preferences of the heart
could have little chance against the creature-com-
forts of a somewhat lower region. Nor, in spite
of the words hardly cool from his lips, and a little
warm stock of poetry close at his heart, could he
altogether condemn this mode of reasoning. So
he reached out his hand to one side of his table for
68
THE DISPONENT.
a piece of paper, and began writing the short form
of betrothal to which they were to put their names
or marks. Then looking up for a moment with a
kind expanding countenance,
“Well, Anno are you willing to have this
man?” and continuing to write,
“I am glad you are to have a comfortable home
—mind you keep it clean and tidy—I'll come and
see you. I know you have been a good daughter,
so I hope you’ll make a good wife : are you will-
ing to marry Ian 4” No answer came ; and the
old gentleman having finished writing his formula,
looked up now in expectation. The poor girl’s
hands were pinched together, colorless and blue ;
and her face was crimson, at least so much of it
as could be seen, which was only the forehead and
the division of the hair, from which a few slender
strands hung straight down at right angles from
the face. As the pastor looked up more inquir-
ingly still—down went the head lower and lower
—the whole hair fell over her as a veil, and the
next moment face and hair and all were buried in
her hands, and she burst out crying. The old
father now came forward coaxingly, and whispered
into her ear: she took no notice. The bridegroom
took one of her hands to pull it from her face ; she
elbowed him violently away, and seemed from her
excited action as if she could gladly have struck
him. “ Ei, Ei-Polli ichtige f" “Nothing at
all,” said the old man ; “she is frightened.”
“Women are silly,” said the bridegroom—such
forms of speech being quite consistent in Livonia
with the most ardent passion—“give me the paper
to sign.” §
“No, no,” said the clergyman, “if you please,
I’ll hear more about this first. Come with me,
Anno ; there is nothing to be afraid of:” and he
took the girl by the hand, who followed with
choking sobs and heaving shoulders into the next
TOOII).
Here the mystery was soon solved ; and through
tears, and blushes, and hesitations, the pastor was
made to understand that Ian might be a very good
man, she dare say he was, but that he was not the
man she had expected to be betrothed to—and this
made all the difference to her—indeed—indeed it
did—and she asseverated it with the utmost ear-
nestness, as if fearing the pastor might not believe
her. The old man smiled in his sleeve, but asked
her in a serious tone why she had not said this at
first, as it was committing a great fault to stand up
and be betrothed to a man she did not wish for.
Anno assented mutely, and the hair fell down
again. Then with a slight degree of embarrass-
ment, for the affaires de casur of his poor parishion-
ers were quite a new field to him, he gently ques-
tioned her how the mistake came about ; and
inquired finally as to the real Simon Pure of her
affections. The answer was simple enough. She
had seen a young peasant several times at church,
whom she had taken, she knew not why, for the
Disponent of Essmeggi, and when the old mother
came with an offer of marriage from the actual
Disponent himself, she had immediately agreed to
his proposal of betrothal on the following Sunday.
That she had never seen this Ian before ; or rather,
she had never, looked at him; and when she did
look at him this morning, she thought she should
have died
The pastor was both amused and touched at this
marrative. He was accustomed to see the gentle-
ness of the Lettish women crushed into apathy, or
their quickness sharpened into cunning, and such
an outbreak of genuine feeling was quite refreshing
to him. He left Anno where she was, and re-
turned alone into the little room. His blood was
up to think that two men, one her father and the
other old enough to be so, should combine to take
advantage of a poor girl's mistake. Both were
standing as he left them—the Disponent looking
bold and undisconcerted, the old man cringing and
shamefaced. He addressed this latter first, and
not in gentle tones nor terms:—
“You old rascal ?” he said, “to sell your little
daughter for a few sacks of meal and tubs of
Strömlin. Is that the way to heaven 4 and you
about to leave this earth ! You should be
ashamed of yourself: go home and work for her,
and be glad this sin is off your grey head—it
will be time enough for her to marry five years
hence '’
The old man looked the type of ineffable sheep-
ishness; he whined out something about the Dis-
ponent's having come a long way on purpose—and
the pastor being all ready ; , and about women
having long hair, but short thoughts—a favorite
proverb with the lords of the creation in this part
of the world—and other silly excuses, which were
suddenly silenced by an emphatic “Hold your
tongue.”
Then turning to the Disponent, the pastor said,
“And you too—you great selfish fellow, to care to
profit by what was never intended for you! What
blessing could you expect? Go and get a wife
honestly, if one will have you ; but don't come to
me to help you to entrap a girl who likes somebod
else better ''' r
As he said this he looked full at the man, and * *
from that moment had no further doubt of his real
expression. The slightest change had converted
the countenance from one of the most specious
honesty into that of the most hardened effrontery,
and the good pastor immediately wrought out a
little theory as he observed how close was the con-
nection between the two. The Dispoment was a
hardened brute, and that of the worst sort–one
that could conceal his passions; for he answered
not a word—deliberately strode up to the chair to
reclaim his bridal gifts, swept up the finery under
his arm, threw a look of malice at the bystanders,
and left the room.
CHAPTER II.
Tire hour for morning service was now ap-
proaching. The church, which stood within a few
yards of the Pastorat, was a great ugly building,
built only for the use of worship, and not for its
symbol, and down, the one trodden tract, which
looked like a deep furrow in the monotonous fiel
of snow around, came pouring the congregation in
irregular procession. The little rude sledges
drawn by small shaggy horses, and holding some-
times a whole family party, sometimes only one
indolent man, glided swiftly along, passing whole
rows of pedestrians, chiefly women and girls, who
paced nimbly and lightly one after the other in per-
fect silence. The men were mostly clad in sheep-
skins—the wool inside—their own wool lying on
their shoulders in various states of entanglement;
some in heavy strands, others with every hai:
standing on end with the frost, but all looking very
warm and very picturesque, as most dirty thing”
do The women were more striking. The high,
stiff, helmet-like caps they wore on their heads
were covered with ample folds of white lineº,
which passed in a low bandage over the forehead,
i
THE DISPONENT.
69
and in graceful oval lines down the cheeks, till,
Xith their brown woollen upper garments, some.
thing like a short pelisse, covering all the gay
Striped petticoats underneath, they might have
Passed for some humble religious order. Though
*any had come a considerable distance, yet the
*en clear air had braced their steps and colored
§eir cheeks, and the groups wore that certain
Sunday-look of freshness and peace so grateful
"the mind both in reality and association.
When the sledges had discharged their loads at
* church gate, the next business was to stow
ºn in some way near it, and soon they stood,
Packed together, as closely as the carriages may he
*n at the height of the season before some
ºlionably attended morning concert; the vehicles
ºffering not more than the object they were
*Sºmbled for. Many of the owners left their
Śledges to the discretion of their horses, and the
*le animals drew close together, and some of
"em rubbed noses most affectionately, while others
*ered and tried to bite, in a manner very much
6 reverse.
ºanwhile, most of the women and children had
. the church, the men remaining in groups,
*ing in their babbling monotonous tones. Soon
. apparent that some new and very piquant
ºte was going the round of the assemblage,
S knowing looks were given, and white teeth
d °wn from ear to ear, and witty things said—and
sº Particularly pointed at a young peasant, con-
...ous for his fine figure and face, who seemed
* to take them particularly amiss. But now the
. in his rusty black Geneva robe, was seen
W.; from his house, passed through them
... many a kind look and word, and the congre-
**on thronged into church.
Anno was already at her place, her betrothal
i.ents covered up with the customary brown
º and looking now very much like all the other
§ around her, only that she was far prettier, and
º prettier to-day than usual. Full in front of
stºod that same young peasant, erect and broad-
"lºred; and though Anno was so attentive to
lift jº that no one in the church ever saw her
an er head from her hymn-book, yet somehow she
. to ascertain that her vis-à-vis was in full
jºfthe events of the morning, and no little
i.e. with the share he had taken in them. How
Pasto all got out we do not pretend to say, but the
the ...,kitchen was the very centre of gossip, and
º old gentleman himself not over-discreet.
sº. hardly say that this was the Disponent's
him ssful rival, and nobody who had once seen
$ould wonder or regret that he was so.
*Addaſer, though surnames are superfluous
#,'...ish peasant life, was truly a fine creature.
Soul as handsome a person and as generous a
W m. ever caught the eye and won the heart of
min i. He was so different from his poor, low-
to both’ dull fellow-peasants, that it seemed unfair
€nce º place him among them. But the differ-
Countr s not of a kind to unfit him either for his
han. º, his countrymen. He had only all the
er ..". of the Livonian nature in a high-
neither ...” that were foreign to it. He was
9 Soun . nor quick, nor ambitious; but he had
noble . feeling, the plain strong sense, the
*, which nt courage, and the sweet gentle tem-
Pression, a. even under the cruellest want and op-
lan reast e º quite obliterated from a Livon-
He was . e same might be said of his person.
Jºst the type of the national good looks; |
his figure unstunted by misery, and his face unde-
based by intemperance. He had the fresh ruddy
complexion, the brown curling hair, the open brow,
the clear blue eye, and then such a beautiful set of
teeth as might alone have undertaken to redeem the
ugliest countenance, and which the lightest heart
and the sunnicst temper were always showing.
Altogether Mart was one of those happily constitu-
ted beings whom it is refreshing to meet with in
any rank, not because they are so much better than
their fellows, but because their excellence seems to
be more spontaneous, starting, as it were, straight
from the heart-roots of their own nature, without
any intervening foundation of error, struggle, suf-
fering, or discipline. Such as he was day by day
and year by year, he seemed to have been created
—goodness his nature, labor his pleasure, and life
his enjoyment. Mart was truly simple.
It would indeed have been a pity had anything
come between Mart and Anno. She was not his
equal in mind or sense, indeed she was still too
young to know what she was ; but she was true-
hearted, aſſectionate, and industrious, and the mis-
take that had discovered her preference evidently
gave too much pleasure to Mart for any one to
doubt of his. Before he left the churchyard he
received many a sly intimation that the same old
mother could easily be induced to carry another
message to the same house, only taking due care
that there should be no further mistake, and also
many a grave warning not to have anything to do
with a girl who might be pretty, but whose father
was poor and idle, and who could only give her
the clothes on her back, and not the usual stock of
those. But Mart went his own way, he wanted
no old hag to invent for him what was not true, or
to mystify what was ; he did not care a straw
whether Anno had the usual outfit of clothes, or
whether she had any at all, but he strode away at
the utmost speed of his active limbs, overtook the
old man and his daughter before they had gone a
werst on their road, and, ere they separated, had
in every way rectified and repaired the mistake of
the morning. º
Mart had no one to oppose his choice—he stood
almost alone in the world—he had never had
brothers nor sisters—both his parents were recently
dead, and only an old grandmother remained, who
lived with him, and whom he supported with great
respect and tenderness. His j had been, like
old Tonno, Anno's father, poor and idle, but also,
like Tonno and many others in this part of the
world, idle chiefly because he was poor—because
he had seen himself gradually go down in the
world under a set of hard laws and a perpetual
change of masters, in spite of his best eſorts to re-
cover himself, and because after a while he had lost
both heart and strength to renew them. But
though he had left the fields which he held on the
estate in a miserably exhausted state, and the
buildings he and his cattle occupied in the most di-
lapidated condition, yet they were no longer the
same now. Mart had thrown the whole weight of
his cheerful spirit and his vigorous arm upon them,
and was already known as one of the most steady
payers of his rent, and the most punctual perform-
ers of his allotted days of service (the old frohn
Dienst) upon the estate. He was not rich, nor
hardly to be called easy, as peasant life goes, in his
circumstances, but he was a rising man; and this
description of suitors we recommend to young la
dies far more than those who have ready ma .
fortunes to offer.
70
THE DISPONENT.
Under these circumstances there did not seem much
occasion for a very long courtship. Anno's dowry
would not increase with the delay of the marriage-
day, nor Mart's industry diminish with the speedy
celebration of it; on the contrary, he assured her
that he felt much more tempted to waste time while
there were eleven wersts between them, than he
should do when she was under his own roof. But
whether this was most true or most ingenious, we
must leave.
One afternoon, therefore, Mart dressed himself
out in his Sunday best, and, accompanied by
another peasant, a pale, unhappy looking man, the
very antipodes to himself, mounted his cart, for
spring had just burst out, and took the road for old
Tonno's dwelling ; first, however, having stowed
into the vehicle some bundles carefully wrapped up
in linen. The road led through several wersts of
wood, in which Mart's house stood, and then past
the baron's residence, and all the retinue of farming
buildings, stables, and outhouses, all built in the
same style, with which, as is the fashion in Livo-
nia, the house was surrounded. These were all
very heavy, and ugly, and in wretched bad taste,
but to Mart's eyes they were beautiful ; and as he
looked upon them, and reflected that the owner of
all this pomp and splendor—the being who had a
right to live in that great rambling house, with all
his farming buildings directly under his nose—was
voluntarily spending his time and money in a for-
eign land, Mart felt that this was one of those mys-
teries of the human heart which his own could not
comprehend. The next object that caught his eye
was a smaller house, about two wersts off the Hof,
or baron's residence, and built somewhat in the
same style, but this was much more really pretty;
it stood picturesquely with trees behind and above
it, and a clear stream before, which gave a still
prettier picture of the same thing, only reversed.
Then the house was built of stone and painted yel-
low, with a copper roof painted green, and it had
four sash-windows, and a wooden porch, and alto-
gether Mart felt that this was a residence more en-
viable still.
It was the Disponent's Mart, had not passed
that way since the day that Anno had declined be-
coming its inmate and mistress. We will not say
that this was so great a mystery to Mart's mind as
the last he had tried to solve: he felt his heart was
worth any Disponent's house any day, though a
modester one never beat; but still the thought that
Anno had given up a yellow stone house, with a
green copper roof, and sash-windows, and a porch,
and numberless treasures beside, all for him,
brought with it an overwhelming feeling as if he
could never adore her enough; and he urged on the
little willing horse, and saw and thought of no more
ouses until he reached that in which his Einokenne
(only one) dwelt. s
This was not a very tempting domicile. It was
built on the borders of a large morass, on which the
Waters of the winter's snow still stood, and which
spread also over the few stony, bare-looking fields
which composed Tonno's allotted tenure. The
house was of wood, old and dark, with a high
bristly back of dilapidated thatch hanging down
low over two little pig’s-eyes of windows, which
seemed adapted for anything but the admission of
light. The low log walls were stained and rotten,
some of the timbers were warped and sunk, and it
looked altogether a structure which a spark might
set on fire, or a puff blow down. But all around
was clean and tidy: the recent sweeping marks at
the door looked, it is true, as if they expected a
guest, but two long stripes of linen bleaching close
by, and a numerous brood of hens and chickens
chuckling over them, showed that Anno's care had
commenced before the present occasion.
As the little cart drove up to the house, not a
creature was visible. But soon old Tonmo's rough
grizzled head appeared from beneath the low door-
stall; he looked very knowing and shrewd, but af.
fected great surprise at their coming, and asked
them what they wanted. -
“I’ll tell you what I want presently,” said Mart,
with a significant air, as if he wanted to coquet with
the approaching merriment, at the same time tug-
ging away at the shafts to unloose his little horse.
“I’ll tell you presently. A fine day, Tonno.”
“A very fine day,” answered Tonno: “how
does your rye come on 1'.'
“Capitally well,” said Mart; “but I want a
pretty bird to help me to peck it, and I hear she has
flown in here.”
“A pretty bird what is she like?”
“Let me see and I’ll tell you,” said Mart.
“Bring out the whole cageful,” said his com-
panion ; and Tonno disappeared. Audible sounds
of laughter now resounded from beneath the roof,
and in a few minutes the old man returned, drag-
ging by one arm a robust peasant girl, all crimson
with laughter and shamefacedness.
“Here's your bird,” said Tonno.
Mart pretended to scrutinize the lady, and at-
tempted to take her hand, when he was repelled
with that degree of violence which is the approved
standard of Lettish modesty. “A very pretty
bird,” he said, “but she is too shy for me—you
may let her ſly.”
Again Tonno retired, and again the same laugh-
ter was heard, in which Mart thought he caught
some tones which set his heart beating. This time
Tonno brought forward a weather-beaten hard-
worked-looking peasant woman, with the matron’s
cap on her head, who looked up boldly and good-
humoredly at the young man, and seemed to enjoy
the joke. -
“This is your bird,” said Tonno again.
“A very nice bird indeed,” answered Mart;
“but I suspect she has already got a mate for her-
self. I shall have my eyes pecked out if I put my
head into her cage. No! try. Again.”".
Then was brought out a little girl"of ten years
old, and Mart said she was not fully fledged; and
then an old woman, bent with age, and Mart patted
her shoulder tenderly, and said, he should like her
very much, because she would not fly away; but
still she was not the right one—with various other
witticisms. g
“Have you any more birds in your cage!” he
inquired, º ... "
“No,” said Tonno; “the cage is empty now.”
“Thén I must look for myself;” and leaving the
º in a roar of mirth outside, Mart stooped
is tall head under the door-stall and entered the
house.
What took place then, and where he found the
bird, and how he contrived to catch her, we of
course do not know. At all events, he was a long
time about it, and it was not till old Tonno had
summoned them at the top of his voice, and the
women had come round and peeped in at the win-
dows, that the parties appeared—both looking very
red, happy, and silly.
Then Mart went in a great hurry, as if to cover
some confusion, and brought out the bundles
THE DISPONENT.
71
*Pºd in linen. Their contents proved to con-
sist of bright handkerchiefs, pretty aprons, and gay
ibbons, which each in turn elicited fresh bursts of
..iºn, and which he hung side by side upon
nno's pretty round arms, till there was not a
*Pace left. Then he took a large silverbrooch with
* glass studs, and put it into one hand, and two
*Yer ruble-pieces, and put them into the other:
*", having thus faden her with as much as she
$ºuld hold, he boldly took her head between his
great hands, gave her a hearty kiss before all the
*Pºtators, and said, “Here is my pretty bird.”
As this was felt by all the party to be pretty con-
*sive, though not necessarily belonging to the
$ºremony, Tonno now invited them all to enter the
Sºse, when, bringing out a bottle of spirits which
*been brewed in better days, they all drank to
the health of the bridal pair.
: "We have mentioned the peasant who accompa-
*d Mart in this expedition. His office, according
19 the ancient rules in these matters, which are
§ietly kept up among the peasantry, was that of
"ºutwerber, or bride-wooer, though it must be
$º Mart had left him but little scope for it.
his trust is always committed to a steady married
*h, usually some near relation of the bridegroom,
º serves as spokesman for one who is supposed
Rhetoo bashful to speak for himself. It is well,
“refore, that on this occasion the bridegroom was
* of this description, or he would have found but
*le help in the Brautwerber he had selected; for
i. ann, as we have said, was pale and timid look-
S 8; and as melancholy and silent as his looks be-
.*. Nobody wondered at Mart's choice of him
. this occasion, for all knew that they were sworn
*nds, but how they came to be so it was difficult
**ccount for, except by the contrast in their char-
**ters. So it was, however. Mart loved the poor,
ºxious, depressed-looking creature, and he in re-
'urn would do anything for Mart, and certainly
"ould have undertaken this office for no one else,
ºr now without much persuasion; also with the
$onviction, perhaps, that it would prove what we
** shown it to have been—a complete sinecure.
th: ls needless to describe Anno's second visit to
... Pºorat, nor how the ceremony of betrothal
. off without the slightest interruption or mis-
i. The good pastor looked at the young couple
. him with the deepest interest, read off
ti. *'s honest, open countenance with the most en-
* Satisfaction to himself, and threw into his ad-
. a tender tone of exhortation and comfort.
i. ºgether this little episode spoke to a set of feel-
. in his breast which, in the exercise of his
...”ion, generally lay dormant. He had long
ol *e to that conviction to which all actively benev-
§ºt persons do, or should arrive, that the disap-
§ºn: of the finer and more delicate sentiments
exo © heart is the necessary price you pay for the
as reise of charity, especially towards such objects
i." it most; and that, in truth; you are never
- . and disinterestedly charitable till you do
jº all expectation of iº their indulgence. He
º too much of the straitening and numbing in-
the nce of excessive material want to wonder that
sho º poetical parts of the human character
* Perish beneath it. These, he felt, would
which i start up into life the moment the weight
that ti impeded them was removed; and meanwhile,
º "º roots from which alone they spring should
d tº. their vitality, only furnished him, like
man,) wi *istian philosopher as he was, (albeit a Ger-
•) with a further argument for the truth and power
* Ways
of the gospel he preached. For the Lettish peas-
ant, however abject misery may make him, is still
always a believing creature, easily directed to good,
bitterly penitent in evil.
Under these circumstances the pastor looked at
the young and handsome couple before him with a
feeling of almost romantic interest. Disinterested
love was a virtue, and happy love a luxury, which
he seldom had the pleasure of witnessing among
his poor peasantry. He was kindly interested in
all who came before him, but there was that in the
history, appearance, and tenderness of Mart and
Anno in which he could positively sympathize. He
felt that he had not given this woman, as he gave
too many others, merely to be a slave's slave, but
to become the cherished wife of an honest, upright
Iſld ſl.
We shall be thought to have laid far too much
stress upon the form of betrothal, considering that
of marriage has still to come. But, in truth, among
this primitive people, both the ceremony that pre-
cedes it and the festivities that succeed to it are felt
to be of far more importance than the wedding cere-
mony itself. This latter the Lettish peasant ap-
pears to go through with simply because the law
requires it. The solemnity of the occasion to him
is over—the rejoicings still to come. Generally
speaking, therefore, he appears at the church with-
out any holiday signs upon him, and in his every-
day working garment, and unattended, save by the
necessary witness. . As for taking his wife home to
his own dwelling after the ceremony is over, this is
an indecorum no Lettish peasant would dream of.
No the wedded couple separate at the church
door, and go their way, not to meet again until the
day appointed for their own national modes of
merry-making. As for Mart and Anno, however,
they are suspected of having been guilty of very
great breaches of etiquette, for he was known to
have walked the greater part of the way home to
Uxnorm with her from church, and a cart and horse
very much like his were decidedly seen there next
evening.
CHAPTER III. * ſº
ON the appointed day there was an early meeting
of friends and relatives at Mart's house. His invi-
tations had been most liberal—he was a universal
favorite—the day was fine. and one little cart-full
of gay wedding guests rattled up to the door after
another. Preparations for plentiful feasting had
been going on for some days previous, under the
superintendence of the old grandmother, a vener-
able, mild-looking old damé, who went tottering
about in a new apron of the brightest red, yellow,
and green that could be found-Mart's particular
gift for the occasion. The house was swept clean,
and strewn with fresh sprigs of spruce-fir; the
wooden barrels and drinking vessels were all as
fresh and as white as the running waters of the
stream could make them i, Mart's old dog, a fine
creature, in size and color:like a lioness, kept wag-
ging his tail without cºasing; the cocks and hens
retreated up to the rafters of the roof, and there
stood and crowed Hºlly, and every living
thing seemed in good humor.
Conspicuous among the arrivals were two smart
young peasants, who looked particularly full of
bustle, importance, and facetiousness, and seemed
in some respects to take the direction of matters
even over the bridegroom himself. These were
the marshals—a species of best men—whose office
is also very ancient and important, and who now
**.
W.
j-
* ..]"
72
THE DISPONENT.
reminded Mart of what he was all ready to remind
them, namely, that it was time to fetch the bride.
A little procession of carts, therefore, set out,
headed by the marshals and including most of the
male guests, and Mart, of course, among them;
while one cart in particular, Mart's own, decked
up with boughs and driven by the Brautwerber,
was evidently destined to bring back the prize.
The hour was still early, the roads were good, and
º met with no incident on the way.
rrived at Uxnorm, where they found also a
cluster of guests awaiting them, the marshals
alighted first, and entered in the name of the bride-
groom to demand the bride. They were not long
about this proceeding, or Mart would soon have
been after them, but reappeared in a few minutes,
followed by, rather than leading, the young girl.
Anno was apparently in her usual dress, her tight-
fitting woollen garment covering all decorations
beneath; but her pretty head was quite bare, her
maiden circlet had been left behind, and the ma-
tron's cap had not yet taken its place. The door
of the house was low and wide—the slim figure,
and modest, tender head, stood in full relief against
the dark interior, and as she lingered, unconsciously
perhaps, on the threshold, and looked back one mo-
ment, Mart's manly heart swelled with that exceed-
ing gratefulness which seems at once to change a
selfish passion into a holy duty. The father showed
himself not—he stayed behind. This is the eti-
quette at a Lettish wedding. The man fetches his
wife unaided by his parents—the woman leaves her
home uncompelled by hers; each is free.
But at that moment etiquette was far enough from
Mart's thoughts. The instant her foot quitted her
father's threshold he was at her side, lifted rather
than helped her into the cart, and, in defiance of all
rule and custom, seized the reins himself, and sprung
in after. In vain did the brautwerber meekly expos-
tulate, and the marshals imperiously dictate—Mart
was in full possession, and in such a state of up-
roarious happiness that there seemed to be no access
to his understanding by the usual channels. The
little horse knew his master, and set off at full speed,
and all the anxiety of the marshals was now di-
rected to prevent his taking the lead in the proces-
sion, which would have been the climax of impro-
priety. This they managed to avert after a short
race, when Mart, having effected his aim, dropped
contentedly behind them, and the little horse was
left very much to please himself.
The day was now up ; the procession, swelled
by Anno's bridesmaids and relatives, cut a most
imposing figure, and the marshals were anxious to
exercise their privileges, namely, that of making
every other vehicle on the road turn off for them.
he first they met were humble peasants like them-
selves, who were as willing to observe the custom
as they were to exact it, and who drew off imme-
diately to the side, and waved their caps as the
party passed. A werst or two farther on, how-
ever, a private barouche was seen approaching—
four spirited horses full in the middle of the road,
as if they would run down all that opposed them—
a long-bearded coachman on the box as firm and im-
movable as the engine on a steam-carriage. Now
was the time for asserting their rights. The Braut-
werber, timid man! was all for relinquishing them,
but the marshals had warmer blood in their veins.
They knew well enough what it was to turn off for
their haughty masters, to stick in the road-side mud,
or struggle in the road-side drift, while the Baron's
carriage rolled by without yielding an inch, not to
make the most of such a rare opportunity for retali-
ation. Pulling and chucking, therefore, at their
little horses, who, from the force of habit, had
already begun to turn their heads patiently aside,
they drew them close together, and supported im-
mediately behind by Mart himself, who, in his turn,
encouraged the procession to keep their places, they
presented a firm phalanx. On came the four horses
sweeping along, the coachman started into life,
shook the whip which hung upon his wrist, and
discharged a mouthful of Russian oaths at the body.
A concussion now seemed inevitable, when a broad,
good-humored face leant forward from the barouche,
saw the state of the case in a moment, and dis-
charged a very similar volley at the coachman in
return. The carriage instantly swerved to one side.
This was quite enough. Every cap flew off, every
face expanded, and there was not one of the party
who would not have been willing to drive their
carts into a ditch for that same good-humored face
another time.
On they went more merrily than ever, undisputed
lords of the road, ready to defy the autocrat him-
self, if one of his meteoric courses had led him in
that direction. Their way now turned off from the
high road towards the mansion and farming build-
ings we have spoken of before. The great man-
sion with its front of five-and-twenty windows lay
in the distance, and close on one hand was the
Disponent's with its four, two to the south, and two
to the east, with the sun full upon the yellow walls
and green roof brighter than ever.
“A pretty house,” said Mart.
“Wegga illos,”—very pretty—whispered his
companion.
“Shall I drive you there, Anno 1" he said, with
a sly expression.
“Yes, when you are Disponent,” answered
Anno. This was said so livelily, and with such a
look up into his face as she had never ventured on
before, that it was no wonder that Mart took occa-
sion to whisper something particularly confidential;
on which down went Anno's head low into her lap,
and Mart's almost as low after it. Nothing, in-
decd, but the singularity of such a position could
have prevented the young couple from seeing a
one-horse vehicle, of a kind of droschky shape,
which was advancing rapidly. As it was, they
were first roused from the conviction of there being
no other individuals in the world but their two
selves, by the harsh voice of the Disponent himself
summoning the marshals to turn off the road.
Now there is something in the very place and
person of a Disponent paticularly odious to a half-
civilized peasantry, like these we are describing,
who have still too much of the serf in them to dream
of questioning the authority of their masters, but
too much also of the freeman to bear the tyranny
of a class possessing all the mischief of their mas-
ter's power, without the prestige of their position.
It is invariably to the Disponent of an estate to
whom all the misery and misrule, upon it are to be
traced. Their interest is equally served by the
negligence of the proprietor and the ignorance of
the peasant, and the one is usually misled and the
other misrepresented as best suits their mercenary
purposes.
Setting aside the personal hatred in which Ian
was held, it was sufficient that he was a Disponent
for them to rejoice in this opportunity for exercising
their short prerogative. Even the Brautwerber
shook his matted locks and brandished his whip in
signal of resistance, and it was evident not an inch
THE DISPONENT.
73
Yºuld be yielded by his consent. Mart, however,
§ºs quiet. His blood mounted and his eyes dilated
ike an ancient Barsark, as he overheard the swag-
§ºring commands and Jack-in-office abuse which
the fellow levelled at the party. But Anno was
fightened, and as he put his arm round her, he felt
** he was not quite so free to fight his quarrels
With one who could work him so much good or ill,
*he had been a few weeks before.
esides, he really bore the Disponent no unkind-
*s. It is easy and sweet to be generous when
}. are happy, and Mart felt that Ian's mortification
ad been his triumph. The marshals, however,
Yºrº exceedingly pugnacious. They belonged to
*other estate, which did not come under his juris-
!ºtion, and they levelled the best Lettish slang at
i. at the top of their voices. The shaking of
*ºness and the creaking of wheels was now heard,
*d the parties stood up in their respective vehi-
§s, as if eager to throw their grappling-irons.
here is no saying what might have ensued, when
* of the marshals gave the Disponent's horse a
$ºt across the face, which made the poor animal
"ºn sharp aside with a suddenness his master could
* Stop–down went the wheel into a ditch—the
Whºle party swept past with cheers and groans of
°Flsion, and a stout voice called out, “Where's
Yºur wife, Ian! We'll turn off for you when you
ting her home.”
T his was the crowning triumph of the day.
hey now entered the little forest-road in which
°re was no further chance of obstruction, and
ºnding their pace, drove on for some time in
Silence.” Then they broke out into a low monoto-
§ºus chant, which, though far from musical in
*elf, rang pleasingly through the thicket of irreg-
ular trees which iºd to Niart's house, and an-
"ounced their approach before they themselves be-
“ame visible.
#ºno had never seen Mart's dwelling before.
, “It is not so beautiful as Ian's house,” said Mart
a low voice.
“Illos küll”—beautiful enough—answered
ºno, in a still lower.
!he cart now stopped at the low wide door,
...th was crowded with guests awaiting their
§ººl, and the married lovers' tete-à-tête was over.
* marshals, elated with their late successes,
*e all on the alert to fulfil their parts. The
§ºes suspended to the shafts, which are supposed
...ing good luck to whoever, reaches them first,
Were eagerly snatchcd: the bride was lifted from
% cart at one bound on to a sheepskin extended
º the door, to signify that the way through
ºl e was henceforth to be soft to her feet—a type,
. to which there is no reality, at least not
º ºr a Russian government!, The Brautwerber
lºwed corn before her, in emblem that abundance
W. to follow her to her new home, and thus she
thre ºd in noisy triumph over her husband's
3. *hold. There, surrounded by the women who
3.C. ºnlined behind, and propped in a rude high-
to “d chair, sat Liso, Mart's grandmother, ready
§eive the new comer.
. was their first meeting, and the old dame
girl, i * Searching and solemn glance on the slight
grai i. whom she saw at once the maiden her
dIn i. had wooed, the bride he had betrothed,
i. Wife he had married. Anno bent involun-
Y, before her, and not a word was exchanged,
*ś, slowly risi º
ng and coming forward. the old
Woman took g coming y
A
* high stiff cap made of white silk and
p º: * on Anno's pretty head. Voices had been
*VI. Living AGE. WOL., XI, 5
loud, and faces merry, but all were now hushed
and serious, for this simple ceremony went to
everybody's heart.
The meeting between youth and age is at all
times a touching sight and an impressive lesson,
telling us what the one has been and the other
must become. The very difference between them
disposes the mind to reverse more than to compare—
to put the aged back, and the youthful forward.
Anno's head trembled with girlish timidity, old
Liso's shook with infirm age; yet both were only
separated by that time which time itself would
unite.
When the cap had been slowly adjusted, the
grandmother again gave a glance at Anno, and
in a shrill, distinct voice repeated this ancient form
of words which belongs to the ceremony: *
“Forget thy sleep.–Remember thy youth-
Love thy husband.” Accompanying each sen-
tence with a slight stroko of Anno's cheek. Then
turning to Mart,
“Ah! my son, my son;–you are a good man;
you have chosen a beautiful wife; I know she
will be a happy one.” Then addressing Anno,
“He has been always good to an 'old grand-
mother, will he not be good to a young wife! I
hope you are worthy of him.”
“Grandmother—pai (good) grandmother?” said
Mart, in a tone of expostulation; but Anno stood
upright with modest self-possession ; and taking
Mart's great brown hand in hers, she kissed it with
wifely reverence. Then going round to all her
new relations and guests, she begged their affec-
tion, as is the custom, and kissed their hands—not
even the Brautwerber's little puny boy of three
years old was omitted. And Mart's eyes followed
the movements of that new white cap with exulta-
tion, for he felt that the face beneath must win all
hearts. Finally, she patted old IKarria Pois, who
sat gravely by the grandmother's side looking on,
and who liſted his broad forehead under the pres-
sure of her hand, and raised his large gentle eyes
to her, with as affectionate a look of welcome as
any she had received. Then placing herself next
Liso's chair, she quietly stooped for a little wooden
footstool which had been pushed away, and placed
it beneath the old woman's feet, as if by this sim-
ple action to show that her course of filial service
was begun. -
In the estimation of most present, especially of the
women, the placing of the cap was by far the most
important ceremony that had occurred, and cer-
tainly Anno's own feelings inclined that way. She
had ſistened to the exhortation at her betrothal with
awe, and received the marriage benediction with
wonder; but there was something more than both
in the touch of that aged hand on her cheek, and in
the pressure of the cap on her brow, which made
her feel that now indeed she was a wife.
The male guests now all turned out again; and
Anno mingled with the ºther women in preparing
the meal, and delighted old Liso's heart by her evi.
dent neatness and skill.
This meal, which answered the purpose of
breakfast and dinner both, consisted of but few
dishes, and those of a primitive kind. There was
a whole row of wooden vessels full of sour milk,
with cream an inch thick upon it—a national and
most delicious dish, which the daintiest palate need
not despise, but which requires the richness of a
Lettish pasturage and the heat of a Lettish summerto
prepare. Then there was plenty of picklelströmlin
—the anchovies of the north—which in times of
74
THE DISPONENT.
average plenty form the chief article in the daily
food of the peasantry; with tubs full of hot smok-
ing crayfish, lobsters in miniature, which abound in
the streams of this country, and are much in re-
quest for the tables of the upper classes. Of sub-
stantial loaves of fermented rye-bread of course
there was a great provision, varied by another and
lighter kind called seppig, being the same unfer-
mented, which served for cake. All these solids
were duly counterbalanced by a profusion of strong
beer, or what in other lands would come under the
denomination of ale, the produce of Mart's own
field and hop-garden: while two of those peculiar
shaped bottles which seem predestined to much the
same purpose all over the world, raised their slen-
der throats from out of their big bodies, full of the
colorless dew of a finer and stronger distillation—
of which, by the way, northern heads and stomachs
can bear more than any other nation.
The meal was conducted with great propriety :
the young couple sat together for the first time,
and the marshals did the honors and plied the
guests, who were very quiet and silent, as hungry
people with a full board before them usually are.
On this account perhaps this meal is not looked up-
on as the chief entertainment. The company is
supposed to eat from simple appetite, and not from
epicurean enjoyment. Other ceremonies had to be
performed, and even among this rude people there
is a feeling against revelling in the day-time. The
daylight is another thing, and not to be avoided at
a season when the night is only a paler day about
three hours long.
Accordingly, having satisfied their appetites, they
left the benches and again dispersed—the men
smoking their pipes and lounging at the door, or
sleeping upon the bank of the stream in the sun,
occasionally exchanging some facetious remarks
with the women and girls cleaning the wooden ves-
sels, as they passed backwards and forwards to the
stream. Anno, however, never appeared from
within ; and Mart, who neither slept nor smoked,
was frequently missing from without.
During this entre acte old Tonno, with a few
other decrepid worthies, arrived. By rights he
should not have come till the next day; but Mart
was determined to curtail the time of festivity, and
to cram every possible rite and every possible hos-
pitality into a shorter time than usual. Anno
blushed up under her very cap as she saw her
father, who, according to a customary witticism,
pretended not to know her in this costume.
His arrival was the signal for another national
observance of more importance to the worldly wel-
fare of the young couple than any that had preceded
it. The marshals now started up into activity,
gave three or four loud discordant whoops to rouse
those who slept, and summon those who had wan-
dered, and soon assembled them all in a numerous
body before the house.
It was altogether a pretty scene. The sun had
begun to decline from its long-held height in the
heavens, and the sloping shadows of the trees fell
over the long straight roof and low walls, and
played and quivered among the crowd assembled at
the door; which, with the bright costumes of the
women, the dull coarse garments of the men, and
the uncouth figures and faces of too many of them,
together with the rough, benches and tables, and
icturesque wooden vessels scattered around, looked
#. some northern Ostade's village-feast.
The Brautwerber now came forward, and, taking
a small parcel from his pocket, shook out what
might at first sight have been safely taken for some
variety of national flag, but which the ladies pres-
ent instantly recognized to be the newest and most
fashionable description of apron. Then, diving for
Anno, who was ensconced behind everybody else,
he brought her forward, and with some pretended,
and quite sufficient real awkwardness, succeeded in
tying it up round her short but slender waist.
Then the marshals came up : each took a corner
of the apron, and, examining it attentively, shook
their heads and said, “This is not a good apron.”
“What ails it!” inquired the Brautwerber.
“It’s an old rag,” they answered; “there 's a
hole in it.”
“Perhaps this will mend it,” rejoined the Braut-
werber, and threw in a silver half-ruble.
“That’s a good beginning, but it will want
more yet. Hold tight, Anno ;” and they each
threw in a silver coin, declaring that the hole was
bigger than they had thought, and that it would
take a good deal to stop it. Then each guest in
turn drew near, and flung in their offerings, which
fell heavy or light according to the means of the
giver. i. the little silver shower continued,
while Anno stood and bent her head gracefully,
and whispered “Olge tervis”—thank you—as each
coin fell.
The marshals now again approached, and declar-
ed there were several more holes they had not ob-
served at first—great ones—and again each cast a
mite into the growing treasury. Their example
was followed with increased alacrity. In vain
Anno repeated “Olge tervis,” and Mart interposed
with “Küll, küll, ea küll”—enough, enough, quite
enough ; the gifts continued. The fulness of the
bride's apron is as much the test of the popularity
of the bridegroom as of her own; and Mart's
warm heart and strong arm had rendered too many
services to his neighbors not to be requited on such
an occasion as this, when all purse-strings are sup-
posed to hang very loose.
Nor were their donations confined to the coin of
the realm; a hank of fine white wool was thrown
in by one hand, and a bunch of shining flax by
another; then a roll of stout homespun linen, and
a piece of coarse woollen cloth, and ribbons, and
woollen gloves, and a little bit of coarse lace, and
various other articles of female use or luxury.
Then a measure of fresh eggs was placed down on
one side of her, and a småll tub of salt butter for
winter luxury at the other; and suddenly a new
spinning-wheel appeared in front ; and a crazy old
basket, out of which peeped several chickens'
heads; and, lastly, a tottering calf was driven up,
till Anno was fairly surrounded with objects of
household wealth, and stood in the midst like the
Goddess of Abundance. Then more and more was
heaped upon the apron, till either the bride's arms
or the apron-strings seemed in danger of giving
way; and at last the marshals pronounced it to be
fairly mended, and not a hole more discernible.
But now old Liso hobbled forward, and, with
her wrinkled face lighted up with a cheerful pleas-
ant expression, turned to the marshals, and told
them they were young men, but still they were
very blind; that even her old eyes could see
another great hole, and one which only her offering
could repair.
“Daughter,” she said to Anno, “all your pres-
ents are very beautiful, and your neighbors have
made you very rich ; but there is nothing in all
i
they have given you which can mend the holes of
human life like this. The time may come when
THE DISPONENT.
75
*have nothing left to you of all your worldly
fº, but even then, with the blessing of the
ord, you shall find this enough.” So saying,
she drew forth a Lettish Testament, which looked
*}ſ, it had had the care and wear of many a year,
*laid it topmost on the heap.
i, Now the apron was actually in danger, and how
* contents were not all spilled was really a won-
§: ; for Anno's arms were in a moment round the
old Woman's neck; but Mart's ready hand had
.*d the load; and untying it from Anno's waist,
**100d holding it in her stead, and looked on with
8"stening eyes.
di * pass over the concluding scenes of the wed-
"g festivities, which had far more noise and less
*aning in them than any which have hitherto
*h described; and which lasted so long, that
M "no longed to lay aside her heavy new cap, and
art to dismiss his guests. They were not, how-
§º, to be let off so easily. The jollity ceased, it
**rue, with the setting of the sun, but rose #.
* next day, though not so early as he. Then
!hey adjourned to old Tonno's house, as is the cus-
**, and then returned to Mart's, and, in short,
Fººty well ate and drank up the value of what they
*d presented, before they left the young couple to
Hºwelves to begin what are called the realities of
CHAPTER IV.
JF ever these same realities, as they are inappro-
Pºlately called only because they are disagreeable,
ºised to fall lightly on any human heads and
*rts, it was on the present occasion. Mart and
#. were both so young and checrſul and pious.
N ey had injured no one, and everybody liked them.
either did they expect a life of ease, but both
Yere willing to work, and it was a pleasure to work
°r each other. And then there was that good old
Woman, the wisdom of whose age seemed only to
§ courage the trustfulness of their youth. For
°ugh there might be hard seasons, and bad har-
*śs, and cruel masters, of which she had had her
full share, yet Liso knew that the world would
*e to an end sooner than the blessing of God fail
!" His own time and His own way upon one who
*:Sherished an aged parent as Mart had done her.
litº, summer days flew quickly by ; one of the
*ě attentions of Mart's short period of courtship
ad been to plant a corner of one of his fields with
* for Anno's use, and the plentiful return now
*"?wed that no common labor had been bestowed.
*erwise the harvest was far from good, and some
šumbled who always grumbled, but some also
*ººk their heads who were not given to despond.
ut the truth is, that on most estates in this
§untry, and especially on those left to the tender
!nercies of a Disponent, it is only in the best of
*Yests that the peasants are kept above want; bad
€S they can never aſſord to meet. Mart, how-
*; had not much to fear. He had some little
º for the future, and also he had no debts
° in corn or labor to pay, as too many have;
and this enabled him to give all his spare summer
ime to improving his fields. He was a tenant upon
.*nt tenure, giving three days' work himself and
r. horse to the proprietor of the cstate, as a weekly
. for the portion he cultivated for his own
i ...lºnge, besides a certain allotment of corn,
. *; and eggs. This tenure falls very hard
j ; ignorant and careless, peasant, especially
edi. sº-called act of enfranchisement has reliev-
*"PPer classes from all responsibility for his
welfare and support, and retained their full author-
ity over his labor. A single man's work for three
days in the week during the short Russian summer
can hardly cultivate sufficient land to maintain him
and his family the year round. Then, besides the
portion of corn for the landlord, another, never
grudged, be it said to their honor, goes to the cler-
gyman ; while a third is Cxacted from him to put
into what is called the Bauerklete, or peasant's
granary; in other words, to contribute to a fund of
corn against the time of scarcity; which fund , from
mismanagement, theft, or fraud, is too often found
low or empty when most required.
It is true the peasants are frequently improvident
lazy, and inclined to avoid their quota of labor,but stil,
their sufferings arise quite as much from the over-
reaching of their rulers as from any shortcomings
of their own. º
Mart's work was by no means light this summer.
He was willing and active as usual, but, do what
he would, nothing went right. The most fatiguing
labor was always allotted to him; all he did was
pronounced ill-done; his feelings were insulted
with unjust suspicions; his temper was tried with
abusive language; and Liso and Anno saw him
often return to them after a long day's absence with
a weariness which seemed to be as much of the
mind as of the body. r -
Anno had her suspicions as to the causes of all
this, but as long as he did not speak she forbore any
allusion, and only endeavored by womanly tender-
ness and attention to make his home-life within
compensate for his discomforts without.
Time crept on with rather an increase than a
diminution of this tyranny. Mart's light heart and
generous temper struggled hard. It was not the
present trial that he minded; he would not have
cared how his duties were increased or encumbered
for a while, if with the labor of his hands and the
determination of his mind he could have worked
them off; but it was a new feeling for him to have
a fear for the future, and this it was which struck
the deepest. Not that he was much weighed down;
as long as his home was undisturbed and his con-
science unclouded Mart could not be unhappy, and
his clear whistle was still heard in his field, and
his white teeth seen bared with laughter before his
house door.
Several weeks had thus elapsed when Mart re-
turned one day from his distant work, with an ex-
pression of face Anno had never seen before... He
was haggard and miserable. . He said nothing,
however, and sat down mechanically to his evening
meal, though it was evident he did not know what
was before him. Anno had still too much of the
child about her to venture to search the cause for
his depression, though enough of the woman to
try every way to soothe it. All the little accumu-
lated home news of one day-all the trifles, precious
or worthless, according to how they are told, or
how they are heard, were raked and scraped to-
gether with infinite ingenuity. Poor Mart was
both too sweet tempered and too miserable to be
impatient, but his heart was not in a word she said.
At length, he flung his arms down on the board,
laid his curly head upon them, and groaned aloud.
“Mart! Mart! what is the matter!” said Anno,
now really frightened beyond all concealment.
“Tell me, pray.” *
“Oh! Anno,” said her husband, “we are ruined
Anno, we are ruined Look here,” and he gave
her a little scrap of coarse Russian paper with a
few words scrawled upon it. Anno could not read
76
THE DISPONENT.
writing very quickly, but she saw at a glance what
this meant. It was a summons to draw lots at the
next recruitage. tºr
“Mart,” said Anno “this is the Disponent's
doing.”
Mart nodded his head in mournful assent. Both
had long felt he was their enemy, and both knew
too well why. Not a word further was spoken
between the young couple for a few minutes, during
which Mart sat staring blankly before him, with
Karria Pois poking his great nose unnoticed into
his hand; and Anno was turning over every ima-
ginable expedient in her mind to remove it.
“We can buy you off. Mart,” she exclaimed
hastily. “We can buy you off. We’ll sell the
pigs and the young colt, and even the cows if neces-
sary; and then there’s the new corn. How much
does the protection cost?” Mart shook his head,
and would have smiled if possible.
“A thousand rubles' Anno—a thousand rubles
—think of that " We might just as well try to buy
the whole estate at once. All our pigs and cows
together would not fetch fifty, and the corn is all
wanted, and more than ever now, perhaps. No :
there's no buying me off.”
But Anno had more than one string to her bow.
A new hope had struck her.
“There's the scar on your arm, Mart, from the
burn when you saved those children. They take
no recruits with personal defects.”
Again Mart could have smiled. “No, no, my
Anno ; that did not hurt me then, and won’t help
me now. I shall suit very well for their purpose,
for all that.” In truth, this was a still forlorner
hope than the last. There were not many such
manly, well-grown figures that went up for exam-
ination and measurement, and not many so fine an
arm to dip for the fatal lot.
But Anno's inventions were not exhausted.
Timidly she said, “Do you think, Mart, that if
Liso and I-Liso, you know, with me—were to go
and beg Ian to help you off!—He always protected
you before.”
Mart was now no longer inclined to smile. “Not a
word, Anno,” he said with haste. “You shall never
go near that man; I’d sooner be a soldier fifty
times over. No, Anno, that won't do; but I may
escape—there are several of us. Go and tell my
grandmother; I can't,” and he ſlung out of the
door and went deep into the wood.
A sudden joy has always appeared to us a great
waste of the materials of happiness, and a threat-
ened evil an equal aggravation of the ingenuities
of misery. There is enough in the mere anticipa-
tion of certain happiness (humanly speaking) to
smooth down many an existing evil and too much
in the dread of possible sorrow to embitter many a
surrounding good.
t was a wretched and a heavy period for our
young couple which intervened between the day
which announced this trial and the day which was
to decide it. The weather was splendid—the seed
was Put well into the ground—everything in the
little household promised well. But promises point
to a futuº, and their future lay behind a dark
barrier. Mart took alternate fits of listless depres-
sion and excessive hard work, and between the two
he shrunk sº much that his clothes hung about him
as if he had had an illness. Anno pursued her
usual occupations: the flax was combed, and the l
spinning-wheel went its round; but she pined and
grew pale, as if in an unwholesome atmosphere.
Not the least part of this trial was that there
was nothing to do, nothing to prepare, nothing to
resist. If the worst came to the worst, there
would be always time enough to settle Mart's few
affairs, and meanwhile they had to bear that which
is one of the severest taxes upon the human mind,
namely, the living on in the same external world with
a total change of internal thoughts.
The good old woman was now the greatest bles-
sing to both. The miseries of the recruiting time
were but too familiar to her, who had lost two sons
in the hard service. She knew, better than the
fears of either could imagine, the real evils which
the dreaded lot entailed. But her piety was of that
true kind which can equally bear the passive sus-
pense or the active sorrow ; simply because it bears
them with the strength of another. -
Each came to her when their hearts were too
full to endure alone, and yet would not burden the
other. Mart tried to be a man to his wife, but he
did not mind being a child to his grandmother, and
in a true child-like spirit did he receive that pious
advice and comfort which best restored him to the
self-possession of the true man. He now recover-
ed much of his usual bearing He was serious
and silent, but gentler than ever, and had that
composure of manner which showed internal peace.
Mart had not known at first which was to be the
decisive day; but now he did ; and he told Anno
that it was to be on the Wednesday of the follow-
ing week. To his grandmother, however, he
owned that it was fixed for the Monday. But he
deceived his wife, feeling that two days more of
suspense in idea was better than one day of real
agony.
On the Sunday they all went to church. Liso
did not often go, on account of her infirmitics, but
this time Mart wished they should be all together.
A general gloom was spread through the congre-
gation, for the recruiting season inspires peculiar
horror in the minds of the Lettish peasantry, and
all knew that by that time to-morrow one or more
of their number would be separated from home,
and condemned to a service harder than every
other to mind and body, in which there is neither
glory nor pay. Many were in anxiety for their
own relatives, nevertheless all eyes turned upon
Mart and Anno, as they helped the infirm woman
up the church path, with peculiar pity, for they
felt that theirs was the hardest case.
Mart went straight into the church ; he was
averse to idle talk, and also feared the possibility
of Anno's being enlightened as to the real day.
He prayed with his whole heart to be enabled to
meet the result of the next day in a right spirit—
by that he only meant that result he dreaded—the
other alternative he could trust his heart to bear,
and yet dared not trust his heart to look at. Anno
wept in silence, and did not exchange a word with
a Cre:lture.
After service was over Mart waited aloof till the
congregation was dispersed, and then, leaving Liso
and Anno in the cart, went to the pastor's house.
There in that spirit of complete confidence which
is one of the most beautiful parts of the faith most
opposed in every way to the Lutheran, and perhaps
descended from it, he laid open to the pastor every
feeling of his heart : the great happiness of his
past life, and the struggle it had cost him to resign
himself to this unexpected trial.
The good old man was much moved. He had
heard with astonishment that Mart was to draw,
knowing that his character as one of the best-doing
peasants on the estate had hitherto screened him.
THE DISPONENT,
77
He had no power to help, for the absenteeism of
the young proprietor of this estate took from him
*y a means of softening the condition of the
§ºsants. The Hakenrichter, or magistrate of the
ºt, who directed the forms in such matters,
*** coarse, unfeeling man, who suffered no inter-
*nce from an inferior, and, like a true Lutheran,
90ked upon the pastor especially as one.
ºrt told him openly the ill will the Disponent
** shown hini since his marriage, and the evident
*d he had in this matter; and then begged the
lº's particular protection to shield Anno from
h "'s malice, or from what might be worse, in case
* should be taken. The old man promised all
[art could wish, and gave him an almost parental
*Sing; then, feeling that tears were in his eyes,
* Smiled with all his might: “Be of good heart,
*t I have no doubt I shall see you in your
** again next Sunday;” and so dismissed him.
M e Tiext morning Anno was still asleep, when
*t rose and went to his grandmother. The old
º was prepared, and the hymn-book had been
ºr hand since day had dawned.
{{ randmother,” said Mart, after a short pause,
*y time is come ; I must go. I cannot speak
º to you, for I feel more like a weak child than
o *rºng man. But give me your blessing to think
When I put my hand into the jar.” #
hav ! my son,” said Liso, “my blessing you
j. blessing of an old mother upon the most
i ºul of sons. I could give you nothing better,
, * Would ; for God will set His own hand to this.
* then, and be strong in His strength. Think
* ºf your old mother, nor of your young wife,
...think only of the Heavenly Father who is ever
. * They may take you far from us, but they
ºf take you far from Him.”
art covered his face with his hands, and the big
drops trickled through. Old Liso's voice
! also. “I hoped not to have done this, Mart:
* He knoweth whereof we are made, and I have
º: shed a tear of sorrow for you before. Go,
you have no strength to spare, and I have
i. to give now, but strength will come when the
ls there. Go, and the blessing of a poor old
*an be with you.”
... ºrt stood for a moment, then with a peaceful
Pºssion he said, “Your words have done me
i. ºlmºhº. I can go better now,” and he
h º to depart, but something lingered yet at his
pain, he came back. “Take care of my Anno,
§randmother;” and here his voice broke, and
turned away
CHAPTER V.
nº number of recruits annually required for the
the lan army, at the time we are describing, was
ja.". as it had been for several years past.
sº. first, and Circassia since, have drafted
activ . y upon the army, and, independent of all
drill- service, the favorite pastimes of the great
serjeant of the empire require a great amount
e." life to keep going. The rate of supply,
rial º, since the accession of his present Impe-
Stan .*. has never been below the average
above it “... in a thousand, and occasionally
Sixty milli aking the population of the empire, at
9W their lºns ºf souls, which is considerably be-
10 numb *Wh boasted valuation, and allowing for
€ em º being levied alternate years from half
this ... ..which rule is often encroached upon,
Ile allows the crown a regular provision of
} *cruits per annum. To which may be
added those condemned to the service for crimes
and misdemeanors—those, such as all soldiers'
children, condemned to it without—and the odd
numbers accruing from Foundling Hospitals, &c.
Such facts as these show not so much the over-
grown size of the Russian army, as the enormous
expenditure of life at which it is maintained.
Five men between the ages of eighteen and thirty
out of a thousand men, women, and children, of ail
ages, tell severely upon a population. There are
certain conditions which except certain individuals,
but no condition can abate the number required.
No three brothers out of a family can be taken, nor
the father of three children, unless there be no one
else to supply his place. Also the crown exempts
those it cannot use, such as the lame, the blind, and
the sick; also those the proprietor most wants, for
which purpose a right of protection is granted him :
over a certain number of men, according to the
size of the estate. But all this caution and gen-
erosity is at the expense of the remaining peasants,
the number of whom, after all these subtractions,
is reduced to a small amount, and those necessarily
of the most able and useful men in the village.
On the present occasion the population on the
estate was such as to furnish the crown with two
recruits, and the risk lay between only eight men;
nor was it yet decided whether all of these were
competent subjects to draw. *
These eight men were now gathered together at
the great front steps of the baronial residence we
have mentioned, being kept under a kind of restraint
by six soldiers, whose shabby ill-fitting clothes, and
dull, jaded, extinguished looks, were not calculated
to encourage, far less to delude, the hearts of those
who were now to throw for this same lot.
Mart was there. IIe had kept too much aloof
from all his fellow-peasants to know who were
destined to share this day of trial with him, and his
eye ran mournfully over the figures of two or three
of the most valuable members of their little village
community, and fell with the sharpest pang of all
upon the poor meagre person and pale face of the
Brautwerber. Hitherto Juhann had been screened,
not from his lack of strength, or for his wife and
two little children, but because he excelled in a
species of carpentering highly useful on the estate.
The power of protection, in the absence of the
proprietor, was left to the Disponent's discretion,
and Mart felt, what was perfectly true, that the
crime for which poor Juhann had forfeited it this
time was only that of being his friend:
The Brautwerber was standing to all appearance
the same as ever; his head sunk on his breast, his
limbs all nerveless and unstrung: . His little boy,
who seemed to have inherited his father's meek
pale face, was on his hand. Father and child were
seldom separated, and he seemed to have brought
him out of mere habit. Mart drew close to him.
Juhann liſted his eyes to his friend for a moment
with a look of utter apathy, or what appeared such,
and then raised them no more. They did not ex-
change a word. Mart's feelings were wrought up
for endurance, and he could neither have borne nor
given one word of sympathy.
Presently a coarse domineering voice was heard,
and the Disponent appeared at the top of the steps
and summoned them to enter. He was in the full
swagger of revengeful insolence, and had his eye
fixed upon Mart. But Mart did not look at him;
at that moment it mattered not who was the author
of this bitter hour. The pity for his comrades had
eased that dreadful sense of pity for himself. To
it.”
78
THE DISPONENT.
º
all the summons sounded like a knell, and firm
knees shook, and ruddy cheeks were blanched as
they moved together up the steps, four of the sol-
diers bringing up the rear, as if escorting prisoners.
Mart perceived that his friend could hardly drag
his limbs along.
“Lean on me, Juhann,” he said, and stooped to
support him, when he saw that the child was still
on the father's hand. “He can't go with us,”
said Mart; “give him me ; I'll leave him below,”
and he tried to disengage the little hand which the
Brautwerber held tight in his cold clammy grasp.
“Forward,” said the soldiers behind.
“Come on,” roared the Disponent in front.
“What’s all this about!—a child ! Kick it down
the steps.”
At this moment one of the remaining soldiers, as
immovable a machine to all appearance as his com-
rades, came forward and said “Dai”—give. It
was not the word, but the look that spoke. Juhann
let go his hold. Mart lifted up the little thing
above those next him, and the soldier received it
kindly in his arms. This little act refreshed the
poor men's hearts for a moment.
They were now shown through a great bare hall
into a side apartment, which, though spacious and
lofty, was close and unventilated, for the dusky
double windows had been left standing the year
round. There, upon coarse chairs brought in for
the purpose, for it was dirty and unfurnished, were
seated the Hakenrichter, (a kind of magistrate for
the district,) and an officer in uniform; behind
them, at along desk, several officials, all highly busy
examining registers, scrutinizing passports, and
scrawling over a great many long sheets of coarse
paper with the stamp of the Russian eagle at top.
The Hakenrichter was a hard-featured, red-haired;
thin man, who looked as if he could be both famil-
iar and unfeeling. He had served in the army,
and retired from it with that stamp of character
which Russian habits engender and Russian laws
protect. He always punished the weaker party,
and prided himself on his justice; he never believed
a word from a peasant, and boasted he was never
taken in ; he lied with unblushing effrontery, and
thought himself clever; he was fearfully passion-
ate, and called himself frank; he had no regard
for the feelings of others, and fancied himself
witty.
The officer was also very skinny and very ugly.
He wore a great number of orders, and his uniform
showed him to be an aide-de-camp to the emperor.
His face, therefore, testified that he could alter-
nately look the tyrant or the slave as circumstances
might require, but otherwise no variety of expres-
sion was discernible.
Behind the Hakenrichter stood the Disponent,
who was high in his favor, looking, as usual, all
honesty to those above him, and all insolence to
those below.
Now ensued a scene, the mere mention of which
will be description sufficient. The men, with the
exception of poor Juhann, were all apparently in
health, and free from deformity of limb, though one
was small and puny in size. But the crown is not
satisfied with appearances, lest, peradventure, a re-
cruit should be thrust upon it who might require
the hospital instead of the drill. Each man, there.
fore, in turn was subjected to a personal scrutiny,
only to be compared in nature and manner with
that carried on at slave and cattle markets: pro-
longed according to the will and pleasure of the
judges, and conducted with every aggravation most
insulting to the feelings. It is true, the feelings
of the generality of the peasants are not very keen
or delicate, and it would be surprising if under all
circumstances they were; nevertheless, on more
than one cheek there burned the glow of shame,
and in more than one eye there lowered a fire of
resentment, which boded a day of heavy retribution,
however distant, between the oppressed and the
oppressor. º
At the conclusion of this disgraceful scene, the
individual, still in the same state, stepped upon a
plank on which was fixed an upright pole with the
regulation standard of height, generally below the
usual stunted stature of the peasant. It was absurd
to measure Mart, who stood almost a foot above
it; but Russian laws must be performed to the
letter. .
No demur was made by the officer to any of the
men hitherto presented; though, acting as immediate
agent for the crown, he is generally difficult to
please. But now the Brautwerber's turn was come,
who stood last but two on the list. The officer
looked up, saw the small and sickly frame, and said
laconically, “Nelza 1"–he won’t do. A burning
ſlush of hope came over the Brautwerber's face and
throat, who had heard enough of Russian to know
what this characteristic word meant. The Dispo-
nent whispered busily into the Hakenrichter's great
misshapen ear.
“All a sham, Herr Major,” said the latter per-
sonage, turning to the officer. “The fellow has
been starving himself on purpose to get off. He
never had an hour's illness in his life. There's not
a stronger man on the estate; he can do the work
of three men. The Herr Major does not know
what rogues these fellows are. All a sham.”
These words told with deadly effect; for the
mere suspicion of having disabled themselves in any
way for the service is enough to overcome the fact
even of their being unserviceable. “Davolna”—
enough, answered the officer; “measure him.”
Here again another chance of escape seemed to
present itself; the revulsion from that moment of
hope had deprived the Brautwerber of his little
remaining strength. As he stood upon the plank
his whole frame sunk together; his head dropped
on his breast, and his height ſell far short of the
allotted standard.
“Stand up !” roared the Hakenrichter. “Pull
him up.”
The soldiers tried to raise him, but the nerveless,
unstrung, and bare body slipped through their grasp,
and collapsed lower than ever between them. The
Disponent hastened round with a brutal expression
in his eye. A stout stick was in his hand, with it
he struck the defenceless man a violent blow. The
poor creature started up like a goaded horse; the
soldiers jerked up his head :, it touched the required
point for one moment, and then sunk again.
But this was enough. He was ranged aside to
lot with the others. Mart had started forward to
his assistance, but had been bellowed back by the
Hakenrichter; for one of the acquirements of the
Russian service is to raise your voice to passion's
loudest pitch in all intercourse with inferiors; and
Mart went back, drawing his breath through his
teeth. He forgot his own trials, but he suffered
ten-fold in his poor friend.
Another man followed, and then the last of the
eight. He was a sleek-looking fellow, who had
from the beginning shown no anxiety. He now
went through the appointed ceremony with alacrity,
and stood before his judges sound and straight in
THE DISPONENT,
79
limb, and those more encumbered with flesh than
ºny Which had gone before.
He won't do?” said the Hakenrichter, with
...Pºuliar expression of face at his military co-
‘gue. The officer looked up with a peculiar ex-
ºssion in return. This was all-sufficient for the
i *ºnrichter; he now went on more boldly. “He
S deformed,” he said. The officer scrutinized the
* with the most serious air. “The deformity
internal,” said the Hakenrichter, “which is
...Ways of the worst kind. Will the Herr Major
* the medical certificate!” and he handed him a
}*P*. The gentlemen addressed gave a giance at
ºtents, and then thrust it into his pocket.
re. He is deformed !” said the officer with the
ºular word-of-command tone; and all the pens
ºd him went quicker than ever. “Deformed
ºlde. Let him go.” And the soldiers carried
. Qut. The man was the Hakenrichter's cook,
" the certificate a bank-note. -
fter all this business was over, which occupied
C *S in reality, however brief in description, there
ºned fresh copying of registers, noting down of
. describing of persons, and other devices for
*ring the chief ends of Russian law, viz., the
i. of time and consumption of paper. , Mean:
ile the poor men, their numbers diminished and
.." risk increased, stood by with anxious hearts
ri haggard countenances, waiting till the myste-
'''s scratching of pens and dusting of sand should
. to an end. They did not know that the
...n required to be certified of a man's being de-
º inside, on five separate sheets of stamped
er.
* length a jar was brought in by the Disponent
Placed before the Hakenrichter, with a little paper
#. This he opened, examined the cards it con-
i. ed leisurely before the whole party, as an unfeel-
Qperator would his instruments, counted them,
P"t them into the jar, shook them up, and placed the
. on a low table. The jar was a common
rthen one, the mouth just wide enough to admit
tº, uman arm, and too deep for any light to be
Wh on its contents. As there were two recruits
$ taken, Nos. 1 and 2 were the fatal lot.
the Mºre is something repugnant and intolerable to
wº. in the thought that the fate of a man's
Of a . life should be made dependent on the choice
tho ittle card. It is less derogatory and bitter to
Ca ºrt to be made to suffer from the tyranny,
º . or carelessness of another, than from the
...! results of our own will in a matter where
Tha * reason, knowledge nor experience can avail.
ever the providence of the Almighty is linked with
and y trifle that befalls us, it is our great privilege
atti. to believe: at the same time, to be always
unwi ing great ends to triſing occurrences is both
O º and unfeasible, and those who fancy they
the º are far more liable to spend their lives in
Om *Citement of a perpetual lottery, than in the
to .. of a perfect trust. We may approach
tion i. for a great stake with the firmest convic-
is º no such thing as chance exists; but still it
band i. #. human to bear in mind that while the
pa shilly-shallying between three or four scraps
and j. of the same size, willing without a will,
Whole ºng without a choice, that the God of the
There i . is presiding over the decision.
in whic ºthing in the whole economy of our lives
9 most t i calls upon his creatures to act, even in
ºf a reaso *ing, circumstances, without some kind
ence, t "...in the shape of duty, faith, or experi-
* * guide them, and it is a wicked system,
hou
however decked up with the semblance of fairness,
when man obliges his fellow to decide upon a most
momentous step without the shadow of one to com-
fort him. v º
The men were now all ranged in order, as they
had been examined before the table. Mart's figure
stood conspicuous above all the rest.
“He’ll do for the guards, Herr Major,” said
the Hakenrichter, “after six months’ drilling.”
And his chuckle was taken up by the Disponent in
a loud laugh. .
“Come,” said the officer impatiently, “Speschi
—make haste—all is ready.”
Perhaps one of the most barbarous features in the
scene was the total absence of all the cajolery usual
in conscription and enlistment occasions. No
attempt was made even to delude these poor fellows
in this bitter moment. No one spoke them fair;
no one talked of its being a fine thing to serve their
Zar and their country. No one thought of interpos-
ing the slightest veil between them and the real
truth. On the contrary, they were made to feel, in
every way that levity and insolence could dictate,
that a Russian soldier was a thing too utterly value-
less in the eyes of his superiors for them to lighten
the anxious countenances before them, for one mo-
ment, with the most distant hint to the contrary.
All the crown evidently wanted was the strength
of their bodies; their feelings were to be as little
studied as their consent.
They were now all desired to come forward in
turn as they were called, put their hands quickly
into the jar, draw out a card, and not look at it till
all had drawn. This is not always the regular
plan, but it suited their judges' ideas of order and
discipline, and by this means none would be spared
his share of the anxiety.
The first summoned was a short, thickset man
with a frame of muscular strength, and a wide capa-
cious brow, which was now knit with a fearful
spirit of determination. He was the father of two
children. He came forward with a firm step—put
his arm in, drew it out in a moment, and then
stood motionless, his hand hanging by his side with
the card clenched in it.
The second was a mere awkward peasant, who
looked foolish and embarrassed, and laughed as
much from excess of boorishness as of fear. But
the color fled from his face as his hand entered the
jar, and then returned again in a painful glow be-
hind his tanned and unshaven skin, as he dropped
the hand containing his fate by his side.
The third was not remarkable in manner or ap-
pearance. He was a spare long-mºde man, with
reddish hair and common features. His gentle eye
and quiet manner might have been taken for the
national apathy of mind, for he dipped for the card
with a composure which seemed to proceed more
from habit than effort. But as he returned to his
place a sigh burst from the very depths of his
heart, which told of feelings you would have been
thankful to have thought him without.
It was now the turn of the fourth to draw. He
was quite young—hot above nineteen, and had
been, from the first, in the most pitiable and abject
state of fear. He looked weak in mind, and puny
in body—too much so even for his average peasant
lot in Îife—far more for that which not the strongest
constitution can stand unimpaired. His name was
called, but he held back, the tears running down
his checks, and burst out into loud sobs as the sol-
dicrs, by the order of the officer, took him to the
table and forced his hand into the jar. But there it.
80
THE DISPONENT,
lay. The Hakenricher roared to him in Lettish;
the officer in Russian; and then the Disponent
came forward with his stick. The -boy saw the
action—gave a piercing scream—drew his hand
instantly out, and let the ominous card fall on the
floor. It fell with the blank side upwards; the
soldiers crammed it into his hand, and he was left
to totter back to his place where Mart's kind voice
and arm for a moment lent him support.
But it was now Mart's turn. He had been pain-
fully occupied with the last scene, and it must be
owned the strong young man started, and felt his
strength depart from him as his name was called.
But it was only for a moment. He strode to the
table—laid one great fist heavily upon it to steady
himself—plunged the other into the jar, and fell
back to his place with the card in his grasp.
The whole of this proceeding was so rapid, and
the lookers-on had been so involuntarily interested
to see how this fine-looking fellow would behave—
Ian had never taken his eyes from him—that a short
pause ensued before the next name was called. It
was the Brautwerber's, who stood next by Mart,
and secumed to have derived strength from his very
vicinity. But Mart dared not seem even to look at
him now—for he knew how unnerving is the
slightest act of sympathy, when strength is being
gathered to endure the reverse. But he did steal a
glance, and was thankful to see him stand firm, and
walk steadily to the table. The arm, however, fell
into the jar with effort. Poor man! it was his
last! he fell back dead fainted, and Mart caught
him in his arms. There was no air in that room
of torture, with those stifling double windows, and
the hot tears, fevered cheeks, and knit brows on
which they had thrown light. But there was no
time for sentiment. Juhann was laid flat on the
floor.
“Keep guard,” shouted the officer; and two
soldiers marched up to the head and foot of the pale
inanimate figure.
“All sham,” said the Hakenrichter, without one
relenting expression in his hard face. “Has he
got the ticket!”
“It is in his hand,” said Mart, lifting up the
close-shut fist.
“All right,” said the Hakenrichter; “it will be
a surprise to him when he recovers. Ha, ha!—Go
back to your place, fellow,-go on.”
Mart drew his ticket out of his breast, where he
had thrust it. He would not have anticipated the
moment of seeing it for the world, and returned to
the melancholy file.
The next man now drew; his was comparatively
; easiest task—he had only to take what was left
1II].
. The jar was now taken to the officer, who looked
into it, and gravely pronounced it empty.
Now came the decisive moment. No one could
remain indifferent to it, and all eyes were fixed in
breathless silence upon the actors in this scene.
The Disponent's great head looked over the Haken-
richter's; the officials left their desks, and crowded
round; Mart forgot the Brautwerber, who lay as
before, and even the poor drilled-down soldiers who
stood over him turned their heads, though their
bodies remained immovable. *
The first man came up and slowly unclenched his
fist. It had closed over that hated bit of Russian
aper with an iron #.". and never till now re-
axed in its grasp. He looked at it a moment, and
his face seemed to unlock too, and then he looked
at his judges with an expression of open, bold
hatred, as if, like Tell, he had had an arrow in store
: them in case the lot had fallen on him. He was
SºlIG.
The second came up with stooping shoulders and
hesitating gait; dropped the card with excess of
awkwardness, picked it up, and looked round with
a shy, happy laugh. He was safe too.
The plot now thickened for the third. The risk
was no longer two to seven, but two to five. He
stepped forward; by the expression of his face he
seemed fully to have made up his mind for the
worst; but to any possessing the key to such feel-
ings, it would have been evident that it was resig-
nation, not apathy, which supported him. He went
up with composure-looked calmly at the card, and
then his face expanded with a smile beautiful and
touching to look at, and he closed his eyes in
prayer. He was safe.
The fourth was pitiable for his youth and help-
less terror; but his conduct, as we have seen, in-
spired no respect. It was suspected that he had
already ascertained his own fate, for his tears had
never ceased, and he now threw down the card,
without looking at it, with a feeble and passionate
gesture; then wrung his hands and sobbed pite-
ously. He had drawn the fatal No. 1.
“Take him,” said the officer; and two of the
soldiers came forward, and placed themselves on
each side, while the poor boy turned his red,
swollen face beseechingly from one to the other, as
if they could let him off.
Oh, Mart! it was your turn now. How sick
would Anno's heart have been, could she have seen
you. His was low enough. He felt himself con-
demned, and could have put himself at once into the
soldiers' hands to avoid the unnecessary anguish of
looking at his fate. Over and over again had ho
rehearsed this moment in anticipation, and deter-
mined to raise himself above it with words of
prayer and feelings of faith. But he remembered
nothing; he knew nothing, he heard nothing now
except the loud beating of his own heart, through
which came the jarring sound of his name like
some horrid passage in a dream. He advanced
like a desperate man—paused for a moment—the
Disponent's eye glared demoniacally upon him—
then looked—and leaped high up from his feet.
Was it joy or sorrow? Oh! merciful heaven it
was joy, joy—excess of joy!—his oyes dilated;
his stature expanded; he took one deep breath
after another. Then came a gush of intense reli-
gious gratitude, and then a sting of self-reproach.
Others were suffering, and had still to suffer. .
The Brautwerber had meanwhile opened his
eyes, and raised himself where he laid.
“Bring him up,” bellowed the Hakenrichter.
Mart cared for no more orders or prohibitions now ;
he was at his friend's side, and lifted him as he
would have done a child. Juhann turned to Mart
with a ghastly smile. “You are safe, Mart! look!
so am I,’” and he held ". his open hand with the
harmless ticket in it. Mart took him with one
bound to the table, and displayed the card as if it
had been a jewel of inestimable worth. If ever
there was a radiant face, it was his. He seemed for
a moment not to know there was another creature
in the room, except Juhann and himself. He laid
both his hands on the Brautwerber's shoulders,
looked down smiling in his face. “Juhann Ju-
hann it's all over. We shall be out of this
cursed room soon! It's over—do you hear, man?
Oh! those poor fellows. I am ashamed to feel so
happy.”
THE DISPONENT.
81
.The last man's lot is already told. He took up
1S card.
lº, you know what this means!” said the
ºrichter.
“I Yes,” said the man with a dogged countenance,
º: I shan’t have to draw again next year.”
to No,” said the Hakenrichter;” but you'll have
tl traw this;” and the hard-hearted man imitated
...'...elick of a musket-trigger. Nobody laughed.
i.e. soldiers, off with his hair.” And the
*iers closed upon him.
he men now crowded impetuously out. Mart
. Juhann first. Mart did not seem to tread this
*; he felt as if some horrible operation was
S me weary captivity ended—some fatal
Pºll broken. The common air that met him was
... breathe. Below the steps was a little
i. of anxious relatives—aged parents, brothers,
Or º wives—who had been awaiting the result
... ºurs; and many a touching scene ensued.
º Mart's eyes were fixed on one. The soldier
**dvancing up the steps—the little boy toddling
º ** side; he saw the child in the father's arms,
then turned away with too full a heart.
by i. not long left to enjoy such emotions, for
look is time the two recruits were brought out,
an. the more woe-begone from the complete
º and disfigurement they had undergone.
wº." long hair—which many. Livonians regard
Stren superstitious care, as if, like Samson, their
tawa gth lay in it—had been lopped and hacked
i. in the most barbarous fashion; this process
"g twofold—as a badge of the service, and as a
!...ive against desertion. A cry of compassion
shocl om the crowd as they appeared... It was a
tº."; and a revolting sight. With us the
ciet it seems instantly to mount in the scale of so-
anº here, they looked like condemned criminals,
... ºlt like them too. Poor fellows! no change in
; Shangeable world can be conceived more total
dS sudden than that they had just undergone. It
air." that they had simply fallen in estate, or
Qrmed in condition—their very selves were trans-
all wer. Home, country, language, and religion—
feel . gone. They were henceforth to know and
as if ºthing they had known and felt before ; it was
hºir souls had migrated into another state.
boº" the lots had fallen mercifully—the men were
Winmarried, and both young. They would
°ºve a gap in their circle, but neither was the
Cre . of one. Their late companions now gath-
h ound them with earnest expressions of sym-
crowd One of the recruits had a brother in the
Cnce * had already gone off to give the intelli-
Wou d' but the other begged that some one present
h...ºndertake this office. His home, or what
tl. . his home, was five wersts off. It was fully
that º of Mart's way, but his heart smote him
whº. should even have waited a moment to see
volu. another would propose, and he instantly
T *red. He could bear the thought of his
nºw...hºr's prolonged anxiety, with the
€ . that the cause of it had passed away.
pº...od down the steps he caught the Dis-
too ha ºyº-it boded him no good; but Mart was
M. take in a thought for the future.
two wº. tile the day passed slowly away with the
habitual *...at, Sellenküll, Old Liso, had that
heart wº ºy which covered all the emotions of her
© trials º same garb. She would often say that
kind for § the very poor are of the most merciful
º *...they required from them nothing be-
*gnation, patience, and industry; that with
all her cares and sorrows, she had never had to hesi-
tate how to act, or been puzzled what to think; but,
to use her own expressive language, she had always
been able to see straight into herself, and straight
up to her God—and without that, summer all the
ear round would not make a person happy. An
indifferent observer would not perhaps have detected
that a heavier weight than usual lay upon her.
She sat without the cottage door, at her spinning-
wheel. Wordsworth says–
“Grief!, thou hast lost an ever ready friend,
Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute;”
and truly there is something in that happy medium
of the liberty it allows and the attention it requires,
which is most soothing to an anxious mind.
Anno was meanwhile actively engaged, and
seemed to have chosen this day for a purpose of
rather rare occurrence among most Lettish house-
keepers—namely, for cleaning her house. I'ver
since Mart had first received the tidings of recruit-
age she had been putting her little household in
order; and now Mart's clothes were taken out and
brushed with many a sigh;-the old dark wooden
boxes, which held their wardrobe, were rubbed ;-
the wooden utensils which held their milk and brei,
or porridge, were washed;—the floor was swept—
fir-tips strewn, and then Anno went to the stream—
bathed—did up her long hair, and appeared, though
not in holiday garb, yet in one perfectly fresh and
clean.
The evening sun was declining, the time al-
ready long past when Mart might reasonably have
been expected. Liso's firmness was now fast
giving way; her looks were perpetually wandering
up the road which would bring her grandson home
for better or for worse, and the least movement or
sound in the distance, no matter in what direction,
set her withered hand trembling with more than
alſTC.
It was well Anno was too much engrossed with
her own occupations to watch those of mother;
for the poor old woman's wheel intermitted terribly
in its revolutions. Karria Pois was also watching,
as if he knew that something impended of conse-
quence to his master. Time passed on. Liso felt,
indeed, what Anno had been spared, but also she
felt what the poor girl had to suffer; for her worst
fears were confirmed by the delay, and the sight of
Mart in the distance between two other figures was
all that presented itself to her imagination.
Anno had been seated by her side but had re-
entered the house. Karria Pois now rose, Snuffed
the air, and set off at a slow trot—then broke into
a heavy gallop, and was soon out of sight. The
light was fast waning, when a distant figure ap-
peared—one alone! Liso was afraid to take hope
to her heart. The figure drew nearer and nearer,
—it was Mart, there was no doubt—Mart alone,
striding quickly along. ...The poor grandmother
dared hardly look up. But his step was light—
and, if that did not speak plainly enough, his glad
face spoke plainer still; and, if she still feared to
believe what it would now have been torture to re-
linquish, a few sweet words were whispered in her
ear, and the old woman folded her hands, closed
her eyes, and communed with her Maker.
Mart entered the house; Anno was busy pre-
paring the evening meal. She had for some days
shrunk from his eye, and now she did not look at
him as he came in. Mart was positively embar-
rassed; his heart was bursting with the weight of
her joy as well as his own; he ſlung off his cap,
82
THE DISPONENT.
sat down on a bench, fondled the dog, and looked
at his wife as she moved to and fro. She was so
dejected sº
“How beautifully neat you have made every-
thing, Anno " Anno only gave a sigh in return.
“But the rain comes in at that corner of the roof;
I must mend it: I’ll begin next week.”
Anno turned quickly and looked at her husband;
there was but little light, but Mart's face was radi-
ant. “Mart!” said Anno, her breath rising into a
Scream, “next week?”
“Yes, Anno, yes.—Anno, I am free.” And
husband and wife laid in each other's arms.
The first agony of joy was over; all was ex-
plained, but they still stood together—the happiest
hour of the many happy ones they had spent.
“You see, my Kasikenne, (my little cat,) we
are not to be separated. You would not take Ian,
and he can’t take me.”
“We should not have been separated, Mart; I
should have gone with you.” This was the secret
of Anno's patience; for this had she set her house
in order.
“But my grandmother?” said Mart.
“God would have cared for her as you said he
would for me.”
“Let’s go to her,” said mart.
CHAPTER VI.
THE early winter that followed this autumn was
a very trying one ; not because it was severe—for
severity, whether in temperature or authority,
hurts no one, if it be but steady ; but, like a real
tyrant, it was capricious. To the husbandman of
these regions it is always desirable that winter
should commence its operations with a good foun-
dation of snow. This laid, as much cold may fol-
low as will ; the corn is covered over, and his har-
west is secured. But this autumn much rain fell ;
the waters stood on the low parts of the land, and
then came sudden cold, and froze up all the pools,
and with them the young corn. Sometimes a
curious process of destruction takes place—the
blades of young rye are seen just rising above the
water ; a night of frost spreads a sheet of ice over
the surface ; a day of thaw succeeds, and the ex-
pansion of the ice in melting draws up the plants
by the roots, and leaves them floating on the water.
Altogether much mischief was done, which the
following summer would too surely reveal, and
which the summer itself could not repair; and
meanwhile a long winter had to be encountered.
Mart's fields stood pretty dry, owing to much
extra labor in the way of draining ; but old Ton-
no's which lay low, and received little more tillage
than just sufficed to put the corn into the ground,
suffered terribly ; and, before snow fell, his fields,
and many like his, wore that black, withered look
which leaves no hope of life in the plants. It was
evident that part of the stock of winter corn must
e reserved to sow again in early summer, and
thus replace what the season had destroyed; and
that stock soon proved to be very inadequate to
the regular demands upon it, far less to any extra
Oil C.S.
The best crops of the preceding summer had
been, as we have said, but moderate in return; the
moderate ones wretchedly poor. What there was
of the corn, however, had been pronounced to be
uncommonly good, and as such able to bear a
greater amount of adulteration. But this soon
turned out to have been a false idea; and many a
foolish improvident peasant who had rested upon it,
|
as they will do upon any excuse against active ex-
ertion, found himself not only in want, but in want
earlier than usual. The peasants of this part of
the world make up their minds too passively to
suffer every winter, as a necessary concomitant of
the season, to take warning for any extreme occa-
sion. They are accustomed, before the winter is
far advanced, to mix their bread largely with less
nourishing materials; and before the winter is
finally dismissed, to take the fodder from their
stinted animals to feed themselves, and to unthatch
their barns and dwellings to feed them. But this
year all these extreme signs of scarcity showed
themselves much sooner than is commonly the case,
added to much illness among men and animals,
attributable to want and unhealthiness of weather
combined. How utter starvation did not occur
would be a wonder to many ; but the Lettish
peasantry, like the Scotch, help one another to the
utmost of their power, and thus keep off positive
destruction from some, by equalizing the misery
among all.
The party at Sellenkūll were tolerably prepared
by Mart's industry to weather a hard season them-
selves, and also to help their neighbors through it;
and, though this was required to a much greater
extent than had been expected, Mart both gave
and lent cheerfully, and worked harder and fared
harder than usual. His vexatious trials had not
ceased. His enemy sought every opportunity to
oppress and annoy him ; and it required all the
young man's forbearance. to fulfil his unjust tasks
and keep his temper. ſº
It is difficult, however, to ruin a sensible and an
industrious man in any line of life, and Mart's un-
varying steadiness seemed to bring even malice to
a stand still. The season was arrived also when
but little work can be done, or rather, need be
done; and when the many hours of darkness en-
courage a feeling of slothfulness which is an indul-
gence to the indolently disposed, and a relief to the
scantily fed. Mart, however, had no pleasure in
being idle ; as long as daylight lasted there was
enough for him to do in repairing his house and
farming buildings, and in attending to the wants
of his domestic animals; and when darkness fell,
he might be seen returning with a bundle of small
split fresh wood in his hand—those candles of the
northern peasantry—beneath the light of which,
seated next the great stove, he plied many a do-
mestic handicraft. This was the time when Anno
got many a help in various household labors which
another husband would have spurned as woman's
work; but there was that about Mart which the
meanest occupation could not degrade. He might
have helped to bake the bread, or turn the wheel;
and perhaps he sometimes did, and nobody could
have called him unmanly.
Anno was indeed favored among women. Not
only were her own house duties diminished by a
strong hand and eased by a sweet temper, but she
was spared also all those other feudal burdens
which fall upon the women of these provinces.
The same ancient tenure which imposed three
days’ labor in the week, upon Mart, required also
from his wife certain days' spinning or carding
during the winter for the benefit of the proprietor
of the estate—usually performed at the mansion:
house itself, but now, in its present untenante
condition, at that of the Disponent. Liso had ful:
filled this as long as she had been able ; and now
it was naturally expected that the young assistant
which Mart had taken into his service in the shape
THE DISPONENT.
83
#: . and who had no family to require her
wº an CC—not that this makes any difference—
though tº take this duty on herself: but Mart
oinſ. t differently; he paid another woman in the
Cor most acceptable—viz., in a small quantity of
"-to take her place, and Anno never entered
*Pisponent's doors.
bore . and the increasing Want around them soon
OuS ard upon Mart's winter stock; it was obvi-
...iº, must be done to replenish it, or he
ost n himself need the help he was giving. , Mart
Out i. time in considering whether he should eke
or b * remainder by denying it to his neighbors,
idea y fººting it to themselves: he had no
Or of feeding Anno upon straw, and so he asked
§tra work at daily wages.
ls was quite a novelty here.
* landed q y
80verne
"conom
It was true that
proprietor occasionally returned from a
sidence in some more civilized and better
d land with new systems of agricultural
Wage y; and among the rest with that of labor for
jº $3 but they left behind them the order and
an º necessary to preside over such matters,
hat.” result only increased the peasant's natural
Peasa for innovations. Most of the ignorant
() ºy could not understand the pro's and con’s
Scatte * question; a few saw that in a country so
Coul º in population no medium of payment
Were & So inconvenient as that of money; and all
ters sºily aware that, what with needy mas-
get li "d dishonest Disponents, they were likely to
ºtle enough even of that.
ju i. however, was too clear-minded to be pre-
l and too young to be cautious—though his
gla ºrience had taught him something he would
Y have unlearnt—and when the Disponcht
to his request, and allotted him some tim-
i.; at a certain rate of payment, he returned
eve * With a sense of satisfaction which shone in
§y, feature.
hº extra labor was as much as he could get
rej'."; he was hearty and robust, and it
Ten . no little solid nourishment to keep up the
O j thus taxed. His father-in-law did not fail
that . . with many a characteristic proverb,
si." Would answer his purpose just as well to
...” and eat less; but Mart hated such
tha j and, even granting them true, he knew
Ork was good for man. His grandmother,
adjºiºnally put in a word of wisdom, and
Recessa him, to have no more dealings than
O ift.” with a man who had shown all the will
M.". him, and possessed all the power; but
ºr once, differed from her, and said there
ti. Tº to be gained by trust than by Cºlll-
Thai nd we will hope that he was right in the
*ssented
*r-ſellin
3.
ſh,
M º
m." Would have liked best to have received pay-
stil... week, but for that, he had made no
l
St tº. i. therefore labored on till the job was
‘uired tº take" and then, as his little cart was re-
In wa wood to a neighboring estate where
and asl *,” be purchased, he went to Ian's house
T º for payment.
§eckoned *Ponent counted over the work, and
roubles * days; it amounted in all to seventeen
• Stood ºlº a fortune—but fairly earned. Mart
Presia. . his honest, open, beaming, ex-
Was diff G * sat at his desk with one which
Some old . to define. Then he pulled out
*P sums *books, and seemed to be casting
that he fi and Mart waited patiently, for he saw
* other business on hand.” The man was l
indeed a villain; he knew that he was about to de-
fraud the laborer of his hire, and he could deliber-
ately cast up figures with a steady hand. After
a little while had elapsed he handed the young
man a paper, on which he stood debtor for a num-
ber of days' work and half-days’ work, which,
taken at a certain estimate, gave a total of sixteen
rubles and a half; while on the other side he
stood creditor for the labor just completed to the
amount, as we have said, of seventeen rubles,
thus leaving a difference of half a ruble. This
statement would have puzzled most ; and as for
Mart, he looked at it with the most utter guileless
ignorance. Then with an unblushing face and
with impudent words, the Disponent explained that
old scores must be paid before new ones ; that it
was time that the debts to the estate should be dis-
charged : and that, in short, these were old liabili-
ties of Mart's father which were now raked up,
whether true or not, to defraud the son.
Mart was thunderstruck; his mind could not
understand the villanous manoeuvre ; such a pro-
ceeding was unheard of even in this land of op-
pression, and he stood at first more amazed than
indignant. He then tried reason. The Disponent
referred him to the books. He tried expostula-
tion; and the Disponent bid him begone, for that
he had not time to listen to the complaints of every
idle fellow on the estate. Then Mart tried—it
went sore against his will, but he knew who de-
pended upon him—he tried to move the brute; he
told him that it was a hard year for the poor—that
there was nothing but starvation around, and that
he had others to maintain as well as himself.
And the Disponent replied with his demoniacal
grin, that as long as he could afford to pay another
woman to do his wife’s work, he could want for
nothing.
Then Mart flamed up, and a stream of hot indig-
nation came boiling from his breast : his words
were few, but they hit full at his oppressor. Still
he spoke as to a man—the wretch answered as
to a dog, and dared to tell him—Mart'—that if he
was insolent he would have him beaten i.
Good heavens ; how was honest and high
spirited blood, albeit only in the veins of a poor
Livonian, to bear this, and flow on calmly after it.
The bad man before him knew not what he had
provoked. For the tempter was busy at that
young and injured breast—putting bitterfor sweet,
and evil for good—bidding him ſell the savage
where he stood, and urging him to spring at that
throat which had lied so foully to him. But the
irritated man was not left to himself at a moment
when all power over self was gone. An unseen
arm interposed, and his was mercifully stayed.
Mart fiung the half-ruble, which he found, he
knew not how, in his grasp, in the Disponent's
face, and rushed out of an atmosphere which was
suffocating him.
For a moment he felt that his neighbors had
been right and he wrong; for a moment he doubted
whether God loved justice and hated iniquity; but
after he had been alone, a few minutes the first
fever of the turbulent spirit passed away, and, in a
sudden return of right feeling, Mart lifted up his
heart in thankfulness for having been brought out
of that hateful house with innocent though de-
frauded hands.
Still a bitter and an angry feeling remained be-
hind—one which, if wrong, it was much more diffi-
cult to think so—for the young and hopeful heart
had been injured and insulted, and felt that hence-
84
THE DISPONENT.
forth it would be injured and insulted as often
as might suit the malice or the interest of his im-
placable foe. His forbearance was of no use—his
industry of no help—the future stretched itself out
before him in one long vista of endurance, or ended
in some dark deed of despair. He was obliged to
continue his journey. It was well he had no com-
panion—sympathy with a mind in this state only
feeds the flame—resistance fans it.
“Words weaker than his rage
Would make rage more.”
He unloaded his cart, and set his face towards
his home. He had never before approached it
with a heart so out of tune. He had never before
dreaded to meet Anno's smile of trust or Liso’s
look of resignation, or felt that the one could bring
bitterness to his heart and the other irritation to his
temper.
As he plodded gloomily along, he came to a
turn in the road which led to a great territorial
mansion in the distance. It was the Hakenrich-
ter's. Mart knew that the law protected the
peasant from injustice and cruelty; but he knew
also that, administered as it usually was, the law
was only a dead letter, and that this man of all
others was least likely to render it otherwise.
There is a perverse pleasure, however, to an angry
man in choosing to look at things as they should be,
and not as they are. He turned up the road. His
heart and steps were alike heavy, and, as he
walked along with stooping shoulders and sunken
head, it must be owned that he looked very much
like any other Livonian peasant.
Poor Mart he was too much engrossed in his
own bitter reſlections to know well what he was
about; and, little dreaming that the Hakenrichter
from within saw all who approached, he utterly for-
got to observe a law of these modern Gesslers, which
commands that no peasant should venture to ap-
proach or pass their mansions without uncovering
their heads.
IIe went up to the back door, requested to speak
to the Erra, (or master,) and was agreeably sur-
prised by being at once admitted into that kind of
stewy unventilated room in which Erras in this
country delight. Whatever hopes might have been
raised by his prompt admission, however, they were
as instantly quenched. The gentleman was in that
state of mind most approved in Russia for adminis-
tering justice—in other words, he was in a tower-
ing passion; and, before Mart could make his best
bow, broke forth thus:
“Are you the fellow who passed the house just
now t—speak—hold your tongue—are you the fel-
low 1 ''
Mart admitted he was just come.
“And don't you know better, you rascal, than
to strut past a nobleman's house with your filthy
cap on, as if it were a krug, or one of your own
pigsties!—pig that you are ſ”
Mart murmured that he had
r—-
“Hold your tongue this moment, and speak the
truth if you can. What matters it whether you
see me or not! and what care I for such a fool as
you! You shall bow your vile head to my house,
were I never to enter its doors from one year's end
to another' and you shall bow to my hat too, if I
choose;”—the Hakenrichter did not know how
classical was the allusion—“ or I’ll have your back
broken. What do you say? Speak out!—hold
your tongue! Come to complain of the Dispo-
nent 1 I'll cure you of complaining, you impudent
rascal. Tell him to give you a sound beating like
a dog as you are. Pig'—liar!—fool!—get out.”
This was the substance of the speech, of which
we have given a mitigated version—for it was plen-
tifully garnished with various oaths and epithets,
which would not translate into elegant English-
delivered also with gestures which, as usual in such
cases, portended a quick following up of blows.
Mart did not wait to be dismissed twice. He
strode back through the Volkstube, or servants'
apartment, at a rate which astounded its inmates,
gained his little horse and cart, and, in order to
avoid passing near the windows, struck into a side
road which took him six wersts out of his way.
The cup was full. He felt that the sullen, care-
for-nothing desperation, which he had so often
deprecated in his fellow-peasants, had now come
home to himself. He threw himself into his cart,
and lay there upon his face, like any other lazy
boor. The road was execrably bad, full of great
holes and stones; and many a jolt and fling did he
get as the poor little tired animal dragged the unu-
sual load painfully along.
At length the road divided into two. The ani-
mal chose the best, but it was the wrong one.
Mart sprung up, dealt the horse a blow, and plucked
the head furiously round. The poor dumb creature
stood still with a meek, patient look. This broke
the spell! How Mart hated himself! He leaped
from the cart, his own generous self again. and
passed his arm over the animal's neck, as he was
often wont to do. The poor thing turned fondly
to him ; and master and beast walked on together.
each with their load considerably lightened.
Mart's heart was now as soft as a child's. Nothing
in that whole bitter day did he at this moment look
back upon with such bitterness as upon his unpro:
voked treatment of his faithful beast. Anger and
pride passed away, and love for his fellows and
trust in his God returned; and, though he reached
home that night with nothing to give and little to
hope, yet his Anno's smile of trust was balm to his
heart, and his grandmother's look of resignation
strength to his soul,
not seen the Erra
—-mº
THE following paragraph we find in the conti- These two were bought, amongst other old pic-
mental papers—and give it as we find it. Our |tures;–the Michael-Angelo by Mr. MacCaul, a
readers will expect, like ourselves, to hear some- young Scotch painter-and the Raphael by Signor
thing more ºf the matter before they accept it in all; Cardeni, a dealer, in objects of art. On the back
its parts: “A discovery has just been made, in of the frame of the work by Buonarotti is a smal
Rome, of a piºre by Michael-Angelo and another in plate, stamped with the arms of the Farmese
by Raphael. The former represents the depositing family. We may mention that the ex-king, Louis
of Christ in the sepulchre; and the latter is the Bonaparte, has bequeathed his colossal bust, by
portrait of the celebrated Cardinal del Monte—ex-|Canova, representing the Emperor Napoleon, tº
actly resembling that which Raphael painted of the the grand duke of Tuscany; and left the sum o
same churchman, in the fresco. of the Vatican 60,000 francs for the erection of a monument to
which represents the institution of the Canon Law. his family at St. Lou, near Paris.”—Ath.
MICHEL DE
MONTAIGN.E.
85
From Fraser's Magazine.
M
"HEL DE MONTAIGNE IN THE cRADLE, THE
NURSERY, AND THE college.
sº RW witers of the sixteenth century have exer-
imº... influence in various departments of
say º activity than Michel de Montaigne. To
is to º l e was º father of the modern essayists,
uted o y little. The ideas. which he either origin-
errors º, the doctrines he propounded, the
all º embraced, the truths he asserted, have
affiliate º a numerous progeny. An attempt to
is now eSC would far transcend our patience. It
tion jºy possible to open a work of specula-
o º or metaphysical, without lighting upon
. which, whether the material WººlS drawn
is in. OWn mind or not, he had impressed with
Put in . and superscription, and contributed to
irculation. He has to answer for many of
Certainly it savors something of ir gratitude if due
acknowledgment in such cases be withheld ; but
literary men are proverbially immoral, and it can
serve no good purpose to accumulate proofs. What
we should think valuable, would be a philosophical
appreciation of the amount of influence exerted by
a mind like Montaigne's, on such a mind as Sterne's,
of the share the one had in moulding the intellect
of the other, in suggesting his fancies, his charac-
ters, his illustrations, his forms of thought in modi-
fying, if we may so speak, the frame of his mind.
To us it appears that there are occasionally in the
Essais passages, the peculiar tone of which so
forcibly recalls to mind the manner of Sterne—his
way of viewing the things of this world—that if
no other evidence existed, we should have inferred
that, attracted by sympathy, the one was a constant
student of the other.
“Forbear!” cries Montaigne to a lady who was
º . vagaries of the eighteenth century, and
°phers l e Soundest theories of succeeding philos-
magazi ave becn drawn from his inexhaustible
º Not to mention the obligations of
Swarms iterature to this original thinker, OUIT OWI).
Presided with indications of his influence; he has
§reatest over many a thoughtful moment of our
imagin Writers, and inspired some of their happiest
his ...” That Shakspeare had profited by
sº". is asserted, though it may be doubted;
23says are, in portions, mere abridgments
ūjº of Montaigne. Pope drew his whole
on Ma °f human nature, as developed in the Essay
bonde º from the Apologie pour Raymond de Se-
stood º °ut it does not seem to be generally under-
*t, next to Rabelais, our inimitable Law-
r
tº terne owes so much to no writer as to
de Montaigne.
sº . some day, without resorting to the
hdi "putation of plagiarism, criticise Tristram
Ilo º, With the express purpose of tracing the
êts . of some of the ideas it contains with
W. sº. with in the Essais. Parallel passages
im. of no importance. They simply prove
ick º architects have occasionally stolen
9m a neighbor’s house. Literary in form-
*W discover that beautiful ideas have been
*d wholesale from one book to another;
*". marshal their witnesses in formidable
\t the COmo before the tribunal of the country;
that he º, whilst pleading guilty, maintains
lds done no wrong. He has merely dis-
Say * another had expressed what he desired.
& Spiri Well as he could have done, and in the
Pºit, and has taken advantage of the circula-
ho, for example, can blame Sterne, if
orick º º: between the positions of
*row from . Verulam, and thought proper to
der ºntº ºlor of the Baconiana this ten-
*solved that sº When from private appetite it is
- °reature shall be sacrificed, it is easy
to
pick º
* "P Sticks enough from any thicket whither
that
à
l
°overed
t
indulging in an excess of grief, “for not those
flaxen tresses which now you tear, nor the white-
ness of that bosom which, in your agony, you so
wildly beat—not these have been the cause of the
disasters which have befallen your beloved brother;
they winged not the shaft: expend your wrath
more justly elsewhere.”
It is needless to point out that this might be taken
either as a model or a specimen of Sterne's method
of moralizing on the events of human life.
But we must not further pursue this subject at
present. It will be more in place to observe that
the theories of Locke and of Rousseau on educa-
tion owe much to Montaigne; many of his notions
have been transported bodily into the works of these
two philosophers, and it is worth while to notice
that the more objectionable and fantastical parts of
his system have been adopted by the Genevese ;
whilst, with few exceptions, the Englishman has
chosen that which was solid and sensible.
Our object in this paper is to examine to what
influences Montaigne himself was subject in his
youth, what share in the formation of his mind had
the circumstances by which his early life was sur-
rounded, how much he owed to his parents, how
much to the theories of education prevalent in his
time, how much to his masters, how much to his
boyish reading, how much to the accidents of col-
lege life. Without maintaining exactly that “the
child is father of the man,” we think that all these
things are worthy of study, inasmuch as it is im-
portant to discover if possible in what degree a
mind contributes to its own greatness, and how
much it borrows from its age. Some maintain that
there is a mysterious agency hid in the depths of
our nature, which works out our character inde-
pendently of surrounding circumstances; others,
that we are moulded and fashioned entirely by ex
ternal objects and events. Experience indicates
that we are neither the masters nor the slaves of the
material world; that the two theorics of human char-
acter which possess a kind of inverted analogy with
it hath
*rayed to make a fire to offer it with.”
A
the Pelagian and Calvinistic heresies are alike un-
86
MICHEL, DE MONTAIGN.E.
true, and that it is unphilosophical to endeavor to
trace a complex result to any one of the simple
sources from which it springs.
We have only alluded to this abstract question
for the uncharitable purposes of confutation. It
seems to be a theory entertained by some writers,
that a man's greatness is to be measured by the
amount of his isolation from his contemporaries, of
his independence of the age in which he lives.
These persons hold, with some show of reason,
that it is a sign of weakness and servility of mind
to be too obedient to outward impressions. They
look with contempt on those who, as Charles Blount
expresses it, follow their leader like mules, and go
wrong if he goes wrong. And accordingly, their
chief sign of greatness is the contrary of this de-
fect. M. Villemain, among others, desiring to exalt
Montaigne, tells us that no man owed less to the
age in which he lived. Now insanity, to say no-
thing of the minor modifications of enthusiasm, is
sometimes nothing more than an excess of self-con-
templation; it argues a mind not sufficiently suscep-
tible of regular external impressions, prone to feed
on itself, to disregard the admonitions of scnse, and
trust to the suggestions of the imagination. Such
a man as M. Willemain describes would then be an
anchorite, the founder of a sect, a conquerer, or a
madman. Montaigne was none of these things.
He was a man eminently of his age, the expression,
so to speak, of the times in which he lived; princi-
pally, it is true, the representation of the better
part, but sharing to some extent in most of the vices
of mind and manners common to his contempora-
ries. His comparatively sedentary life qualified him
for the office of a reflector. The pleasure we de-
rive in studying his career is not certainly excited
by the rapid succession of romantic incidents, nor
does his figure occupy any very prominent position
in the history of the sixteenth century; but we must
not, therefore, infer that “his soul was like a star,
and dwelt apart.” On the contrary, vigorous as
was his mind, independent as was his intellect, it
fed almost entirely on the ideas of his time; and so
far was he from occupying the position assigned to
him, that we would venture to assert that his Essais
could not have been written in any other country,
or in any other stage of civilization. Amidst the
confusion of a civil war of extraordinary duration,
when every estate of the kingdom took the field to
assert its own rights or encroach upon those of
others, when every landed proprietor deemed it his
interest or his duty to fortify his mansion, arm his
tenantry, join in forays, incline to one party or co-
quºt with the other, Montaigne, it is true, in gen-
eral remained quiet, unnoticed, and comparatively
unmolested. He had no particular bias towards
any party, the struggle of his prejudices and his
convictions terminating in a professed ataraxia, or
philosophical indifference on the subject of politics.
For, in our opinion, we must not attribute the care
with which he generally avoided active interference
in worldly affairs entirely to that love of studious
leisure which has caused the retirement of several
philosophers and scholars. He had many of the
tastes and most of the habits of a man of the world;
but he possessed also a considerable share of pru-
dence and forethought, was little susceptible of
enthusiasm, and could calculate with tolerable ex-
actitude the chances of life. He understood well
that the interests of the people were in no way con-
cerned in the success of either of the two great
parties that divided the kingdom; and saw that, for
the third and least influential, composed of those
who dared to sigh for real liberty, there was no
hope of success.
It would be wrong, however, to suppose that
these considerations alone induced him to steer his
bark out of the foaming and turbulent stream of
events, and anchor in the little sheltered haven
which fortune permitted him to choose. He cer-
tainly, though in a less degree, perhaps, than has
been imagined, was disposed by his natural consti-
tution to an inactive and speculative life; and he
was, doubtless, right in thinking that the agitation
and excitement of war or business would have dis-
turbed the translucency of his mind, by stirring up
the grosser particles that usually sink to the bottom
in the calm and repose of comparative solitude.
But Montaigne's seclusion differed very widely
from that melancholy misanthropy to which Ste-
phanus Guazzus" attributes so many evils, and among
others the liability to hypochondriacal affections.
He was of the world, though not in it; and h9
would occasionally sally forth and try the dangers
and taste the pleasures of a society the most brik
liant and most immoral at that time existing in Eur
rope. It would be vain to assert, that at any period
of his life he came off unscathed from these expedi-
tions. They left him restless and uneasy, and, no
doubt, fostered that skeptical spirit which perverted
his happiness, and from which all his attempts a
dogmatism could never completely rescue him. I'
must be observed, moreover, that the decline of his
years brought along with it cravings for pleasure”
which he had neglected when they were more in his
power, and that before he died the passion for retire”
ment, instead of growing into a habit, had nearly
spent its vigor. He grew young as he grew old.
In spite of the peevishness bred of continual suffer
ing, he was more alive to the realities of existence,
more obedient to the blandishments of sense, mor"
sensible of pleasure, even than when a youth:
His taste became delicate, even to sensitiveness, an
his mind, by excessive refinement, acquired somº
thing of a feminine character. -
All this, however, proves that Montaigne was,
in some respects, the creature of his age, far mor”
so than is generally acknowledged. Certainly h6
dived deep into the well of antiquity to fetch uſ
many of his thoughts and illustrations, and delightº
in shocking the opinions of his contemporaries by
strong doctrines and paradoxical theories; but th”
*De Conversatione Civili, i. 2.
MICHEL DE MONTAIGN.E.
87
wº º the character of the age. The world
ments gºn new theories, new ideas, new Sentl-
fute the Very man undertook to examine and con-
insurj". of every other man. A moral
accordin º aged over the whole of Europe, and,
which . %. discover, in the very circumstances
that the thought to isolate Montaigne, the proof
With a la evelopment of his mind W3S in accordance
dro i. at that time in universal operation. We
Was . tempted to regret that so fine an intellect
many º to such influences. We attribute
able wa ...ſº of his theories, and the deplor-
tunate . ºrings of his imagination, to the unfor-
far from mpany in which he found himself; and so
rising s regarding him as an independent spirit,
around uperior to the vices and follies of those
so...", we feel it to be our duty to pity, and
...to despise him.
We *: the early portion of Montaigne's life,
ities and isºern the origin of many of his peculiar-
* Odd f Oddities; for he was odd–the odd son of
*ther. Many of his eccentricities came to
gerat y *heritance. We are not disposed to exag-
still i. “influences of birth and blood,” but
grea.’...ºntage of a person celebrated for any
than's Լlities is a just object of curiosity. No
under .. are independent of the auspices
all uniº ich he is laid in the cradle, and it is not at
Or Portant whether a couch of gold, a buckler,
wºu". be a child's first resting-place. It is
Scusatio IIG knowing, therefore, that the ridiculous
*cusati Il of Scaliger—for he contrives to make an
her. of it—that Montaigne was the son of a
...ºnger, is totally without foundation. He
y §ºntleman born and bred, as we shall pres-
evº "ºceed to show. Before doing so, how-
Scali...º be as well, both as some excuse for
to iii. and as a specimen of the spirit of the age,
jºhe perfectly Cambrian respect for pedi-
WO at time prevalent.
"oblemen having quarrelled on a point of
Čir i. a meeting of friends was called to adjust
Was
claim".ºrences. One of them had put forward a
have ...] on his title and descent, which would
they . him above all his neighbors, whereupon
assº," ºng alarm, sided against him, and began to
Some ... equality, some alleging one ancestry,
§Cute º Gr, one citing a name, a second a
least.", a third an old family parchment, and the
ºutla.º them proving himself the scion of some
d , king. When they were about to sit
ºnner, a friend of Montaigne's, who hap-
gan ... present, instead of taking his place,
all ple...treat with profound obeisances, begging
ºt to excuse him for having, up to that
Of ºu. e audacity to live with them on terms
he had . 3. but ºil; that henceforth, now that
Would to ºn informed of their ancient qualities, he
àny ºt them according to their deserts. At
by the si . Protested, he could not think of sitting
these wº of so many princes. Having played
his Iłę º for some time, he suddenly changed
wi . indulged them with a copious flood of
of G d W. "g up thus, “Be content, in the name
º what contented our fathers, and with
OW º that we are well enough if we only
9rtunes ehave ourselves. Let us not disavow
aw y with t and conditions of our ancestors, and
h "alled in . Stupid conceits, which may always
is their...ºp up the dignity of any man who
‘shment 0. Pºnce to advance them.” F. :lSton-
ºnay be more sºns of kings whom he addressed
9 return easily imagined than described.
* our subject: Pierre Eyguen, sei-
gneur de Montaigne, father of our hero, was an
écuyer, which signifies something more than our
esquire ; and of his three brothers, the Siemr de
Cairac, was a distinguished member of the church;
another, the Sieur de St. Michel, was only pre-
vented, say the biographers, by an early death,
from distinguishing himself; and the third, Ray-
mond Eyguen de Montaigne, seigneur de Bassa-
guet, was councillor in the parliament of Bordeaux,
and head of that branch of the family which now
exists in Guienne.* The surname Eyguen was
never adopted by Michel, who, despite the strong
objection he had in theory to the practice of deriv-
ing titles from estates, took that of Montaigne from
his father's château and grounds. He informs us
in one of his Essais, that he knew a family of
Eyquens in England, where the name, as has been
conjectured, was corrupted to Egham; and fur-
ther adds, that even that which he selected was not
peculiar to him or his relatives. There were fami-
lies in Saintange, in Britanny, in Paris, and Mont-
pellier, which bore it. In the latter town, contem-
$.". with Michel, dwelt a learned man named
e Montaigne, who had composed, though not
published, a life of Mary Queen of Scots. We
find also that one George Montaigne, D.D., was
master of the Savoy i,j in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth.
Montaigne's father, who was born in 1490—not
1495, as Coste would have it—was a country gen-
tleman of suſicient consideration in Guienne to be
elected to fill several important offices in the muni-
cipality of Bordeaux. In 1530 he was first jurat
in 1536, deputy-maire ; in 1540, jurat again ; pro-
cureur of the city in 1546, and maire from 1553 to
1556. When in this responsible situation, he was
remarkable for the excessive attention he paid to
his duties,') in spite of the disclination to bodily
exertion natural to old men. In his youth he had
served in the Italian wars, and kept a minute jour-
nal, both of his own adventures and the public
transactions; but although this came into his son's
possession, he seems only to have preserved one
fragment. This is an account of a most extraor:
dinary madness which seized the inhabitants of
Milan during his stay there, impelling them to self.
destruction. No fewer than twenty-five heads of
families destroyed themselves within one week. A
similar monomania once exhibited itself in New
England, and was only checked by the magistrates,
who ordered that all who made away with them-
selves should be exposed on a gallows; the feeling
of shame proved stronger than the fear of death.
Returning to France, doubtless with the wrecks
of Lanlier's army, he met on the way with some
young person to whom he attached himself, and
whom he married in 1523, aged thirty-three, having
led up to that time, says in.9ne place his son, a
most virtuous and exemplary life." But from cer-
tain expressions dropped in another of the Essais,
* Essais, vii., 30; Cuerlon, i., 135:
+Hazlitt, Life of Montaigne, prefixed to his excellent
edition of the English translation. º
t De Verdier, Bibliothèque, t. ii., p. 143. There is one
allusion to the death of Mary in the Essais. ºr
§ Essais, t.viii., p. 286, of Coste's elaborate edition.
We do not think it necessary, to reſer constantly to the
portions of Montaigne's works on which we found the
present article: ur studies of his life and character
contain many thousand references, a small portion even
of which would render the page unsightly without an-
swering any good purpose.
| See De Thou, Mezeray,
the time.
"I See Essais, iii., 273.
and the other historians of
88
MICHEL, DE MONTAIGN.E.
we are inclined to think that he was no stranger to
the gallantries and immoralities of his time.
By his wife, who, perhaps, died young, as the
philosopher had no tender expression to consecrate
to the memory of his mother, Pierre Eyguen had
several children, of whom Michel, the third, was
born at Montaigne in Périgord, between the hours
of eleven and twelve in the morning, on the last
day of February, 1533. There must have been
something peculiar in the circumstances of his
birth, in his infantine physiognomy, or in the state
of his father's mind at the time, for M. Eyguen
immediately determined to depart from the plan he
had adopted in the training of his first-born, and to
educate the little Michel as no man’s child was
ever educated before. So here at once we find our
philosopher paying the penalty or enjoying the ad-
vantage of having a theoretical father, and are re-
minded of the fact, that if Montaigne's character
was of independent formation, it was not for want
of extraordinary efforts to mould and fashion it ac-
cording to a system.
At the risk of detaining the reader from the edu-
cational details we have promised, we must here
give some further accounts of the eccentric old
gentleman who presided over them. He was a
little man of vigorous constitution, well-skilled in
all the gymnastic exercises of his time, and partic-
ularly fond, even to a late period of his life, of
exhibiting his agility, of which Montaigne gives
some extraordinary instances. In manner he was
grave and modest, in dress, whether he rode or
walked, quite point device. To these exterior
attributes of a gentleman, he added great scrupu-
lousness of word and a very religious turn of mind,
leaning rather towards superstition than the other
extreme. Many eccentric notions did he indulge,
which he transmitted to his son, not the least re-
markable of which was his enthusiastic and bigoted
hatred of the medical profession. Some of his
notions were curious and useful. He seems to have
originated the idea of Servants' Register Offices,”
which he made part of an extensive plan for facili-
tating, in the absence of the advertising system,
the interchange of the wants and wishes of so-
ciety.
fough not learned himself, the Sieur Eyguen
wished to be the cause of learning in others. He
had always been partial to men of letters, and en-
deavored, in a small way, to imitate Francis I., and
to collect at Montaigne a little court, as it were, of
literati. But when there was born unto him a son
on whom the professions to which the family had
for centuries been devoted had no particular claim,
he determined, with what success the whole world
knows, to make him a prodigy of learning and
science. It is, of course, impossible to estimate
exactly the amount of influence exerted on his res-
olution by the theories current in his time, but 1t
would seem that very peculiar notions on education
had been broached in the sixteenth century.
The old formal scholastic system was, however,
generally retained in practice, and it is not surpris-
ing that those who perceived its defects should, in
endeavoring to remedy them, have run into the very
opposite extreme. #. extraordinary and truly
Spartan training of Henri Quatre by his grand-
father Henri d'Albret, king of Navarre, may have
been suggested by the same considerations which
influenced Pierre Eyguen, and both the king and
* Essais, ii., 269.
t Préfixe, Life of Henry IV.
the philosopher incurred the risk of a novel experi-
ment, and benefited in an equal degree.
It was already a custom in the villages in the
neighborhood of Montaigne's birth-place for women
to suckle their children for seven or eight days, and
then to surrender the tender office of nurse to a
she-goat, and some extraordinary instances are
given of affection reciprocally engendered between
the infant and dumb foster-mother. But it does
not appear that it entered into the system of our
philosopher's father to discover by this means the
origin of language. However, no sooner was
Michel born than he was sent to be nursed at a
poor village in the neighborhood, where he remain-
ed even some time after he was weaned. He was
fed on the coarsest food, dressed in the commonest
raiment, exposed to every hardship. Never, says
Montaigne, generalizing on his own experience,
set yourself up, much less suffer the women of the
family to set themselves up, in judgment over
children's diet. Leave them to chance. Let ex-
erience habituate them to frugality and austerity.
et them, as they grow older, descend from a
rugged life, not ascend from this to a more effem-
inate. It was in accordance with this same theory
that Monaigne's father caused him to be held over
the font by persons of the meanest and most abject
condition, in order, as he beautifully expressed it,
that the boy might early learn to feel affection for
the humble rather than for the great, and to ben.
his eyes upon those who stretched out their arms
towards him for assistance, not upon the backs of
such as had passed him and were climbing still
higher. -
This part of the system adopted by the worthy
écuyer in his son's training seems to have answered
admirably, for Montaigne always felt inclined to
compassionate the misfortunes of the poor, and was
particularly remarkable for the clemency and gen-
tleness of his disposition, which greatly influenced
his determination in refusing wholly to abide by the
maxims of the Stoics. He severely blamed the
barbarous manners of his times, when children
were early accustomed to the sight of blood and
brought up in cruelty, mothers considering it as an
agreeable amusement to behold their offspring
wringing the necks of pullets, or wounding and
harassing dogs, cats, or any other animals in their
power.
Whilst young Michel was knocking about the
village and associating with goats, cows, horses, and
asses, probably also with swine, his father, com-
fortably wrapped in silks and furs, was concocting
in his arm-chair a scheme for the future. It was
his desire that the boy should attain extraordinary
proficiency in the learned languages; but he was,
at the same time, loath to behold him spend upon
them time that might be better employed. Revolv-
ing, accordingly, the matter in his mind, and con-
versing with divers learned men of his acquaint-
ance, he at length hit upon a new plan, or rather
perfected an idea which he had brought with him
from Italy. It was not, of easy execution, but
paternal fondness, directed and fortiſed by the en-
thusiasm natural to the creator of a new system,
enabled him to surmount all difficultics. He sent
to Germany for a preceptor totally ignorant of
French, but well versed in Latin, and domiciliating
him in the château, gave into his charge the pre-
cious baby before his tongue had learned to articu-
late one single syllable. This German, who was
well paid for his trouble, became at once tutor and
nurse. His old friends at the university woul
MICHEL, DE MONTAIGN.E.
89
}. Smiled to behold the change in his occupation.
stead of walking about in the morning with a
i. * or an Etymologicum Magnum under his
eroº he might have been seen dandling an obstrep-
** infant, whom it was his duty to scold in
i. to coax in Latin, to overwhelm with all the
and ºf epithets that Plautus and Terence, Catullus
Imust . supply. The worthy Teutonian
toil ave been sadly put to it, and much midnight
Sqtl º have spent after his little charge had
º editself to sleep, whilst searching into classic
Sta or new expressions adapted to the new circum-
"ºes in which he constantly found himself placed.
#. degrees the infantine histories of Jupiter and
*ules were exhausted; even the stories of
**a and Thyestes furnished few parallel cases.
. amorous vocabulary of the poets was called
Of 9 complete that of the nursery, as the language
Pºssion has sometimes been adapted to the exi-
gencies of religious ecstasy. In some way or other
* matter proceeded satisfactorily for a few weeks.
W Yºº then, however, perceived that the duties
0. º too onerous to be comfortably discharged by
mur. and accordingly two minor Baiuli or bull.
int **, were imported from Germany and taken
Ci ...i. Their business was to follow the prin-
k . , relieve him occasionally from his burden, and
i. up a colloquy in choice. Ciceronian for the
º of the little Michel. Under heavy penal-
but ''. were bound to talk no other language
atin in the child's presence; and in order that
i *..was then learned might not be lost, not only
d the father accustom himself to sneak in the
º tongue, but even the mother. The man-ser-
sile 8 and the maid-servants were compelled to be
pic "t or to utter such words of Latin as they could
*. up. Whether this was a piece of sly contri-
O °e of the old Gascon gentleman to procure for
* the blºssings of silence appeareth not. At
§ rate, if such was his object, he was by no
... successful. The irresistible craving after
*ch overcame all difficulties, and everybody be-
. ºnt bien que mal, to speak Latin. Thus the
wi blessings of learning were diffused far and
The ... Pierre Eyguen, Madame Eyguen, not to
"tion Michel, became perfect proficients, and
...ºny of the servants acquired atolerable knowl-
. i. the language. In fine, so completely did
nº. i.e themselves that the stream swelled
ing º them and overflowed into all the neighbor.
him. lages, where. many Latin expressions and
3. ... of tools remained in use for more than half
F.Y. Perhaps even to the present day some
ºuts of this temporary civilization might be
ºvered in the mouth of the peasantry.
that . not until Montaigne was six years old
is native dialect was suffered to approach him.
;..." time, without book, rule, precept, or gram-
ment any kind—and, above all, without punish-
ter ..". tears—he had made himself perfect mas:
atin t atin. . His themes were given him in bad
well tº. tºn into good, and he acquitted himself.so
07ma {lt Nicholas Grouche, who wrote De Comitiis
.." ; Guillaume Guerente, who commented
is º: George Buchanan, the Scotch poet and
Orator }}..." Marcus Antonius Muretus, the best
tell hi i. . day in either France or Italy, used to
that jº ºn he grew up that he was so perfect
whom . . afraid to accost him. Buchanan,
chal de i. terwards met when tutor of the Maré-
ºšaº's son, said that in an essay on edu-
writing, he intended to pro-
. which he was
P°se the example of Montaigne as one well worthy
of imitation. We may observe, by the way, that
in giving the above list of learned men whom he
called his preceptors, in the first edition published
in 1580, he had omitted Muretus. But having met
him at Rome in 1581, he remembered his early
obligations, and inserted his name with a paren-
thetical expression of praise in the next edition.
These scholars, however, became known to him
only at a subsequent period. For a time his edu-
cation proceeded at home on the original plan. His
father now began to think of instructing him in
Greek. If we may believe Montaigne, he failed,
not so much through the fault of the system pur-
sued, as through the inaptitude of the scholar. He
has not entered into very minute details on the sub-
ject, merely intimating that his father adopted the
plan of teaching him Greek as geography, and
arithmetic are sometimes now taught, in the shape
of a game. Probably this was the first germ of
many of the royal roads to learning which have
since become so popular in modern Europe.
M. Eyguen did not confine his cares to the per-
fection of his model son in the learned languages:
he bestowed likewise great pains on his moral and
physical development, and fell, in so doing, into
many contradictions. Whilst professing to pursue
every method of hardening Michel and preparing
him to encounter the rough treatment of the world,
he actually accustomed him to the effeminate prac-
tice of being awakened in the morning by the dulcet
sound of some instrument of music, played by a
musician entertained for the purpose. It does not
appear that, like the Dutchman in Le Vaillant, he
was partial himself to this delightful method of
being won back from the land of dreams, but he
imagined that nothing was more injurious ſor
children than to be startled suddenly out of their
slumbers, in which he believed them, with reason,
to be more deeply plunged than grown-up men.
May not this indulgence have encouraged the
sleepy and indolent habits of Montaigne | This
seems more probable from a fact which he tells us,
namely, that in the tower, where he slept, every
day at early dawn, and in the evening, a bell rang
the Ave Maria. The peal seemed to shake the
very tower, and yet it often did not even awake
him. º
As frequently happens in this world, M. Pierrº
Eyquen's courage failed, and his enthusiasm coºled
as the child grew up, and by the time he had
reached six years of age resolve was made to sub-
mit him to the ordinary course of education. . Pro-
bably the good old gentleman yielded in part to the
solicitations of his neighbors. Doubtless, he had
many friends to give him advice and to take him by
the hand, and to hope that no harm would come to
little Michel, that too much learning would not
make him mad. º
Such predictions would find their excuse in the
early developed character of the boy, in his pride,
his obstinacy, his dogged self-will, inaccessible to
threats and violence, yielding, only to gentleness
and persuasion; in his dislike of those things
which to children are the great prize in the lottery
of the world—of cakes, and sweetmeats, and
confectionary of every kind in his abhorrence of all
the trickery of the playground; in his reserved
habits, his thoughtful manner, his slowness to ap-
preciate the ideas of others, his independent style
of thinking, and opinions far above his age. All
these signs, which revealed an extraordinary mind,
fashioned by an extraordinary education, may easi-
ly have been represented by wiseacres and gratui-
90
MICHEL, DE MONTAIGN.E.
tous advisers, by old women and friends of the
family, as most sinister and disastrous. M. Ey-
quen began to be alarmed at the work he had un-
dertaken. Mediocrity was awed in the presence
of precocious genius. . The responsibility in case
of failure was tremendous. Accordingly, it was
resolved that Michel should go to college; and to
college he went, as we have above hinted, at the
age of six.
The college of Guienne was at that time very
flourishing, and considered to be at least one of the
best in France. Students flocked to it from all
arts, and some of the most learned professors in
Curope occupied its chairs.
young collegian repaired to finish his studies, fur-
nished with his father's advice, and very excellent
private tutors. It was requested that every possi-
ble facility should be given him, and some modifi-
cations of the ordinary routine seem in this instance
to have been made.
As early as the age of seven or eight, Mon-
taigne conceived a great affection for books, but,
unlike the other children of that time, took no
delight in reading such romances as Lancelot du
Lac, Amadis de Gaul, or Théon Bourdeaua. Ovid's
Metamorphoses, written in what was then to him
the easiest language, afforded him infinite delight;
and his master (one of the learned men already
mentioned) dexterously connived at these irregular
readings, pretending not to know of them, though
he gently urged on his other studies, allowing him
to run through in secret not only Ovid, but Virgil,
Terence, Plautus, and the Italian comedies. “IIad
he been mad enough,” observes Montaigne, “to
have pursued any other course, I should have
brought back from college the same detestation of
books with which our nobility return therefrom.”
But, in spite of all this care, Michel's Latin,
which he had brought pure to college, by degrees
became corrupted. He insensibly lost the habit of
speaking it, and although it enabled him to pass so
rapidly through the classes that he finished his
cours and left college at the age of thirteen, yet, he
says, his peculiar education was of no subsequent
value, which may serve to refute the popular max-
im, that “well begun is nigh ended.” He knew,
according to his own account, a little of everything
and nothing entire—a la Françoise. He was aware
that there existed a medical art, a jurisprudence,
four parts in the mathematics, and their general
retensions, but nothing more. He had never stud-
ied any science, never made himself master of the
Aristotelian philosophy; he could not even trace
the outline of any department of knowledge; and
when asked to examine a child of the lower form,
was compelled to draw him into generalities in or-
der to test his natural ability, being totally igno-
rant of the method of making him display his ac-
quired knowledge.
Montaigne, however, may exaggerate the dete-
rioration which took place in his knowledge during
the seven years he was in college. What leads us
to suspect this is, that in another part of his book
he tells us that Latin was natural to him ; that he
understood it better than the French, and that, al-
though since his childhood he had ceased to speak
or even Write it, yet when he was strongly stirred
by some sudden emotion, he would by a natural
effort utter his feelings in Latin. He mentions one
occasion particularly, when seeing his father, before
apparently in a state of health, suddenly fall upon
him fainting, he uttered at first his exclamation in
Thither, then, our|
the language that had been originally taught him.
Another proof of his proficiency in learning is,
that whilst at college he sustained the chief char
acters in the Latin tragedies of Buchanan, Gue.
rente and Muretus, which were played with great
pomp and circumstance. This took place when hº
was not much more than eleven, before the usua
age at which such parts were confided to scholars.
e acted with great propriety of voice, expression;
and gesture. It was André Govea,” the principa
of the college, who instituted and arranged these
spectacles ; for which Montaigne praises him,
thinking it not improper for youths of good family
to resort to such an amusement.
It is not easy to reconcile with these facts the
assertion that he was slow of apprehension, dull 0
invention, and extraordinarily deficient in memory;
that, in fact, he was the most backward in learn"
ing, not only of his brothers, but of all the children
of his province. Few authentic instances of profi-
ciency equal to his are recorded, except in the case
of some of those monsters whose early develop”
ment has insured premature decay. . We are pe.
suaded that no one of Montaigne's º
finally left college at the age of thirteen ; and hº
expressly informs us that he had gone through all
the classes, besides obtaining an extensive acquaint”
ance with Latin literature. He does not, certain"
ly, profess to have entirely mastered the belles le!"
tres by twelve years of age; and philosophy, math:
ematics, Greek, and Hebrew, at thirteen; † but a
a time when most boys are beginning to enter 90
their serious studies, he had concluded his. So
far from this rapidity being common, the contrary
defect of slowness is constantly made a reproach tº
the education of the sixteenth century. The fif
teen thousand students who flocked to the Univer"
sity of Paris, wasted there some of the most valua-
ble years of their lives. And the misfortune was,
that their acquisitions had no direct bearing on th”
professions to which they were destined. N early
every family was ambitious of placing one of it?
members either in the law or the church, and thº
competition therefore was great; so that, in addi.
tion to the knowledge actually required, it wa”
made incumbent to penetrate into other useless der
partments of science. The great end of education:
therefore, had become perverted. No man thoug
of making of his mind an instrument to effect “
definite purpose, but every one labored to accumu.
late vast masses of facts and theories in his hod
that had no bearing whatever, at least but a very
remote one, on the affairs of this life. Doubtless thº
result of all this mental activity was good. The lº
bors of the human mind can never be entirely sterile,
and it is natural that among the number of thos”
who addicted themselves to study, many should I".
ally, whether by accident or in consequence of thº
original good constitution of their, minds, make.”
good use of what they acquired. . Among the bº.
efits resulting, that which principally struck Mº
chaelo Euriano, a Venetian ambassador contempº"
rary with Montaigne, was the fact that the bishop'
rics began no longer to be bestowed on ignora."
persons; “and, would to God,” he naively e.
Glaims, “that this matter had been earlier take"
into consideration for the benefit of Christen"
dom!”
The great evil, however, of the system pursued
* See Bayle, Dict. v. “Govea.” gº
f Grisclini, Memorie Anedote spett. alla Vita del so"
mo Filosºfo e Giureconsulto F. Paola Servita, p. 78.
* “Il che Dio yolesse che ſusse stato considerato molto
prima per bene della Cristianital”—I., 488.
MICHEL, DE
MONTAIGN.E. 91
w * *
º . of time it entailed. The picture of it
exºl *When due deduction is made on account
the ...iº, will give the reader some idea of
bal Ho . of the process. Five years did Thu-
is lo º employ in teaching young Gargantua
ide : and forty-five years more did obelin
Studies: ºpy in directing the remainder of his
was as wi after which,” says the satirist, “he
being i. as when he began.” So far from
0 rep . to use his knowledge, when called upon
With t .." º address, his eloquence was on a par
ºnecdote º a dead ass! . This reminds one of the
avinp sº the young Prince of France, who, after
Mark of Ompleted his studies, was offered some
ising º by the corporation of a great town.
said "...'" reply, he cast his eyes around him and
tion' th esseurs!”. Having made this observa-
bethou h allowed due time for applause, he
it agai º him that it would be worth while saying
This t ºnd accordingly he repeated, “Messieurs!”
hº least, was emphatic; the whole assembly
SU 3. the word, and listened anxiously for its
his eye *; but the princely lips were stationary,
to sº vacant. An uneasy sensation began
People felt each man looked at his neighbor;
tening tº ashamed, as they always do when lis-
* third ti * hesitating orator. At length, however,
ird i. the air was moulded into sound, and a
C for e the emphatic “Messieurs!” was uttered.
th. ...º of patience or even loyalty could no far-
fºrm. a general titter went round, and the un-
ims. young man rushed out of the room, hid
eyes *. the public gaze, and, with tears in his
ents º the tutors who had given him the rudi-
ho..." all the sciences, but had not taught him
i. himself in his own language.
that the what we have said above, it would appear
his st jºrity with which Montaigne went through
Fant as ...was almost unexampled. His extrava-
signed º of incapacity, therefore, seem de-
tion of i exalt his natural powers by the deprecia-
that yo is acquirements. The truth seems to be,
hiii.; Montaigne was not what is called a
"y; som ºy. He was inclined to physical inactiv-
to join º so that it was difficult to persuade him
the games natural to his age; but it is
* ºf
mes jºin aussi saige qu'oncques puis ne ſourneas
~an extraordinary idiom.
evident that his idleness arose partly from love of
contemplation. When he did condescend to play,
however, his thoughts and sentiments so governed
his actions, that he never attempted to gain an ad-
vantage by any of those arts of childish dishonesty
which evince the absence of a rule within.
The slow, deliberate, and somewhat stolid man-
ners of Montaigne when a boy, arose in part, like-
wise, out of a certain pride springing from a con-
sciousness of superiority: . His meditations, which
he employed about few things, and such only as he
could seize with a firm grasp, produced as offspring
ideas singularly daring, and opinions above his age.
These, in general, he kept to himself, digesting
them in private for his own use. His character
seems to have been at all times gentle, and rarely
was it necessary to inflict any chastisement upon
him. Twice only was he beaten, and then very
gently. For acts of commission he seems rarely to
have deserved punishment. No one feared that he
would do ill, but that he would do nothing. He
was not even greedy after those things which chil-
dren most covet, as sugar, sweetmeats, and cakes.
It was necessary to compel him to eat them, which
was done from an opinion that this refusal of deli-
cate food arose from excessive delicacy of taste.
Montaigne left college in 1546, and from that
time until he was grown up little or nothing is
known of his life. We must suppose that he con-
tinued, though not very assiduously, the studies he
had begun, but that the manners, habits, opinions,
and ideas of his times, opposed themselves to any
inclination he might have felt to devote the princi-
al part of his leisure to the acquisition of book-
earning. It would seem that, from the period of
which we speak until he was nearly forty years of
age, his life resembled that of his neighbors and
equals. We know that he early became councillor
in the parliament of Bourdeaux, that he led a dis-
sipated life for some time, that he made a mariage
de convenance; but it is almost impossible to trace
the progress of his intellect. That it did develope
itself we know, and likewise that it developed itself
in the direction which might have been expected
from his early education. Tutthere is little beyond
conjecture to enable us to determine whether he
lost or gained more from having been plunged for
nearly twenty years in the gaieties of French soci-
ety in the sixteenth century.
EARNEST REMONSTRANCE
ADDR
ised TO THE YouNG LADY won LD, on THE
WAVING FRONTs” Now IN FASHIoN.
AIR.—“ Long, Long Ago.”
.."; the curls I delighted to see
Brin ; °º ago—long, long ago;
§ e old curling-tongs hither to me
Since . ago, long ago!
Those º' are gone, all my grief has begun,
I º: “waving fronts” do not please me,
i one;
º: the hair as it used to be done
8, 19ng ago, long ago!
On?
T §º the ringlets that flow'd
he b.; *go-long, long ago;
.. ringlets that thin were the mode,
Sojºg ago, long ago?
Q 3.
call'd them tº corkscrews”—a gross mala-
prop,
Save
t
hat when met at a squeeze, or a hop,
Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop,
Long, long ago, long ago!
Oh, if the whigs their old fame would renew,
(Quite rococo–Quite rococo)
And rival the glories of Brian Boroo,
Long, long ago, long ago. . .
Let them but give us, our thanks to secure,
Instead of a bill for removing the poor,
A bill for removing the shady coiffure
Now all the go, all the go!
A HUMMING-mind, fresh glittering with the colors
of a rainbow he had just flown through, fluttered
into our sanctum yesterday, and seemed the em-
bodiment of some beautiful Thought come home
from long and fruitless wandering. He soon grew
weary of stillness, however, and the monotonous
click of the type; and, taking him to an open win-
dow, a ray of green and golden light flashed for an
instant before our eyes, and, like that Thought for-
gotten, he, was gone forever.—Tribune.
92
SPONTANEOUS MOTION.
From Chambers' Journal.
SPONTANEOUS MOTION.
Few phenomena in natural science are so puz-
zling as that which, for the want of a more appro-
riate epithet, has been termed spontaneous motion.
t consists in the performance of a class of move-
ments for which we are unable to assign any cause,
by bodies and organizations commonly unendowed
with motion of a voluntary or mimic voluntary
character. In the present paper, I shall almost
confine myself exclusively to the display of sponta-
neous motions afforded us in the vegetable king-
dom; but it may be preliminarily mentioned, that
substances completely inorganic, in certain circum-
stances, possess what may be called spontaneous
motion. Thus a lump of camphor, when placed in
water, will revolve on its axis for several hours;
and if it is forcibly arrested, it will immediately,
when set at liberty, recommence its revolutions.
There is a salt, called an iodide of mercury by
chemists, which simulates spontaneous motion.
When it is newly formed, it is yellow. If it is
watched beneath the microscope, it is found that
each crystalline scale jumps over, and instantly
Shanges its hue from yellow to a vivid Scarlet.
Such, and similar instances are not unfrequent: a
satisfactory explanation of the cause of the motion
has not been given. In the first of the instances
cited, it would be curious to inquire if this, and
other identical motions of inorganic particles, are
due in part to the diamagnetic properties of certain
bodies recently developed by Faraday.
Voluntary inotion is so commonly regarded as the
peculiar attribute of animals, possessed of the, as we
believe it, necessary apparatus of nerves and mus-
cles, that, in ignorance of other powers capable of
producing voluntary or spontaneous motion, we are
slow to admit the existence of such motion in that
portion of organized creation, the vegetable world,
which is furnished with no demonstrable nerves or
muscles. It will be the object of the present paper
to indicate a few of those instances in vegetable
life which appear to point to the opposite conclu-
sion—that motion, and even locomotion, are not
confined to the narrow limits of animal organiza-
tion.
The sleep and réopening of flowers and leaves
afford a familiar and very common instance of a
species of spontaneous motion in plants. The
humble daisy opens with the morning's sunrise,
and closes at sunset; and Macculloch remarks,
“ that nothing but permanent force can keep the
young daisy open when it has closed for the night.”
If its petals are separated, it will again close with a
species of action not unlike that of a sphincter
muscle. But many ſlowers observe, with a precis-
ion of the most striking character, certain periodism
in their opening and closing, which serves to bring
out more forcibly the apparently spontaneous nature
of these movements. }. claims the credit of
having constructed a table of their varying, and yet
almost invariable motions, which he denominates
º Flora's Clock”—the first hour on which is three
in the morning, and the last ten at night. Some
species of the convolvuli announce the beginning of
the floral day, and others—the purple—its close.
Many flowers also open at stated hours of the day,
but some close again long before the sun has set;
and again, it is familiar to almost every one that
many open at night, and are closed during the day:
the flight-blowing cereus is an instance: In these
cases we are furnished with a most decided answer
to those vegetable physiologists who would deny
all spontaneity of motion to the vegetable kingdom,
and assert that the opening and shutting of flowers
is in every case due to the influence of the sun's
light. It may be mentioned, en passant, to show
the unworthy arguments of some who deny the
possession of this attribute altogether to plants, that
one experimenter constructed artificial leaves and
flowers of two materials, united into one baurina,
and attempted to overturn the theory here advocat-
ed, by triumphantly exhibiting the irregular contor-
tions and motions of these toys, produced by their
differing hygrometric properties. . Many of the
movements abovementioned are undoubtedly effect"
ed by the influence of the sun's, and of other
light; but this is no grave admission, for it remains
to be shown, first, the manner in which light thus
acts; and, second, the cause why such an influence
is not invariable. The cereus does not expand be
fore the light; and other flowers which do so, new-
ertheless close again under the full influence of th9
same cause. That light, as a general rule, is
essential to them, no one would hesitate to admit.
Decandolle performed some interesting experiments
upon this question: he discovered that, by a com"
bination of six powerful lamps, he was able to make
the genus mesembryanthemum amenable to the in:
fluence of an artificial day: these plants expande
their flowers before the glare of the lamps, an
closed them again when removed into darkness.
The leaves of the Mimosa pudica—the “sensitive
plant”—droop and fold up, in common with many
others, at night; and when this plant was subjecte
to the lamplight, it was found that its periods of
sleep and awakening were first deranged, and for
several days were irregular; but after this, ac,
knowledged the new influence, and closed an
folded up during the day, unfolding again at nigh!
—day and night being purposely reversed. Many
plants bow their heads at night, and raise them
again in the morning : thus the Noli-me-tanger”
hides its flower from the chill dews of the evening
under its leaves, withdrawing the shelter again dur
ing the day. The sleep of leaves and flowers,
however, does not appear to have in every instancº
a common cause. While, generally, both organ;
fold up during the night simultaneously, it is relate
by M. Berthelot that a plant, a species of acacia, (a
trihe, it may be mentioned, endowed with a larger
share than usual of sensitive and spontaneous m0r
tions,) cultivated in the gardens of Orotava, in the
island of Teneriffe, at sunset closes its leaflets in dº
imbricated manner, [one overlapping another,) but
at the same time, its flowers cxpand, and the nu"
merous stamina stand up in tufts. At sunriº
while the leaves resume their proper position, the
flowers droop and hang down, the long filamen”
bending, and, from their glistening character, giving
to the flowers the appearance of a flock of silk. "
this instance the expansion of the leaves is diurnal,
of the ſlowers nocturnal. .
If some spontaneous motions of the periodical nº.
ture here described are influenced by light, othº
of equal singularity are considerably affected b
atmospheric humidity. Thus, as a companion tº
“Flora's Timepiece,” an ingenious botanist
constructed a scale of plants, which may constitutº
“Flora's Weatherglass.” By observation o
* As a pendant to these, we migh ºf is Pro-
g º ght add “Flora's
phetic Almanac,” for the Euphorbia oleofolia hangs do.
its head all winter, and announces the return of spring
lifting it up again.
SPONTANEOUS MOTION.
93
º Plants, the advent of rain or moist air may be
use % ºy prognosticated. A few will re-
Inorrow °lºse at night if it is about to rain on the
whilo à. if anxious to greet, the friendly power;
Close th ºrs, of a more timid character, will not un-
little s ºr ſlowers in the prospect of wet. The
Cfore ...” safely shuts up its humble flower
a re ºštorm; but, as Macculloch observes, it is
y *arkable circumstance that, if it is covered
C 6. º of a bush, it makes no attempt to
are i". ile its less fortunate companions around it
fold u ºnly shut up. The plants whose leaves
chief Pºt night are few in number, and are confined
in th. to the leguminosa, and oscalideae. It is even,
ty º orders, more frequent to find this peculiari-
the lºg in the leaflets than in the proper leaves
due ... In a few instances, this motion is
affectin ply to a hygrometric condition of the air,
O j. i. tissues, as it does other inanimate
*al rule. ese are exceptions to an otherwise gen-
sº ºneous motions, to a remarkable degree,
the i. discovered in plants at that which forms
When § ºf point of vegetable vigor—the period
°omplet ° functions of their flowers are about to be
Cnts º; It has been long known that the fila-
and º the flower of the common berberry rise up
slight. the stigma with their anthers upon the
of...ºtation: the anthers lie in the concavity
Were ºlº, and could never approach the stigma,
Otley lot that the busy insect, in its search for
thus sº Provokes the irritability of the stamina, and
mon. the impregnation of the sced. In the
incline 990, it is stated that each of the stamina is
*gular; to the stigma in succession, with the utmost
of..."ty, for seven or eight days. The stamina
throu lºn amaryllis are constantly agitated
llS ºut the whole period of fecundation. The
ſhore jium possess a spontaneous motion of a
im.ºg character. So long as the flower is
i."...the pistil is immovable; but as soon as
needle"; ected, if this column is irritated by a
side...! throws itself from the one to the other
short i. flower with considerable force; but in a
move . it recovers its original position. These
me."; may be repeatedly produced by the same
$onject has been prettily, and not improbably
tem.**d, that this remarkable irritability was in-
t º ºnable the ſlower to cast off any insect
into." Yºhich might attempt to insinuate itself
fig, wi estamina of the cactus tuna, or Indian
ºn gend hed with a needle's poi
ºadual y scratched with a needle's point,
ion, an { take, from the erect, a recumbent posi-
flowe."...ºuch down together at the bottom of the
filam.** if withdrawing from the injury. The
men ing y
place th 9f the geranium bow forwards, so as to
It i...ºnthers upon the stigma.
intru
plan. been not long since related that there is a
yet jºwing in the Swan river colony possessing
flowe.ºtraordinary powers of motion. Its
seem * 3f an anomalous structure, and it would
Stigma the anthers form the superior, and the
ºpiºi...or lids of a kind of bºx. The
to it b. 'ºes not touch the under, but is connected
ii. *ge; they remain apart until some in-
.*.*, flower; the lid then instantly
lºbule. * and keeps it prisoner so long as it is
the ji . buzzes about when it is quite still,
Yºgelº. and suffers it to depart from its
'ling the . ; if, however, the lid fails in cap-
of a is...assº, it, rises again in anticipation
ling about *: In this case the insect, by bust-
• *ubs off the polen of the anthers upon
Sect li
close
the surface of the stigma, becoming the involuntary
medium of communicating the fertilizing influence
from the one to the other.
The spores or sporules of the conferva, soon
after their first formation, execute movements
in water bearing the most vivid analogy to the cil-
iary motion of the embryo mussel, described in No.
128 of our present series. The pollen tubes of
the asclepiadeae pierce the walls of their enclosing
cell, and succeed in reaching the stigma whereso.
ever it may be situated.
There is yet another class of movements, in the
parts of vegetables, which surpasses all the rest in the
singularity of its appearance, and in the difficulty of
discovering any exciting cause for it. The sensi-
tive plant forms one of the nearest of the approaches
to animal life to be found in the vegetable kingdom,
being endowed with the faculty of what may be
called sensation, if the most striking evidence of
feeling—retirement from injury—is to be recognized
under such a head. The species commonly known
as the sensitive plant is the Mimosa pudica. When
one of its leaflets is touched, it, with its fellow, clos-
es soon after, and both ſold up : this is followed by
the closure and folding up of the next pair of leaf-
lets, and subsequently of all the leaflets on the
same stock, while the stalk itself then droops and
bends down at an articulation which has the effect
of a hinge. If the shock communicated to the
plant is pretty sharp, the same consequences take
place throughout the whole of its leaves, and leaf-
stalks, and it is, to speak comparatively, of a rapid
character. The position then assumed is identical
with that which the plant takes at night. The
more healthy the plant, and the more elevated the
temperature of the stove, the more active and life-
like are the motions. The plant also seems to
respond to these apparent injuries more quickly in
the morning, and at noon, than at a later period of
the day. After a time, it redpens its leaves, and
the stock lifts up its head, when we may again of-
fend it, and cause a second occurrence of the move-
ment: but this irritability is soon exhausted, and
then requires a period of repose for its restoration.
A curious experiment was once made with one of
these plants. It was taken out in a carriage, in full
vigor, but as soon as the vehicle began to move over
a rough pavement, it drooped its leaves, and was
affected throughout ; but on the journey, it at
length seemed to have accommodated itself to the
motion, and resumed all its former appearance ; a
fact which speaks volumes in favor of the voluntary
and sensorial character of this singular attribute—
Spontaneous motion. #
We have another familiarly known instance in
the dionoea muscipula, Venus' fly-trap, a native of
Canada, spreading upon the ground the peculiar
leaves which have originated its name. They aro
provided with teeth, and have the appearance of a
rat-trap—a comparison which applies to their func-
tion as well. When the insect alights upon the
leaf, and touches its midrib, it is instantly caught
by the springing up of the lateral valves of the
leaf; and so great is the force and velocity of this
act, that the fly is crushed to death. There has
been an ingenious surmise that the object of this
contrivance is to furnish the plant with a species of
food for which it seems to entertain this extraordi-
nary predilection. There is a humble, and, by con-
trast, a feeble instance of a similar nature in a little
British plant called the sun-dew, found growing in
bogs and wet heaths, the leaves of which are cov-
ered with a gummy exudation, which prevents the
94
SPONTANEOUS MOTION.
escape of the insects alighting upon them, and these
are subsequently further secured by the leaves
slowly folding over them.
Decandolle tells us that there is a species of
acacia, a native of Senegal, which goes by a name
corresponding to “Good morning:” because, when
touched, its leaves bow down as if to salute those
who touch them. There is also a plant, a native
of Dominica, called “the sentinel,” from the fact
that its leaves keep up, as it were, a constant
watch : one of them is ** on the qui vive; the
leaf is bent down, then rises and assumes its erect
position, and there is an uninterrupted succession
of such evolutions in this curious plant to the ample
justification of its appropriate title.
Of all the wonderful movements in plants, there
is not one which excites more astonishment than
that of the Desmodium, or Hedysarum gyrans; we
could not find a more appropriate name for it than
the “vegetable chronometer.” Its habitat is the
banks of the river Ganges, where, indeed, under
the fostering influence of the fertilizing mud, the
humid air, and the fervid sun, it is alone to be found
in the plenary enjoyment of its remarkable powers.
Deneath the slanting sunbeam and the muddled air
of our own climate, even in our best stoves, the
movement, there so vigorous, dwindles to feeble
agitation—sufficiently remarkable, however, to
make it one of the curiosities of the conservatory.
It requires a temperature exceeding 100 degrees
Fahrenheit for the full development of its mobile
powers.
The lateral leaflets of the plant are in perpetual
motion under favorable conditions—a motion of a pe-
riodic character. One leaflet will rise until it at-
tains a considerable angle, and then, by a succession
of little starts, comparable to the intermitting mo-
tion of the seconds hand of a watch, it is depressed
to an equal angle, and then begins to rise. While
one leaflet rises, its fellow falls, and between them
they keep a continual oscillatory motion. This
movement does not cease during the night: in fact,
in its own climate, it has a fair title to the perpetual
motion award. It is remarkable that, even if the
leaf is held between the finger and thumb, and
forcibly prevented from moving, it will, as soon as
it is set at liberty, immediately recommence its
movements, and with accelerated velocity, as if the
ower had been accumulating during the interval.
The direct rays of the sun, or movements in the at-
mosphere, are not the causes of, neither are co-
operative with, any other cause of these movements,
as they are most lively in the shade, and when the
atmosphere of the stove is perfectly still.
The last example to be here enumerated, ap-
proaches in its character so nearly the motions of
the humblest members of the animal scale—animal-
culae—that it is really hard to call it anything
else than a vital phenomenon: it is the motion of
the oscillatoria, a genus of confervae. Upon the
field of the microscope they appear like an infinite
multitude of filaments, having a greenish cast, in-
tersected by many articulations or divisions. They
are seen to twist about from right to left, in a man-
ner bearing the most direct resemblance to the
writhings of worms. They travel, when uncon-
strained, to distances many times their own length,
in water, in the course of a few hours.
It remains briefly to indicate the existence of
what may be called movements in closed cells in
vegetables. In the Cheledonium majus, a peculiar
vibratory motion has been detected, affecting the
particles of its yellow sap. This is destroyed
by cold, and is subject to a curious intermittence in
the occurrence of the vibrations. The chara, an
aquatic plant, affords us the best known example of
this kind of motion; its stem is formed of elongated
cells, which, under microscopic examination, are
found to contain a transparent liquid, with globules
floating in it: these globules move up one side of
the cell and down the other, in a continual circuit,
the motion in each cell being independent of that
in immediate relation to it. No cause has hitherto
been distinctly assigned to this phenomenon—it is
one which obtairs in many aquatic plants. The
globules are believed to be starch vesicles.
The sertularia, campanularia, and tubularia,
among polypes, possess a circulation which has
some resemblance to the above. A current of
granular particles, having a motion like that of sand
in an hour-glass, has been discovered to set along
the axis of the tube, forming portions of the stem
and branches, to continue in one direction for a
short time, then immediately to return in the oppo-
site. Sometimes the granules have a vibrating
dancing motion: in the tubularia, a current sets up
one side of the tube and down the other, as in the
chara.
The cases just cited bring us to the confines of
the two kingdoms. They have been quoted, not
as instances of a motion strictly deserving the epi-
thet “spontaneous,” but to show that the distinc-
tive characters of each, with immediate reference to
the attribute in question, are so finely shaded intº
one another, as to defy all attempts at an artificia
separation. º
t is hoped that motions sufficiently singular in
themselves, but of a mechanical, and a purely me."
chanical character, will not be confounded, as they
too commonly are, with the kind of movement hero
described. Thus the spring and detent of some
seed-vessels the hygrometric closure of some flower;
—everlasting flowers, for instance—will open an
close for many years after they are dead, if alter.
nately exposed to moist and dry air. The forcible
action of the squirting cucumber–Momordica elä-
terium—the up-tendency of the iridaceous corm:
however deep it is buried, and the upward rising 0
the roots in palm-trees, are curious and interesting
in themselves, as evidences of the effects of certaiſ'
physical laws, but are not to be reckoned in physiº.
logical importance with the simple act of th;
unsheltered snowdrop-an intuitive avoidance 0
evil.
In many of the spontaneous motions here entº
merated, we are permitted to discover the im.
diate end which they serve; for others we are stil
unable to assign a cause or an object. It wou
not be the least important of the ends served, if, by
the demonstration of a power of motion of inscrut”.
ble origin, we might be taught that the resourcº
of the #. architect are deeper and richer than
the narrow confines of our too conceited philosop
can circumscribe, and than, moreover, in our invº.
tigations into his handiwork, we are at all time”
ready to allow.
DURABILITY OF TIMBER IN A WET STATE–SAMUEL LOVER.
95
DURABILITY OF TIMBER IN A WET STATE.
P ... In digging away the foundations of old Savoy
alace, London, which was built six hundred and
º years ago, the whole of the piles, consisting
9 oak, elm, beach, and chestnut, were found in a
...ſº state of soundness, as also was the plank-
"#, Which covered the pile heads.” .
T. us paragraph is taken from an English paper.
r ° Cedar swamps of Cape May afford even more
ºrkable proofs of the durability of timber in a
Wet state.
9, the north side of Maurice River Creek the
}*adows and cedar swamps, as far up as the fast
** are filled with buried cedars to an unknown
§h. In 1814 or 1815 an attempt was made to
a well curb near to Dennis Creek Landing,
ut, after encountering much difficulty in cutting
... gh a number of logs, the workmen were at
t *$ompelled to give up the attempt by finding, at
i. °pth of twenty feet, a compact mass of cedar
to S - -
{{ It is a constant business near Dennis Creek to
a "nº cedar shingles.” This is done by probing
* Soft mud of the swamps with poles, for the
lºse of discovering buried cedar timber; and
Cl) º *log is found the mud is cleared off, the log
s." into proper lengths with a long one-handled
eart *d these lengths split up into shingles and
kin º out of the swamp ready for sale. This
º .. work gives constant employment to a large
() º ºr of hands. The trees found are from four
nº. feet in diameter; they lie in every possible
..", and some of them, seem to have been
. for many centuries. Thus, stumps of trees
b. have grown to a great age, and which have
i. decaying a century, are found standing in the
... in which they grew, while the trunks of very
root Cedars are lying horizontally under, their
..". One of these instances is thus described to
St. ** a manuscript from Dr. Bresley, of Dennis
. who has himself “mined” many thousand
nº." hingles, and is now engaged in the busi-
half f have in my mine a cedar some two and a
in di set over, under a large cedar stump six feet
i.eter. Upon counting the annual growths of
.."mp, I found there were thirty of them in an
f., o that there were 1,080 in the three feet
i. the centre to the outside of the tree. The
To | must thus have been 1080 years in growing:
his...ºpearance, the tree to which it belonged
ths. dead for centuries; for, after a stump in
Thore *eadows decays down to the wet, there is no
Now decay—none, at least, that is perceptible.
um: We have 1080 years for the growth of the
grº, and 500 for its decay, and 500 for the
grow of the tree under it; for this must have
su. and fallen before the tree to which the
hº belonged sprouted. We are thus carried
1,500 °, the term of perhaps 2,000 years, of which
gº.º.determined, beyond question, by the
§th of the tº
gº.” opinion is, that these trees have
sw.ºy unk, through the soft, mud of the
fi.” after having attained their growth and
ere."ºny, however, have decayed in their
siji.ion, for the swamps are full of stumps
# as they grew. *
C..". * Short distance of the mouth of Dennis
timber. º about three miles from any growing
stream an be seen at low water, in the bed of the
! ſºmerºus cedar and pine stumps, about
six f
°et below the surface of the meadow, with the
bark still adhering to some, when the mud is re-
moved. As one passes up the creek a few miles
the stumps approach the surface, and near the
edge of the live swamps they become very numer-
ous.-Trenton Gazette. .
Hºmº-
From the N. Y. Mirror.
SAMUEL LOVER.
MR. LovER, the Irish novelist, poet, painter,
dramatist, and, we believe, actor, has arrived in
this city. He has already received from a portion
of the press the courtesy due to his distinguished
reputation. As the author of Rory O'More, Handy
Andy, and £. S. D., as well as of several success-
ful dramatic productions acted by Power, and of
songs which are known everywhere, America, hav-
ing paid him nothing in the shape of copyright,
should eagerly welcome any opportunity to make
him amends. The day will come, we trust, that
whenever a copy of one of Mr. Lover's books is
sold in this country, he will receive the author's
tithe, and in like manner with his plays and songs.
In the mean time, the public may flock to hear him
sing these very songs, and tell some of the anec-
dotes which give so much life to his novels. It is
Mr. Lover's intention, we understand, to give a
series of “Irish evenings,” illustrative of the song
and humor of his countrymen. They will doubt-
less assume the form of a most refined and attrac-
tive entertainment.
To the Editor of The Tribune:
Lover is, as you know, the writer of songs equal
(quite equal, I think) to any of Burns'. He is the
author of tales of humor, in a vein in which he has
no equal. His songs are set to his own music, of a
twin genius with the words it fuses. His power
of narration is peculiar and irresistible. His com-
mand of that fickle drawbridge between tears and
laughter—that ticklish chasm across which touch
mirth and pathos—is complete and wonderful.
He is, besides, a most successful play-writer,
and one of the best miniature painters living. He
is a Crichton of the arts of joyance for eye and ear.
But it is not of his many gifts that I am now partic-
ularly aiming to remind your readers.
In his personal appearance Lover has no smack
of superfine clay. He looks made out of the fresh
turf of his country, sound, honest and natural. He
is careless in his dress, a little absent in his gait
and manner, just short and round enough to let his
atmosphere of fun roll easily about him, and if
frayed at all in the thread of his nature, a little
marked with an expression of care—the result of
years of anxieties for the support of a very interest-
ing family. His features seem to, use his counte-
nance as a hussar does his jacket-wearing it
loosely till wanted—and a more mobile, nervous,
changing set of lineaments never played photograph
to a soul within. There is always about him the
modest unconsciousness of a man who feels that he
can always employ his thoughts better than upon
himself, and he therefore easily slips himself off,
and becomes the spirit of his song or story. He
does nothing like an actor. If you had heard him
singing the same song, by chance, at an Inn, you
would have taken him to be a jewel of a good fel-
low, of a taste and talent deliciously peculiar and
natural, but who would spoil at once with being
found out by a Connoisseur and told of his merits.
He is the soul of pure, sweet, truthful Irish nature,
though with the difference from others, that, while
he represents it truly, and is a piece of it himself,
96 THE DUKE AND THE OPERA,
he has also the genius to create what inspires it.
To an appreciative mind, it, of course, adds power-
fully to the influence of a song, that the singer
himself conceived the sweet thought, put it into
words and melted it into music.
Lover is so genuine a piece of exuberantly gifted
Nature, still unspoiled from the hand of God—that
the appeal for appreciation of him is to that within
us which is deeper than nationality or fashion—to
our freshest and most unsunned fountain of human
liking. He has been recognized and admired, for
his nature, in the most artificial society of the
world. It would be strange, indeed, if he should
find himself farther from appreciation of it, in a new
republic.
I have given you no idea of his peculiar style,
but have endeavored only to say what was not
likely to be said soon enough by those unacquainted
with him.
Yours truly, W.
THE DUKE AND THE OF ERA.
THE hero of Waterloo is one of the most con-
stant habitués of the Opera. Can life present a
stronger contrast than that exhibited by his noble
aspect, his white hairs, the glorious recollections
that surround his name, to the frivolities of fantas-
tic ballets? Can he spend the evening of his hon-
ored life more unprofitably than in gazing on scenes
in which he can have no interest, in listening to
sounds to which he is indifferent! What connec-
tion can there be between the labors of his past
life, the toils of his campaigns, the hazards of his
bloody combats, and the faded graces of Taglioni,
or the meretricious allurements of Cerito 4 Napo-
leon at St. Helena shows a finer picture to the
mind than Wellington caged in his opera-box, lis-
tening, happily somewhat dull in hearing, to the
hoarse bawling of Fornasari 4 Does he go there
night after night for fashion, or for pleasure ? Is
his mind so vacant that it requires amusement? Is
bis time so little occupied that he is devoured by
ennui 2
Who shall answer these questions? Who shall
dare to pass judgment on a character so illustri-
ous! Who shalſ even venture to arraign or to
excuse his actions! Yet, it may not be presump-
tuous, if it be admitted they are singular, to seek a
key to them.
The duke does nothing without a motive, nothing
without thought. This is his distinctive character,
that his mind is always wakeful, and so piercing
and comprehensive that it pervades every fibre of
his sentient being, and rules the slightest motion
of his frame. He does nothing unconsciously.
The duke is the same man in his opera-box as,
when in the plains of Vittoria, his eagle eye caught
the false movement of the French battalions, and
poured his army on the instant to overwhelm and
destroy them—the same as when, on the heights
of Waterloo, he watched for the coming of the
Prussians, and saw with an anxious but unshaken
soul his squares swept by the ruthless fire of the
French artillery.
The scene has changed. His sense of duty and
his faculties of patience have another world for
their development: that is all. To him it is indif-
ferent whether he listens to the war of a thousand
cannon or to the strains of Grisi and Mario. He
has no choice. Duty is the grand sentiment of his
existence. It kept him in the Peninsular, when,
contending with his mighty foe, he was assailed at
home with all the malice of faction, and now it
takes him to routs and operas. Did it require him
to be fastened to Damien's bed, he would obey its
mandates without a murmur.
It is now his duty to bear his part in civil life—
to lend the lustre of his presence to his sovereign's
court—to share in her pleasures—to show an inter-
est in her pursuits. Duty is from him a magical
word, the sentiment of his existence; he has braved
death for its sake a thousand times, and still lives
only to show his devotion to it.
he same in peace as in war, he is never ill,
never wanting; he is never too early or too late.
With what a contemptuous feeling must he hear
people talk of pleasure: he to whom it matters
nothing whether, on rising from his hard pallet to-
morrow, he receives an invitation for a court ball,
or is appointed to command once again in the Pen-
insular !
When the queen º: her fancy with some
palace masquing, the duke, in the exact costume
prescribed, with powdered peruke, with unaccus-
tomed garments, is at the palace to the moment.
If there is a cartoon exhibition, he reviews the pic-
tures as though he really took an interest in all the
allegorical devices presented to his view. He
misses none of the Egyptian-hall exhibitions—
none, we mean, that position in society calls on him
to notice. It is his part not to disavow merit, but
to assist in its exaltation when recognized. He
makes a present to Tom Thumb, he records his
opinion of the euphonia. If he is at the Opera
ballet late on Saturday night, he is at the Royal
Chapel, St. James’, early on Sunday morning.
Heaven knows ' May we always hold charitable
judgments He may esteem one duty of as much
importance as the other.
One other great hero was nurtured by the last
war, whose glory will not pale when brought in
contact with that of Wellington. Duty was with
him, too, the ruling sentiment of his life—more, it
was with him a passion, and he died while exalt-
ing it as the grandest aim of life. Yet we cannot
imagine Nelson acting the part of our Wellington.
We cannot believe that his fiery spirit could have
been purified to such an utter abnegation of self.
We cannot conceive that he, in his respect for
duty, would ever have lost all his individuality, all
his vehemence of feeling, even all his ardent de-
sire for renown. Had Nelson lived he could never
have been what Wellington is now.
If it be glorious for man to throw off all the
weakness and failings of his nature, and to appear
as the embodiment of abstract quality, the hero of
aterloo-apart from his military fame—has
achieved a grand title to distinction. In his civil,
as in his martial career, he appears unaffected by
the weaknesses of humanity, the representative of
the first principle of social life—duty.—Britannia.
- PROGRESS OF IRELAND.
97
From the Spectator.
PROGRESS OF IRELAND.
M. condition of Ireland has impressed the
*ing Chronicle with the most singular and con-
cting feelings. According to our contemporary,
* condition “begins to excite serious doubts
Yºther the government may not have done more
* than good” by interfering to supply the peo-
º y food. That which seems to have awak-
. the fears, of the writer is the necessity for
S ºr aid., The nature of his alarm is altogether
*:::ge, and, as it appears to us, groundless.
Ul he doubter fully recognizes the emergency
nder which government acted : speaking of the
. in the potato crop, which “bore all the
º: of a sad and fatal disaster in Ireland,” he
“In England the potato bore but a small pro-
ºn to the whole food of the people; and good
ºde, with full wages, promised abundance of
º to purchase the other necessaries of life; but
t reland each man's own plot of potatoes consti-
§ºd the sole dependence of entire districts; and
“se gone, the last hope of subsistence fled with
. Ireland, moreover, was unfortunately cir-
8 instanced: the plot of potatoes was not alone the
*Source of food, it was the sole field of employ-
... “To such a country it might even have
. doubted if the temptations which such a
...tened scarcity would usually hold out would
#P. commercial enterprise and capital to its aid.
° merchant speculates not only on the demand,
. also on the means of payment. Altogether,
tl jºre, it would be difficult to conceive so strong
us." to justify a government in stepping out of its
º course, and making an extraordinary effort to
W ° a whole people from starvation. Indian corn
§ imported with the capital of the exchequer.”
... aid it is which begins to excite doubts-
es...he extent to which public money has been
*Pended in Ireland during the last year, not real-
i. employing the people, but literally in feeding
C . is but little known, we apprehend, in this
€en º But just in proportion as, means have
i."ºurnished gratuitously, independent exertion
Tema . relinquished. * * * It is the most
and | able fact connected with the history of Ire-
whi. the past year, that even the railways
ti have there been in the course of construc-
Curi ºve experienced the greatest difficulty in }.
§§ sufficient continuous and steady labor. It is
nº." singular, that in a year of so much do-
ñº. dearth, there has been less emigration to
Still º than In any former season; and it is a
ing in º startling fact, that in this year of suffer-
have reland, when such, extraordinary efforts
peop. inade by the executive to save a perishing
fromi. neither haymakers nor reapers have come
Irish jud. * * * Nor is it, alas ! that the
... lºve better prospects now, independently of
r .* labor, than they had last year. On the
Ota ry they are infinitely worse. Last year the
elr
i. crop failed; this year it is one universal
whº, ls annihilated. * * * At a moment
tion º ° Irish should be making the greatest exer-
will'. . Seem to be making none. What, then
governm e value of the aid doled out to them by the
them o . during the last year, if it have deprived
ºtion for º to personal and independent ex-
of the late e future? But, moreover, the policy
Ways to ºnent 1S showing itself in other
Cxxy ave been equally mischievous.
+ LIVING AGE. WOL., XI.
small provision-dealers in Ireland could not with-
stand the powerful competition of the government
granaries. * * * The little and constant deal-
ers who purvey for the public were ruined, and left
the government, in many instances, in the undispu-
ted possession of the market. But will the govern-
ment keep the market! Can they keep it! It is
the beginning of a system at once degrading to the
people to endure and impossible for the government
to sustain.”
Are we to infer from these gloomy forebodings
that “the late government” ought not to have in-
terfered, but ought to have left the remedy to the
working of pure political economy? ... We fear that
pure political economy would have done very little
to aid in supplying the food to relieve starvation
Political economy, like tonic medicine or dietetics, is
of no undoubted virtue for a sudden emergency.
The case described in the first extract above forbade
all hesitation; it demanded instant action; and we
must regard the evil consequences, if there have
been such, as things not to have been avoided—not
now to repine at, but manfully to encounter with
correctives. The censor appears to think that there
was a needless fright: that it would have been best
to leave the Irishman to the slower but surer and
healthier means of bettering his condition by inde-
pendent industry. But no plan of independent in-
dustry could have brought food to the multitude,
where the customary article of food was wholl
wanting and there was no money to buy others. It
was not the food for next year that was in question,
but the food from day to day. It is a burlesque
on political economy to preach independent cxer-
. to a man actually sinking under the pangs of
Ul II ſter.
#and herself would have been injured most
seriously by neglect of Ireland. The Morning
Chronicle tells us that double the number of reap-
ers was expected over this year: so, had Ireland
been left to starve, a double allowance of that half
pauper class, enfeebled by want of food, therefore
doubly helpless and uncertain in their, industry,
would have been thrown upon the rural districts of
Great Britain, or would have thronged the ports of
migration. What would the English laborer have
said to it! Oh! pure political economy would say,
he must have been content to meet the wholesome
exposure to competition. We doubt the advantage
of any such contest, of any such migration as that
of the Irish reapers to this country. Whº...would
be the effect of its absence in England? Why, on
the one hand, its effect would be to raise agricultu-
ral wages, on the other, to set the agricultural em-
ployers on finding better means of economizing
labor by the help of machinery. The incursions of
the unsettled fish laborers have helped to beat
down the level of wages in this country, without
bringing the slightest improvement to our modes of
agriculture. Ireland herself can derive no perma-
ment and fructifying benefit from, so irregular a
draught upon the labor market. She has harvests
of her own to reap. e migration is a sign of
the very worst state of society—that in which the
means of subsistence actually fall short even of ab-
solute necessity. It is because the Irish are already
reduced to the “coarsest kind of food”—because
they cannot fall upon anything easier and cheaper
to obtain than potatoes, and because they have not
enough even of those—that they must perforce
leave home and contend with the English laborer
for part of his scanty means. To do so, the Irishman
The jyearly does that which must powerfully contribute
98
THE PHII,0SOPHY OF A LITTLE CARPET-BAG.
to keep his habits unsettled and irregular. The fail-
ure of the potato crop obliged government to inter-
fere: of course it would not have been décent to keep
down the supply of food to the verge of starvation;
there was enough; and as there was food on the
spot, the Irish laborer was not obliged to go to
2ngland to seek it.
The reluctance to work upon railways is to be
regretted. But is it true? At what wages was
the employment offered? at such rates as to secure
a better scale of subsistence than that furnished by
the bounty of government! If not, there is nothing
to wonder at, but merely to observe as the legiti-
mate result of circumstances; for it is a truism to
say that the common herd of men do not act upon
principle, but are acted upon by their circumstan-
ces; and you could not expect an Irish laborer to
work on a railway, for rotten potatoes when he
could get maize for doing nothing, because the de-
sired course was “independent,” or calculated to
advance the enduring interests of his race.
But, assuming that the reluctance to work was
culpable as it could be, we cannot regard it as worse
than an inevitable consequence of an inevitable re-
sort to eleemosynary aid. Last year government
had to meet the difficulty of providing food for the
people : when the time comes for withdrawing that
aid, government will certainly have to encounter
the difficulty of weaning the people from such reli-
ance; but what then One difficulty follows
another er necessitate rei. In countries troubled
with drought, rain is apt to be attended by floods;
but the foreknowledge that water will become “a
drug” and “a nuisance” does not diminish the ſer-
vor of the prayers for that rain which is the prime
necessity. Each day's difficulty must be met at the
time.
As to the future, it is crowded with further diffi-
culties, but not with causes for despair. This
second failure of the potato crop is, no doubt, a for-
midable visitation; yet is it most salutary. Had it
not happened, we might have grown reconciled to
the potato as a national food; which the root is
evidently unfitted to be. The second failure ought
to teach us that the use of the plant as a staple of
national subsistence should be absolutely abolished.
The food of Ireland must be changed. Well, we
have half done it. If more help be needed, more
help will undoubtedly be forthcoming. If the pro-
cess of change be attended with collateral difficul-
ties, with unsettlement to industry, it is no more
than might be expected; we must anticipate such
attendant evils, and mitigate them as hest we can.
But these smaller troubles should not distract our
attention from the one enormous evil out of which we
are bound to rescue the neighbor country—the
“annihilation” of her food; nor from the glorious
task which other circumstances combine to make
possible—the endowing her with a better and a more
trustworthy food, and also with the habits and en-
ergies that wait upon a better-fed condition. There
is no more cause for alarm in all this than there is
in the fluttering of the sails when the ship is in
stays; but there is every cause for persevering ex-
ertion and undaunted firmness.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF A LITTLE CARPET-BAG.
AMong the most common of street sights, is that
of a gentleman hurrying along towards the railway
or river, bearing with him a #. carpet-bag. So
common it is, that it fails to attract the slightest at-
tention. A little carpet-bag is no more noted than
an umbrella or walking-stick in a man's hand; and
yet, when rightly viewed, it is, to our thinking, an
object of no ordinary interest. We feel no envy
for the man on whom has devolved the charge of a
heap of luggage. The anxiety attending such
roperty outweighs the pleasure of its possession.
}. a man with a little carpet-bag is one in ten
thousand. He is perhaps the most perfect type of
independence extant. He can snap his fingers in the
face of Highland porter extortionate. No trotting
urchin is idle enough to solicit the carrying of so
slight a burden. . While other passengers, by coach
or railway, are looking after their trunks and trap-
pings, he enters, and has the best seat. IIe and
his “little all ” never part company. On arriving
at their destination, they are off with the jaunty
swagger of unencumbered bachelorhood In con-
templating a gentleman with a carpet-bag, we arc
struck, to a certain extent, with an idea of dispro-
ortion; but the balance is all on the easy side.
There is far too little to constitute a burden, and
and yet there is enough to indicate wants attended
to, and comforts supplied. No man with a little
carpet-bag in hand has his last shirt on his back.
Neither is it probable that his beard can suffer
from slovenly overgrowth. When he retires at
night, the presumption is, that it will be in the
midst of comfortable and cozy night-gear. A little
carpet-bag is almost always indicative of a short and
pleasurable excursion. K. painful ideas of stormy
seas or dreadful accidents on far-off railway lines
are suggested by it. Distance is sometimes poet-
ically measured by “a small bird's flutter,” or
“two smokes of a pipe,” or some such shad-
owy, though not altogether indefinite phrase. Why
may not time, in like manner, be measured by two
shirts! A gentleman with a little carpet-bag may
be said to contemplate about a couple of shirts
absence from home.—Glasgow Citizen.
“I PRYTHEE deliver them like a man of this
world,” says Falstaff to Pistol, when the latter
was charged with the “happy news of price” of
the king's death; and this delivery is not only a
touchstone of style, but of the cast of genius. The
style may vary from the loftiest flight of Shakspeare
to the humblest writer of sensible prose, and the
mind exhibit extremes as wide apart; but a writer
who observes a due proportion between his thoughts
and his expressions, who allows his ideas to color
his diction, instead of swelling his diction with the
view of exalting his ideas, is “a man of this
world.” He may not be true in his exhibitions-
“For what is truth?” But he reflects things such
as he sees or thinks them; and according to their
character and his own will be the durability of his
work. On the other hand, the rhetorician look*
more to his words than his matter; and even hiº
matter is less selected for its own qualities than it”
capabilities for writing. Many men of talent bº.
long to this school; which produces works of great
power and success, from the “King Cambysº
vein” upwards; but one characteristic pervadº
them all—effect is substituted for reality; and that
effect is sought either by selecting the peculiaritiº.
and exceptions of nature, or by endeavoring throug
the means of style to produce a something great”.
not always than the nature itself contains, but thº’
the writer can see in it.—Spctator.
THE USE OF THE BODY IN RELATION To THE MIND.
99
From Jerrold's Newspaper.
The Use of the Body in relation to Mind. By
ºws MooRE, M. D. Longman, Brown, and
th We are not among the class that the author of
* Present volume thinks will bring against him
§ inputation of assuming the clerical character.
* contrary, we deem his chosen subject one it
ecomes every man to consider; though not
9m apprehension that such a complicated
f matter as the question involves holds much
ainly in the absence of positive demonstra-
eaſ i. that in minds not disposed to take a good
Ind ºr granted, the laudable desire of the author
#. not be productive of the benefit he anticipates.
§ is a difficulty in dealing too with opposite
ºlities, blended together in the way spirit and
...iality exist in the human frame. There is so
º of each attached to separate ends, those of the
i. for bodily use alone, and of the mind or spirit
i.ent only to a spiritual end, that discrimina-
.." becomes a task of difficulty. Yet if we are
oil. jaunted by obstacles of seeming moment in
bor undertakings, we shall scarcely achieve the la-
i. necessary to existence. No such considera-
i. however, predominate where the object is to
ºst man in what appertains to his own nature,
to excite attention and promote investigation,
i.ºr, under the means proffered, than by the re-
!ºn of anything because doubt intervenes.
b ith most of the physical phenomena introduced
fimi. Moore, well-read persons are at present
it is ºr. Dr. Moore's object is most praiseworthy;
ū. In fact, to direct through nature up to nature's
how th’. accordingly begins his work by showing
...the blood is produced, and how the germ be:
** a living thing, the dwelling of a distinct
§-Ti. opening the relation of body with
ree fr
lmass 0
Uncert
tion
LAw of BEING.
{
sº we must not confound the blind law, by
là...tºms take their places to form organisms, a
of which is probably chemical, with the operation
tion º consciously at work. Yet chemical ac-
set. never accidental or fortuitous, it is always
j to an end; but we must distinguish the
sºn. ºnployed in developing a body for the ac-
b. *dation of a soul, from the soul itself. In the
C º, "many forces are at work together, under a
feste º law, but the conscious being is not mani-
Wheasu in it till the end of that law is in some
bod Te fulfilled ; for the purpose is to prepare a
in it # tl conscious being. ut the soul resides
nº. interfering with the creative and for-
until .."ºs, and is not conscious of their existence
off." finds that they have been ordered to their
*njoy and have built up an abode which it may
what’ without knowing how it is formed, or by
pleas "eans it continues subservient to its will and
ure.”
sy..." ºr then proceeds to the fourfold nervous
Perhap. that system of vibrations or electric action
with Pº, by which mind and body communicate
§"h other, the intercourse being carried on
e senses. The nervous system of four
h lºres is well known, and their connection
Yill an . rain; these are explained in relation to
º Sensation. Here, in regard to phrenology,
°re shows up an absurdity.
‘Ph *AINS AND MoRAL character.
*nologists write as if they deemed an organ
capable of desiring its own gratification. Desire is
never felt without an excitation of organism, but
then the individual being, that is conscious of im-
pression, not the instrument, is the subject of desire
and gratification. Will is not the action of an or-
gan, but of the soul, and although the habitual in-
dulgence of a passion promotes the development of
that part of the nervous system called into action,
it does not follow that a full development shall lead
to its full exercise—far otherwise—mind has a
restraining as well as an exciting power. Even ac-
cording to phrenologists, the large destructiveness
of Spurzheim, for instance, was controlled by his
moral habits or associations, and yet many a man
with larger moral organs, (to speak phrenologically,)
and less destructiveness, has been a murderer.
What does this prove? Certainly not that a man's
moral character is decided by the balance of his
brains, but by the state of his soul as regards
knowledge and affection.”
Life, irritability, and sensibility, are considered,
and their mental control, of some observations under
which heads we doubt the soundness. It is the
misfortune, in handling subjects so complex as the
present, that a vast deal must be taken on credit.
Our author, we observe, is somewhat indulgent to
mesmerism. Excessive mental cultivation had, it
seems, been reported to cause an increase of dropsy
of the brain in children, which Dr. Moore, appar-
ently with justice, controverts. The following re-
marks are truly just and highly valuable.
TREATMENT OF CHILDREN.
“If we would avoid injuring a soul, we must
treat the body with tenderness and wisdom. A
young child is a newly created spirit, introduced
into this amazing world for the purpose of obtain-
ing a knowledge of material things, and of sentient
beings, by contact and sympathy. It is utterly ig-
norant; but, unless the brain and senses be defec-
tive, it possesses, and by degrees can exercise, all
the mental qualitics of a philosopher, gradually be-
coming acquainted with the properties of objects.
both of thought and sense, by observation and ex-
periment. All the faculties of childhood are busily
at work as fast as they are developed, and every
propensity is ardently seeking for indulgence. Pro-
pensity, in short, is a bodily provocation to action :
and the soul must yield to it, if it knows not, any
better means of pleasure; for the soul always does,
and always must, aim at enjoyment. But that is
properly ſound only in a suitable use of the body—
a use for spiritual ends—Almighty benevolence has
formed the body for happiness when rightly em-
ployed ; and the means of that employment must
be provided, or activity becomes a constant perver-
sion of power, and therefore a constant source of
uneasiness. But as human individualism is a type
of deity, its perfection, its full capacity for happi-
ness, is only found in goodness and love; there-
fore it never can rest satisfied with its knowledge
till all creation is completely harmonious and hap-
py. The pure enjoyment of a human being is
now derived through the senses, by which alone it
obtains proof that it is in its proper place, with re-
gard to others and its own convenience; therefore
its senses must be cultivated, that it may find,
through a bodily correspondence, the fellowship it
needs with other, human beings and with nature.
A child, with all its senses perfect, requires only
instruction and sympathy to complete its education.
But what a fulness of meaning lies in the word,
education; the leading out of an immortal being to
100
THE USE OF THE BODY IN RELATION TO THE MIND.
the fulfilment of its proper desires; the directing,
by moral governance, all the faculties, affections,
and propensities to right objects, including, of
course, the due exercise of the organization sub-
servient to them.”
All happiness derived through the senses of
sight and sound, is dependent on the vibration of
light and air.
SENSE OF SIGHT.
“We possess proof of the astounding fact, that
Solar light causes a regular succession of move-
ments in the medium through which it passes, to
the amount of five hundred millions of millions
in a second ; and it is because this vibration acts
upon something in our brain capable of vibrating
in a corresponding ratio, that our souls are put in
such relation to light that we can enjoy vision.
The time of different colors, however, is not the
same ; our sense of sight is affected by red 458
millions of millions of times in a second; by violet
727 millions of times; and by yellow, 542
millions of millions of times in a second. Of
course, therefore, different colors differently affect
our souls. Throughout nature, these undulations
of light are so modified as to be productive of a vast
variety of enjoyments to various creatures, and to
operate in such a manner upon their nerves and fac-
ulties as to guide them to the fulfilment of those
desirºs which color and shape contribute to ex-
cite.”
Mental action in the use of sight is one of the
most pleasing of Dr. Moore's chapters, and we
have read it with very agreeable associations.
The following is an extract under this head.
VISUAL PERCEPTION.
“A certain degree of attention to the use of the
eye is essential to visual perception; for if we are
profoundly engaged in contemplating ideas, or even
in listening to fine sounds, more especially if they
awaken our passions, we lose sight of ocular ob-
jects, or behold only such as fancy conjures up.
When several objects are presented to the eye at
the same time, as in complicated figures with un-
defined or intricate outlines, a pleasing confusion is
the result ; and unless we look attentively into the
pattern, imagination and memory will supply re-
semblances and ideas to occupy the place of that
which is really before us. This fact was referred
to in connection with the vagaries of reverie, but it
is one of very extensive application in the arts, and
assists us to understand the influence of many natu-
ral objects on our minds, since we perceive that a
variety of angles and curvilinear figures may be so
artfully distributed for ornamental effect, as to
afford incessant occupation and enjoyment to all
persons whose habits and mental development will
allow them properly to observe what is before their
eyes. But this, indeed, is far from being quite
a common endowment, for the power of observation
under correct ideal associations characterizes minds
of the highest genius, either for experiment, descrip-
tion, ºr design. It is, however, on the play of im-
aginatiº amidst many undefined objects that much
of our pleasure depends; and on this principle the
infinite diversity of forms and colors, interfering
with each other, and yet harmonizing, tends to di-
vert the soul from the visions of care, so apt to
haunt the thoughtful, and, by withdrawing the at-
tention from self, to fill it to overflowing with indef:
inite delights, by suggesting a thousand ideas of
life, action, and happiness, with which all but the
hopeless involuntarily sympathize. Hence the
benefit to the mind of excursions amidst green
fields, gardens, woods, hills, and dales, or by the
great sea, with its living waves and vastness, spark-
ling with sunbeams.”
ãº. following extract is singular, though its
contents do not prove anything, except that there
could have been no cessation of existence in the
cases related. With it we must conclude a work
evidently well-intentioned, showing a highly culti-
vated mind, sound professional knowledge, and a
deep sense of religion.
SINGULAR CASES OF SUSPENDED LIFE.
“Perhaps the clearest and most positive testi-
mony to the fact is that given by Dr. Adam Clarke,
the learned Wesleyan, who, when relating his re-
covery from drowning, stated to Dr. Lettsom, that
during the period of his apparent unconsciousness he
felt a new kind of life. These are his words:—“All
my views and ideas seemed instantly and entirely
changed, and I had sensations of the most perfect
felicity that it is possible, independently of rapture,
for the human mind to feel. I had no pain from
the moment I was submerged; a kind of green
color became visible to me; a multitude of objects
were seen, not one of which, however, bore the
least analogy to anything I had ever beheld before.’
When preaching in aid of the Humane Society, at
the City-road Chapel, in London, he said, ‘I was
submerged a sufficiently long time, according to my
apprehensions and the knowledge I now have of
physiology, for me to have been so completely dead
as never more to exist in this world, had it not been
for that Providence which, as it were, once more
breathed into me the breath of this life.” Mr.
Green, in his Diary, mentions a person who had
been hung, and cut down on a reprieve, who,
being asked what were his sensations, stated, that
the preparations were dreadful beyond expression,
but that on being dropped he instantly found him-
self amidst fields and rivers of blood, which gradu:
ally acquired a greenish tinge. Imagining that if
he could reach a certain spot he should be easy, he
seemed to himself to struggle forcibly to attain it,
and then he felt no more. Here we find a green
color again mentioned as the last impression on the
mind, which perhaps may be explained on the prin-
ciple mentioned in the chapter on light. The first
effect of strangulation is a retardation of blood,
which causes a red color to appear before the eye
but green always succeeds to red, unless the eye
be directed to some other color. It is interesting to
observe how, in the midst of the most violent
struggle to which a human being can be subjected,
the soul dissociates itself from the past and the
present, and interprets impression in keeping with
its desire, which seems ever to be capable of con-
*H a new world of thought according to its
ind.”
USE OF THE BODY.
THE eloquent and, amiable author of the power
of the “Soul over the Body,” has issued another
volume on a kindred subject, The Use of the Body,
in relation to the Mind. In this work Dr. Moore
first considers the peculiar organization of the
human body, to show its beautiful adaptation to the
ends of existence ; and then passes on to a minutº
and philosophical examination of the manner in
which the mind is affected by external circum:
stances. This subject has not been handled in the
same way before. "Always remembering that ma"
NOVEL IMPORTATIONS.
101
i: important as a spiritual being, Dr. Moore
Iſla i. ow want of light, of air, of water, of food,
º ect the mind, and how its very constitution
º, e altered by severe labor in early life, "#.
a tr º, and by want of intellectual culture. Thus
“”tise which appears at first sight only a com-
in º of Paley’s “ Natural Theology” is made
Sanat results to have an important bearing on those
fore . questions which are now prominently be-
hat he public. . Not only does Dr. Moore agree
but h our most important are our earliest years,”
ture º the full length of the startling conjec-
8 º Coleridge, that “the history of a man for
teſ. months preceding his birth wouldº
0 r 7nore anteresting, and contain events of greater
*t than all that follow it.” We pause here
WO “. though the suggestion may be well
* following out. As an example of the effect
...] influences on the mind, we quote some
e. on the relation between light and intel-
.*, development:—
£CO tadpole confined in darkness would IlêVer
hº. a frog, and an infant, being deprived of
i.” free light, will only grow into a shapeless
bein; instead of a beauteous and reasonable human
ravi . Hence, in the deep, damp gorges and
Shine of the Swiss Valais, where the direct sun-
c.ºly reaches, the hideous prevalence of
i. startles the traveller. It is a strange
. idiocy. Many cretins are incapable of
jº ate speech; some are deaf, some blind,
thissh abor under all these privations, and all are
.*Pen in almost every part of the body.”
fºre...ºlieve there is, in all places, a marked dif-
th...in the healthiness of houses, according to
are jº: with regard to the sun, and that those
wi...ºly the healthiest, cateris paribus, in
§ay, *ll the rooms are, during some ſº of the
§."y exposed to the direct light. It is a well-
inhabi. act, that epidemics frequently attack the
x.hts of the shady side of a street, and totally
'P' those of the other side; and even in en-
* such as ague, the morbid influence is often
to t º *tial in its action. Sunshine is also essential
its in ºtection of vegetation, and the water that
di","...liness is hard, and comparatively unfit for
'hyd. While the stream that bears its bosom to the
th: ...Pºsits its mineral ingredients, and becomes
T º suitable insolvent of our food.” º
$feren *ame train of investigation is pursued in
ploym * to sound, color, food, bodily action, em-
* &c. The whole work is marked by
learn.”volence and sincere piety, as well as by
addi. Sagacity, and eloquence. It is a valuable
"'o our stock of Christian philosophy—the
Cato Sonclusions being all drawn from authenti-
i.”, and illustrated by a great number of
°ases and anecdotes. Dr. Moore seems
ºf the º tº Dr. Wigan's theory of the Duality
le sh ºld; conceiving that the double organs act
The s.” harmony as the two eyes and two ears.
°xhibi º: in which Dr. Moore writes is fairly
“ii. the following extract:—
§he .pable of greater suffering than any
highe .* on earth, but he is also capable of
ºus . intenser enjoyments, and that º
ives. ººman and not merely an animal. He
able ..."º the denizen of eternity; and he is
°ndure all elieve all things, hope all things, and
things,’ with the consciousness that God
Ilce
owns him, not only as his creature, but as his
offspring. Therefore, let us not say, with the mis-
taken bard, in whom passion and impulse so strong-
ly warred against knowledge :—
‘Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow,
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe ''-BURNs.
Rather let us rejoice that the soul of man is trained
by trials. He must suffer, to be great; he must
conquer himself and the world, in order to be for-
ever mighty. For this end the reasonable spirit of
man is instructed by truth, the mind of God revealed
within him, that he may rise in faith above instincts,
passions, and opinions, and come forth an eternal
hero, who, through submission in weakness, arms
himself with omnipotence.”
Many beautiful passages of a like kind are dis-
persed through the work. No author has more
ably traced the connection between mind and body,
or has more finely and conclusively established the
relation between man and his Creator.—Britannia.
NOVEL, IMPORTATIONS.
SoME ten or twelve years ago, people were
amazed when fresh eggs and butter, live poultry
and cattle, were steamed from Ireland and the
north of Scotland for the consumption of the great
metropolis; now what shall they say to arrivals of
live turtle and pine-apples from the West Indies,
early potatoes from the Bermudas, and potatoes,
green-peas, and young onions from Portugal, and
cucumbers from Holland 4 Yet such is the case.
Turtle, if we can credit the newspapers, will
shortly be as common as veal, and pine-apples be
placed on every respectable table, not, as formerly,
on loan from the fruiterers, but the bona fide to-be-
enjoyed property of the host. , Last summer we
had several arrivals of pine apples, and this season
we see four already announced, so that ordinary-
sized pines, of delicious flavor, may be calculated
upon at scarcely one tenth of what they would
have cost under the uncertain and scanty supply of
the home grower. Early potatoes from the Ber-
mudas and Portugal, anticipating our own supply
by a month, is certainly a novelty; and we see no
reason why, instead of “two hundred and fifty-five
barrels,” there may not be fifty times that amount.
and yet the importer meet with a fair remunerating
profit. In our northern latiude, we need never
hope to compete in earliness with the more favored
climates of Portugal, Madeira, and the West In-
dies; but by our steam navigation, which makes
these countries, as it were, part and parºl of our
own island, we may enjoy, at a reasonable expen-
diture, all the delicacies of the tºº. and yet se-
cure the healthful invigorating advantages of our
own temperate clime. Nor, under the cultivation
of peace and the extension of steam navigation and
railways, do we see any limit to this gratifying in-
terchange of commodities. . We have now Ameri-
can ice, as well as American cotton and corn ;
West India turtle and pine-apples, as well as West
India rum and sugar : early potatoes, green-peas,
and grapes from Portugal, as well as Portuguese
oranges, raisins, and wines—nor is there any cause
why we may not have every other foreign delicacy,
however rare and evanescent.—Chambers’ Journal.
102
THE BROKEN TREATY-IRELAND,
CENTRAL EUROPE : THE BROKEN TREATY.
THE result of the debates in both houses of par-
liament on the occupation of Cracow is, that Russia,
Austria, and Prussia have manifestly broken the
letter of the treaty of Vienna, and that they lie
under a heavy suspicion of having violated its
spirit also. In other words, they have committed
an offence against the commonwealth of Europe;
and there is great reason to think that they have
done this wilfully and maliciously. The treaty of
Vienna is the basis on which the present status quo
reposes; and its integrity must be guarded at every
point, for on no other terms can the peace of the
continent be preserved. The provisions of the treaty
may or may not be the best that could be desired;
some of them are unwillingly submitted to by cer-
tain of the contracting parties; but this affords only
so much the stronger reason for insisting on the
scrupulous fulfilment of all the conditions by all
parties. If the treaty is faulty, then let it be rem-
edied by a general congress; but, meanwhile, no
power can presume to violate it without virtually
becoming the common enemy of confederated Eu-
rope, and provoking retaliations of the most for-
midable nature. In a word, the strenuous interpo-
sition of the governments of France and England on
behalf of the independence of Cracow is called for
not only on the grounds of generous sympathy for
the weak and oppressed remnant of an illustrious
nation, but likewise as necessary to the quiet and
security of themselves and their allies. The sum
and substance of the matter was most cogently ex-
pressed by Lord Palmerston in the following mem-
orable words:—
“I must say, that if there are any powers, parties
to that treaty, who have the strongest interest that
the settlement of Europe which was effected by the
treaty of Vienna should be maintained, those pow-
ers undoubtedly are the powers of Germany; and
it cannot have escaped, I am sure, the sagacity of
those who govern those countries, that if the treaty
of Vienna be not good on the Vistula, it may be
equally bad on the Rhine and on the Po.”
Have Prussia and Austria nothing to apprehend
from these two quarters? Are they so perfectly
Secure against all danger from without and from
within that they can afford to tamper with the com-
mon bond of peace? The facts are directly the
reverse. The internal condition of both those states
is in the highest degree uneasy and precarious.
Their heterogeneous elements are farther than ever
from coalescing; and nothing seems now more
likely than that the outbreak of any general com-
motion would be speedily followed by the dissolution
of the two ill-compacted masses. Their very ex-
istence is bound up with that of the treaty of
Vienna. Austria has but five or six millions of
erman subjects to match against its thirty-one
millions of restless and discontented Italians, Magy-
ars, and Sclavonians, who are severally plotting its
overthrow, and waiting only a favorable conjuncture
of circumstances to effect their purpose. Their
zeal, their hopes, and their resources are augment-
ing day by day; while those of their imperial foe
are dwindling as rapidly away. The moral force
of the Austrian government is almost gone; and
were it left to fight its own battles single-handed,
three fourths of the bayonets it now commands
would perhaps be turned at once against it. How
long could it make head against Italy, with the
Magyars, the Poles, and other Sclavonians, as-
saulting it on flank and rear! The sovereigns of
Italy, the King of Sardinia, the Archduke of Tus-
cany, the pope, and the King of Naples are all
heading those commercial and administrative re-
forms which will soon give Italy the power as well
as the will to assert her independence.
The condition of Prussia is not less critical. Her
subjects are deeply disaffected, and have probably
been hitherto restrained from breaking out into
open insurrection only by their want of mutual con-
fidence and of a common national spirit. The
eastern Sclavonic provinces are animated with an
intense antipathy to the government, both because
it is German and because it is the timid and obse-
quious ally of the czar; the Rhenish provinces are
discontented with their present rulers, and look
back with.gratitude to France for the laws she be-
stowed on them ; while part of the centre, unwil-
lingly calling itself Prussian, would gladly revert
to Saxony, from which it was severed. It is easy
to see what would be the fate of Prussia if matched
against France on the banks of the Rhine.
It is mere foolhardiness to assume that we are
safe for our day from such a contingency. We
have happily escaped it for thirty-one years, not
because it was of itself unlikely to occur, but be-
cause prudent statesmen have taken assiduous pains
to prevent it. The event would have happene
with the consent and coöperation of Nicholas had
Charles the Tenth remained on the throne of France.
There will be peace, we trust, as long as Louis
Philippe lives; and his successors will probably en-
deavor to continue his pacific policy; but they may
possibly not be able to do so. However convinced
the French may be of the expediency of resting
content just now with their present limits, there is
scarcely a man among them who does not believe
in his heart that the Rhine is the natural boundary
of France, and that to this limit her territory must
and shall be extended. At present the policy o
the French middle classes accords with that of
their sovereign; they feel it is their interest to
repress the national ardor for military glory; but
there comes a time with men and nations when
passion outruns reason, and present interests ar?
sacrificed to speculative advantages. The French
are perhaps . most prone of all civilized beingº
to such aberrations.—Spectator, Aug. 22d.
IRELAND's weakNess ENGLAND's oppoRTU-
NITY.
VAST and startling conclusions were hinted at in
the discussion on the government measures for the
relief of Ireland under the second failure of the
tato crop. Indeed, the facts are bad enough:
}. a second season the disease in the potato plan"
manifests itself with greater virulence than before:
and a second time is the government of Englan
called upon to rescue the Irish people from starvi.
tion. Is this intervention going to be habitual % In
sooth, that question is in the hands of Fortune; "
seems to depend upon the restoration of the pota"
plant to a healthy state; and there is no guessing
when that may be:
But strange things were said. There was ;
general concurrence in recognizing some sort 9
permanence as pertaining to the present junctuº
in Ireland—a permanence either in its causes or .
its results. Some speakers, indeed, expressly quº.
ified both the emergency and the measures as “tºº.
porary,” but the idea of continuousness was th9
prevailing one. Especially did the advantages"
IRELAND,
103
º assume a lasting aspect. One could
that i y wish it otherwise. Lord John Russell said
most * People of Clare—where the destitution was
jº. felt—had never before been so well
of §. at the bad part of the year, and the cases
lero ºr were fewer. Mr. Henley declared that
will b." as yet no prospect that the potato disease
tº. Sºtinguished, and he demanded permanent
N. for the relief of Ireland. Sir Denham
cº alluded to the “natural resources” of the
it is: Yº and its mines of wealth, as things which
i.ent on the government to cultivate. Mr.
pro *here, in supporting Lord Jºhn Russell's
*...to give employment as an indirect means
un £ºiding subsistence, floundered into repeating
i. and doubtful tales about abuses in the
trade . n of employment, with over-sage free-
TIC
ºrictures on the demoralizing tendencies of
0. intervention. Lord Lincoln rose to give Mr.
on. ºre, the Irish secretary young in office,
implic Vice as to the expediency of not trusting too
*ly to such tales from Ireland; and he denied
°re had been any demoralizing influence: on
goºd. he said, the employment offered by
reli º tended to wean the Irish people from
th."...ºn cropping for sustenance, and to accustom
9r go subsist on wages. Moreover, he claimed
tra ºnment the credit of having introduced a
Ord maize, which is “likely to be permanent.”
si. 'ºhn Russell talked of maize in a similar
$gains As a kind of food which, when prejudices
böſ. * are overcome, would recommend itself as
Said- °up and nutricious. Mr. Charles Wood
£g
lay º the evidence of the blue book which then
hädi. * table of the house, it was proved that
Of iii. been for those very measures the people
est . would have been subjected to the great-
man.”ss. He did not hesitate to say, that in
Was
'. Pºrts of the country the existence of families
and
Il
ºing to the measures of the government;
only was the existence but the peace of
thye ºple to be attributed to.the same praisewor-
º: And with regard to the food which
..", introduced into that country by the gov-
thinºo believed it had caused a new state of
theº.º. country. If honorable gentlemen read
the . they would find that, in consequence of
the . °orn that was continuously poured into
ble a ...the country had received an incalcula:
ºre...ºf gºod, Indian corn was cheaper and
than ...”ious food than potatoes—it was cheaper
the .d he confessed that he was sanguine
Corn ºpºtation that the substitution of Indian
*ion iſ, tº *atoes would produce a complete revolu-
:, ; "“w UIS ºcial condition of the people of Ireland.”
§ions...ºt some of the more obvious propo-
§etti."ºyed in the sayings which we have cited.
º Q j doubts as to the continuance of the
y the , € *h is a matter of fact to be determined
§sure, . We find these views enunciated. The
gen. "...have already had the most blessed
ºfficien. ". ºn tigating the scourges of Ireland—
§ fº * been substituted for destitution, and
he Irish. Wits on starvation has been checked.
"ages inj begun to depend for subsistence on
i. introl. ºf conacre. A trade in maize has
. an. With every prospect that it will
..ºbstituti. g.ºgress has already been made
Oot O : g the excellent grain maize for the bad
§§ * ..". “Social revolution” has com-
6 Perman. f the last proposition is implied in
°f the maize trade; for, of course,
9ſficial
& Co
maize is not to be a redundant luxury, a pure ad-
dition to the cottier's bill of fare: it is therefore to
displace the potato.
Granting the truth of the propositions, still more
startling ulterior conclusions must be admitted as
inevitable. If by means so cheap as less than half
a million yearly, Ireland can be saved from starva-
tion and disease, will statesmen venture to reconsign
her to those periodical, scourges? If wages are
substituted forconacre, the cottier system is doomed,
and a recasting of estates will be inevitable. If
the Irish are in future to feed on the foreign imported
grain maize, the potato-grounds will be thrown out
of use—thrown on the landlords’ hands, and must be
converted to other purposes—no doubt, better pur-
poses, but still involving a change in the system
of agriculture. We observe that already the Irish
papers report meetings of the poorer class, at
which the hint has been thrown out that the failure
of the potato-crop will prevent tenants from paying
their rent, and that in lieu of paying it they should
cede their potato-grounds to their landlords. Truly,
it appears that “social revolution” is not too sweep-
ing a phrase for the notion that vaguely floated in
the minds of the debaters on Monday.
It does seem “cool” to put these ideas in words,
especially to those who hold that all social changes
should be the slow and natural growth of events.
But the state of Ireland is not “natural:” it is ra-
ther so monstrous that it appears impossible for its
immediate offspring to be anything but monstrous
too, unless some outward power interpose. Nor
is it to be presumed that because the juncture is
calculated to cause anxiety, therefore it is without
hope. On the contrary, we firmly believe that the
osition of Ireland, within the bounds of authentic
history, was never more hopeful than it is at this
moment. It is a time of urgent opportunity.
It is to be desired that all the inevitable conse-
quences both of the calamity and of the measures
taken to avert it should be distinctly seen and re-
cognized. As it stands, the whole case appears to
involve several ulterior measures which do but
faintly show themselves behind the hints of the
deliberating legislators. If we assume the prem-
ises indicated by the speakers of Monday night,
among the most obvious consequences is the hated
practice of “clearances;” since it will be impera-
tively necessary to convert the small holdings into
larger farms suited to a different style of agricul-
ture; only a population depending on wages would
neither need nor heed the now dreaded and avenged
“ejectment.” Such a change, were it to occur,
and to be duly improved simultaneously with its
occurrence, might go far to solve the perplexed
question of land tenures; though auxiliary meas-
ures might still be desirable. While changes re-
specting land were astir it would be most unwise
to neglect two cognate subjects—the best purpose
to which the now vacant potato-lands might be
devoted; the proper use to which waste lands in
general might be appropriated: Truly, if the Irish
population were a race subsisting on wages instead
of conacre, and if that better spirit were to grow
up which Lord John Russell notes as the immedi-
ate fruit of English assistance—and which Mr.
Dillon Browne embodies in the declaration that
Lord John's speech tended to supersede the wish
for repeal—capital would not long be excluded from
working the “mines of wealth.” But, whether
to facilitate the change or to regulate the condition
of a people living on wages, it would no longer be
possible to refuse that long delayed measure, a real
104.
PARCELS,
RAILWAY
poor-law for Ireland, Perhaps, if there had been
one already, this kind of condensed poor-rate,
which Lord John is about to impose on the land for
repayment of moneys henceforth advanced in aid,
would not have been needed. At all events, the
impost is an immense stride towards a poor-law.
Othermeasures will suggest themselves as belonging
to the same class. It is clear—still assuming the
premises—that the present is a period of total unset-
tlement in Ireland: while affairs are thus unsettled,
it is most desirable to take the opportunity of making
such arrangements that they shall settle down as
satisfactorily as possible, so as to avoid renewed dis-
turbance. To use the opportunity for nothing but
tinkering and temporary appliances, would be to
abuse it—to desecrate an occasion for wide and
practical beneficence, perhaps unprecedented in his-
tory. A statesman who could master such a junc-
ture, grapple with its difficulties, and bring together
the requisite measures into one comprehensive and
efficient whole, would immortalize himself—Spec-
tator, Aug. 22d.
RAILWAY PARCELS.
AN old quarrel between railway companies and
some of their customers has been revived. Various
enactments are attempted to prevent the packing of
small parcels in one large package, so that the car-
riage shall be charged upon the bulk instead of fall-
ing upon each parcel. The form of the enactment
does not greatly matter; it is the substance, which
we have stated, that forms the real subject of dis-
pute. The railway companies insist upon the right
to charge separately for small parcels collected from
different senders or transmitted to different receivers.
The law has been construed against them, and they
endeavor to obtain the privilege by statute. We
think that upon the whole they are justified.
The chief opponents of the claim are certain per-
sons in the carrying trade ; but they are backed by
the booksellers and publishers of London. Among
the latter class a distinction must be made. All
periodically send parcels to their agents in the
country. With some the primary object is merely
to send their own publications or wares to their
agents: the goods are intended for ultimate distri-
bution, no doubt, but not more so than cotton cloth
carried from the manufacturer to the retail dealer,
or goods carried from the warehouse to the shop,
These packages ought unquestionably to be charged
in bulk. Other booksellers not merely convey the
packet of a stranger in their large parcel, as a per-
sonal favor, but make a trade of that accommoda-
tion: in so far as they do that, they belong to the
class of carriers, and their case may be considered
with that of the professed carriers.
The claim of the carriers is this. Formerly they
collected parcels, conveyed them to the place of
destination, and distributed them; the journey be:
ing slow and expensive. Other parties have laid
out large sums in the construction of railways; and
the carriers claim to use those railways for the pur-
pose of carriage, according to a mode of payment
fixed by themselves. It is true that the railway
companies can effect the transit of goods in bulk at
a cheap rate; but it is not fair to split up the
accounts, and force a particular business on the
railway at an arbitrary rate because that business
will show a profit. Railway companies necessarily
view their outlay and income in the broadest way:
their original expense is enormous; the revenue is
most productive if they afford the greatest amount
of accommodation to the public; and in order to do
that, they do not too nicely consider the profit on
each particular branch of traffic, but the income
derivable from the whole. They have therefore a
right to distribute their charges in such way as
shall be most convenient to the public at large and
most advantageous to themselves; and are not in
justice bound to favor middlemen, whose interposi-
tion is not needed by the public, and who have not,
in their capacity of carriers, done anything to create
the railway.
Were it once recognized as a principle, that you
have only to pack separate articles together in order
to force the company to make the charge in bulk,
everything might be so smuggled at the same rate
as cotton or coals. A racing-stud enclosed in a
solid horse-box might pass as “one package.”
Nay, passengers might equally be packed in bales.
Families might be sent down by the hamper—and
many families are already seriously hampered
Schools might be sent in bulk; to be charged, if
marked “with care—this side uppermost,” on a
par with glass or turtle-soup ; if unmarked, run-
ning the chance of travelling antipodes-fashion,
much banged about by porters in loading and un-
loading, and put in trains not particular about col-
lisions, then charged on a par with pig-iron and
coke. Nay, hotel-keepers might make up parties,
or rather parcels, and send whole innfuls of guests
as “goods.” It might indeed become a question
whether mauvais sujets and naughty boys could be
classed as “goods;” but railway companies would
find some difficulty in regulating their tariff on a
moral scale. -
Those who argue that the companies must shut
their eyes, open their vans, and take what carriers
bring them, make a great fuss about “ cheapness”
as the result of competition. Competition has not
been the screw that has produced the most striking
instances of progressive cheapening in railway traf.
fic, but it has been a more direct and simple motive
of self-interest; which competition has sometimes
disturbed in its operation, not advantageously for
the public. Competition between the Grand-Junction
and Manchester-and-Birmingham lines occasioned
a raising of fares to support the contest; amal-
gamation resulted in a lowering of fares. This is
only one out of many instances. . On the other
hand, the mere desire to obtain as large a revenue
as possible induced the Brighton Company to lower
fares in order to take in a wider class of customers:
the result led to further reductions, with the most
surprising success; the public and the railway both
profiting. The same process is at work in other
departments. The conveyance of live stock has
increased, and will increase more rapidly, to th9
immense saving of the grazier's loss in the condi.
tion of the cattle, to his great gain in the facility of
passing from market to market until he finds the
best, and to the great profit of railways. At first,
indeed, railway managers checked that traffic by
imposing too high charges: the charges have been
lowered, and the results outstrip calculation. No
doubt, the same influences will tell on the carriage
of parcels, and we shall soon have a “ parcels-delivº
ery” all over England at least, even though the
post-office should persist in repudiating that traffic.
Some one suggests that “the principle of the
penny postage” should be applied to parcels: very
well, but none can apply it so well as railway com"
panies; and in order to enable them to do it succes;
fully—that is, with such profit as to engage the
Self-interest in promoting the traffic—they mº
ave the power of charging the smallest possible
sums on the largest possible number of separa”
parcels.-Spectator.
the
i.
LITTELL's LIVING AGE.-No. 127–17 OCTOBER, 1846.
From the Spectator, 5 Sept.
THE QUEEN OF SPAIN.”
The Que
been le. of Spain is half-married—she has
Assiz * to her cousin, Don Francisco de
marriage t is reported that France consented to the
shoul #. * condition that the Infanta Luisa
that. tnarried to the Duc de Montpensier; but
gº. of the story wants confirmation. As to
e º for the queen, it is perhaps the least of
prº S that presented themselves... It does not
Could . "PPosition from any side; which perhaps
not un . been said of no other candidate. It is
c ...tº that the young pair have any pen-
lll) dº. each other: on the other hand, it is not
ings * Ood that either of them has very tender feel-
royal i. that the union may be well enough as
negativ ºring es go. Its political consequences are
wii j ; all its domestic consequences, probably,
of...be knºwn. Meanwhile, it has the merit
ºg strictly Spanish.
lish." Madrid Gazette of the 20th August pub-
knºw." royal decree, by which the queen makes
cousin º the nation her determination to marry her
and t the Infanta Don Francisco de Assis Maria;
of S. majesty convokes the Cortes for the 14th
ºptember. -
secº. Journal des Débats sticks to the report of a
+ parti...ge ; and opportunity supplies some
“ º respecting the young couples—
º,
Duke d ºna Louisa, sister to the queen, with the
..." Q * Montpensier, is decided. g
of 0. Isabella was born at Madrid on the 10th
isº, 1830. Her majesty is consequently
ºxteen years of age.
de As * royal highness the Infanta Don Francisco
was...Yaº, born on the 13th of May, 1822. He
last.”!y-four years of age in the month of May
• ' . {{ * f *. *.
on jº Puke de Montpensier was born at Neuilly
con.ºlst of July, 1824. His royal highness is
Se
age. quently rather more than twenty-two years of
t - " - ‘. . '
sº Maia Louisa Ferdinanda, Infanta of
"..."as born on the 30th of January, 1832.
, , ºr , r * *
month **! highness is fourteen years and seven
. . * * w lS of age.” - 28 -
- r i : - } & 's > *: . -
cle e C. Madrid correspondent of the Morning Chron-
Secon
* Ring Louis Philippe's anxiety for the
“ *3rriage- . - - - s
belier. }}| the queen have no heirs, (and many
§ direc the state of her majesty's health renders
Huisa .#. exceedingly doubtful,) the Infanta
over, €. become heiress to the throne.” More-
ºn, a.º.º.ess is a yery charming young per-
ºnder ti *9te of the richest heiresses in Europe.
she is .. Will of her father, King Ferdinand VII.,
- millions º in possession of a fortune of sixteen
§uch a wº francs, ( +640,000 sterling) secured in
- hili, ºy ** to make payment certain. “Louis
ther º "...9% only a wise king, but a prudent fa-
Duk.", family. ... His eldest surviving son, the
. later, CO "ºurs, as future regent, must, sooner
D are assured that the marriage of the In-
O
has secured a large fortune with his Brazilian
princess; the Duke d'Aumale is in possession of
the whole of the fortune of the great Condés; and
now the Duke de Montpensier, [the only one un-
provided for, is saddled for a handsome sum upon
Spain.”
*. Morning Chronicle publishes in a second
edition some further gossip which prevailed in
Paris yesterday touching the marriages. These
are the points: that the queen and her sister will
both be married on the same day, the 10th of Oc.
tober, the queen's birthday; that the Progresista
party have published a declaration protesting
against the proposed alliance with the Duke de
Montpensier; that Mr. Bulwer was not invited to
the meeting of council at which the queen's inten-
tion was announced, and that he has entered a pro-
test against the Montpensier marriage.
QUEEN ISABELLA's MARRIAGE.
The account of Queen Isabella's marriage reads
like an old fairy tale—that is, like the unhappy
parts; but, unlike the fairy tale, it is to be feared
that it will not end happily. Three pictures are
shown to Queen Isabella, of three distant princes
in different climates born, all seeking her hand—
the young Spanish pretender, her cousin, Conde
de Montemolin; the half ecclesiastical Prince of
Naples, Conte di Trapani; and a prince from the
officina conjugium, Leopold of Coburg-Cohary—
like all his race, a handsome specimen of humani-
ty. The young queen took rather a fancy to the
handsome stranger; but reasons of state left her no
free choice. She is told that she must marry
cousin Francisco de Assis—who is ugly, dull, un-
pleasing to her taste, and, worst of all, indifferent
towards herself. However, she is told that she
shall have no other husband; he is urged by his
friends; and the young couple undergo the sacred
ceremony of betrothal with tears and sobs on her
part, sullen sadness on his. The affianced bride
retires to a pillow of tears; the bridegroom goes
home and is ill. i
Queen Isabella is not the imprisoned daughter
of a tyrant, but is herself a reigning sovereign; yet
practically her choice was not much freer. It was
limited negatively, by a host of objections to all but
the husband who is forced upon her. Those about
her, the queen-mother included, cannot have failed
to study her character, and its weaknesses espe-
cially; and she has been used against herself—the
most insidious and unscrupulous suborning of com-
plicity in treaSon. No doubt, immunities have
been held out in prospect, to compensate for this
restraint; one tempter having herself been the *
sacrifice in a marriage with a diseased dullard, and
having improved the opportunities of a disordered
household to obtain isolace for her mortified tastes.
When Queen Isabella recently conferred the royal
title of “highness” ºn the handsome trooper who
has fathered Queen Christina's eight children, and
was married to her not two years ago, the young
sovereign could not have omitted to draw a com:
mentary—applicable to her own case—applicable à
hen. he is me upon the country for a dotation; and fortiori, since she is to be a sovereign wiſe, not
. CXXV º - r i
ii. . . . LIVING AGF." vol. XI. 7
Prºvided for. The Prince of Joinvillel queen consort. Otherwise, perhaps, she would not
106
THE QUEEN OF SPAIN.
have consented to give her hand to Don Fran-
cisco.
How can a union begun so disastrously produce
happy results . The notion that, though bad for
her, it is good for the state or for the people, is
self-evidently absurd : a nation can derive no bene-
fit from driving the chief of its virgins to such a
nuptial couch.
But it may be said, that if no positive good is
obtained, evil results of other unions are avoided—
dangerous political alliances. No more unsubstan-
tial dogma rules that world of shadows, diplomacy,
than this notion of dangers from matrimonial alli-
ances. Nations are no longer mere estates with
the live stock on them, given and taken as mar-
riage-portions; but they have their own substan-
tive history, to which that of the reigning house is
subordinate. As to the fear lest clever intriguers
should obtain high place, it is as gratuitous as any.
No one is so dangerous in power as a fool. Put a
gun into the hands of a villain, and he may com-
pass the death of his enemy; into the hands of a
fool, and ten to one he fires it off into the midst of
a crowd. Any process by which to improve the
breed of the royal population in Europe, to make
her princes cleverer and more sagacious, would
be most useful. In the west, the power of the
sovereign is rapidly becoming too much limited to
permit mischief from a clever man; , but nothing
can forearm you against the incalculable mischiefs
devised by folly. There is no country at this day
that would profit by having a duller man at its
head. Frederick William of Prussia by no means
does all that his people wish ; but exchange him
for a Nicholas, and the Prussians would soon find
out what a safeguard they had lost in the cultivated
conscience, and above all in the intelligence, of
their present monarch. He knows too much, to
do what a barbarian would not hesitate about: for
ignorance is the real parent of cruelty, and intelli-
gence alone teaches how to sacrifice the present to
the future. Louis Philippe, astutest of princes, is
serving his own ends, and compassing them on all
sides; but how well he manages to keep France
quiet—how well he knows that a publicly virtuous
rule can alone conduce to his own interests! He
may be mean, hypocritical, selfish, tricking, swin-
dling Europe out of its respect by conduct that
looks patriotic while it is carried on solely with an
eye to business; but his public acts must be benefi-
cent, conducive to the material interests of the peo-
ple subject to him, or he and his vast schemes are
ruined. No one suspected Charles the Tenth of
peculiarly artful or personally selfish intentions;
but his dull folly drove his people to rebellion.
Had Ferdinand of Spain been a shrewder and a
bolder man, letting alone virtuous intentions, how
much blood and misery would have been saved to
Spain If a little Orléans cleverness were infused
into the royal blood of that country; how much bet-
ter her chance of future political advancement.
The sapient meddlers of diplomacy, however, have
done their best to perpetuate the breed of Ferdi-
nands, on the pretence of saving danger to Spain
and Europe!
From the Examiner.
SPANISH MARRIAGES.
THE efforts and intrigues, pour et contre, occa-
sioned by the marriage of Queen Isabella in Spain,
would make a pretty little romance in forty vol-
umes, if spun out by the able hand of Sue or Du-
mas. Poor young woman, she has been forced to
live in just such an artificial world as those pages
present ' What a nursery tale were hers For
the revolutions of the times had always correspond-
ing ones in her closet. Poor little being ! called a
queen before she could know what it meant—when
her mother or her ministers provoked to an intoler-
able degree the resentment and disgust of the Mad-
rid people, little Isabella was always brought forth
as a peace offering, and her infant countenance had
the desired effect. Even Spanish frenzy was ap-
peased at the sight of the “innocent Isabel.”
One of the first nursery revolutions must have
been that of Lieutenant Munoz coming to instal
himself as her father-in-law. Then Zea, turned out
by the clamors of the liberals; subsequently the
revolution of La Granga, when, the queen-mother
was forced by the soldiers to dismiss her minister;
—the infant queen saw all this;–and finally at
Valencia, saw her mother forced to quit her chil-
dren and the kingdom ; the good mother consoling
herself by carrying off all the palace plate, and
leaving her royal daughter to feed with a pewter
spoon. From the hands of the old court dowagers,
Isabella was then handed over to the keeping of
Mrs. Mina, a woman who knew less of a court than
she did of a fish-market. By her, the royal pre-
ceptors in dancing and in French were superseded
by philosophic pedagogues of the choice of Ar-
guelles. It is needless to say that in the midst of
these changes the innocent Isabella became, ere she
was in her teens, the most perfect mistress of dis-
simulation. This was seen in the course of events
which followed Espartero's expulsion; when the
Moderados and the old restored courtiers, not
knowing how to get rid of Olezaga, who had ac-
tually brought them in, tutored the queen, and
forced her to exaggerate an innocent act of minis-
terial dictation into nothing less than high trea-
son. The very first act of the French party
when restored, was to bring the little queen before
the nation with a monstrous falsehood in her mouth,
which might have sacrificed the life of Olezaga, had
he not escaped. The falsehood, however, cannot
be laid to the child's charge, but to those of her in-
famous advisers.
What an eternal scene of squabble and intrigue
has the palace presented since, between the queen-
mother, the sanguinary and blustering soldiers who
upheld her power, the French family ambassador,
and the Infante's party, , represented whilst sho
lived by the Princess Carlotta. The care of this
amiable knot of people was to cashier the Cortes,
or get it to unvote the fundamental article o
the charter, which gave to the national assembly
the disposal of the queen's hand. Yet, when they
had obtained this power, they were unable to use
it, unable to conclude an alliance worthy of the
young queen. The first thought (always the case
in Spain) was how to link a loan with the marriage;
or some financial operation that would enrich a
concerned. For this purpose England was ap lied
to and coquetted with ; but Lord Aberdeen i. the
Spanish loan-hunters to go—where incivility sends
knaves. And France had thenceforth the ball in
her hands. ... "
France then suggested the Trapani marriage;
which, it was hoped, would mollify Austria, an
produce the recognition of the queen by the eastern
power; the Duc de Montpensier at the same tim” .
being to be betrothed to the queen's younger sister.
To regulate and deprive this last match of its
danger was the effort of Mr. Bulwer, and it was
RUSSIAN PROPAGANDA IN POLAND.
107
.g. in the meeting of Pampeluna, that the
§§ queen should espouse Count Trapani, and
**rench prince the Infanta as soon as the queen
ad offspring. As the infanta was but twelve
* old at the time, delay could not be objected
sº however, would not desert Don Carlos,
thro the Neapolitan prince would not occupy a
j unsanctioned by the church and the eastern
th §s. These objections were felt insulting to
... Spaniards and their queen, and Trapani became
l g * - -
'ºl. The discovery and the admission that
º:de º match was impossible was, however,
y many statesmen long before Christina and
le i. would admit it. Mon and the party of
Even º Cortes declared against it first.
next ºrvaez gave it up one day, to revive it the
whic And these vacillations gave rise to quarrels,
*Co ', onvulsed the cabinet and agitated the pal-
marri espairing of a financial operation built on a
i. several of those worthies undertook specu-
º ised on their knowledge of coming events.
Such 4 was enticed into the scheme; and he lost
* Sum of money that Christina became indig-
*śāinst the gamblers, and a series of quarrels
nant
took * th *
. Place, which ended in the expulsion of Nar-
the Fr
Since th
te at event, civilian ideas and less passion-
ºncil have prevailed at the court of Madrid.
Cen le French envoy, however powerful, has not
i...ºd to remain absolute dictator. The
F. of France to effect the Trapani marriage,
ered §. the consent of the eastern powers, low:
and a ºnch influence. And the queen, disgusted
declar. Foºted, once more applied to England, and
e kn for a Cobourg alliance. Lord Aberdeen,
all 3. turned the same deaf car to this, as to
Sums. overtures. The plan failed; but the cir-
he, tº nºe so alarmed the king of the French, that
and i. ecame rational in the Spanish business,
quº. to fall in with the popular idea of the
fin.” marrying her cousin, the son of the In-
sººn came the question, which son! The court
yo nº". Well as the popular one, pointed out the
trea Sailor, Don Enrique, whom Narvaez had
whom th rutally to please the French court, but
ac. *French court was now quite willing to
liste. .. to win. But the sailor prince would
Reither h9 flattery, enter into no terms, forswear
in ['a lºciples nor friends ; and after a sojourn
the F. Sº a week, Don Enrique was declared by
His ci. court to be dangerous and impracticable.
Qn, ...hº. a great slob, was therefore ſixed
Tiš."...hº..betrothal took place.
Pºecipital ºrothal, too, seems to have taken place
Siste ely. . It is said the French court in-
to the º simultaneous betrothal of the Infanta
*rriage . de Montpensier, making the queen's
hand."ºpendent on the Infanta's. On the other
ance...". ulwer no doubt insisted on the observ-
Father sh. stipulations of Pampeluna; and some
betwº. . Correspondence has been interchanged
ºg han °Courts of Madrid and St. James on the
iſer. º d of the Tuileries on the other. The
is not liki . cannot be very serious; for it
tº a #. that the whigs should object altogether
ioni, § to which their predecessors had con-
9ns the 1. tºd; and the Pampeluna condi-
ºnali.". of the French cannot be so unrea-
“essary in 1; tº observe; since, if wise and ne-
- 44, they cannot beiðss so in 1846.
THE SPANISH MATCH.-All the jewellers and
goldsmiths of Paris are at work on ornaments for
the marriage of that poor little victim the Queen of
Spain, doomed to be executed to her cousin. The
finery is spoken of, by competent judges of such
matters, as being very superb. The diamonds are
said to be as bright and almost as numerous as the
tears shed by the bride, and the gold trimkets almost
as heavy as her sighs. Her hymeneal manacles,
though they may gall her to the bone, will at least
be magnificently chased. No Hindoo widow was
ever burned with greater splendor than will attend
the Spanish bride to the altar. She will be sacri-
ficed to marriage like a queen. And when she has
given her hand to her cousin and promised to give
her heart, the spirits of hypocrisy, and guile, and
fraud (especially invoked for the solemnity) will
chant an epithalamium expressly composed for the
occasion by that great master of domestic discord,
the parent of all falsehood. An amnesty will, it is
said, be granted, and all political offences forgiven,
on the marriage of the queen. Poor thing She
herself may forgive her enemies, but, as the Italian
says, “it is not ordered that we should forgive our
friends;” and Isabella may bitterly remember that
exception and privilege.—Punch.
RUSSIAN PROPAGANIDA IN POLAND.
WEAK, culpable, and abortive as was the late
Polish insurrection, it seems likely nevertheless to
be followed by strange and important results affect-
ing the three great despotic powers of Europe, and
for one of them at least—Austria—replete with
the most formidable perils. It was with painful
incredulity that western statesmen at first received
the reports of the deeds done with the sanction or
connivance of the government in Gallicia; and
even now they can hardly shake off the stupor of
amazement into which they have been cast by the
monstrous guilt and folly of the Imperial policy in
that province. To find the most ancient, the most
methodic, cautious, and timorously conservative
throne in Europe, suddenly adopting the counsels
of Asiatic barbarism, and plunging with deliberate
purpose into fierce, desolating anarchy, was some-
thing which philosophy might explain, but for
which our modern experience had not prepared us.
Equally novel and unexpected is the retribution
which is following fast on the heels of the crime.
A little while ago, who would have thought to see
the Polish patriots throw themselves into the fra-
ternal embraces of Russia, and hail the Emperor
Nicholas as the destined saviour of their race and
nation, the avenger of the blood of their brethren
shed by Austria Yet so it is . A reaction of
this kind is setting in rapidly and intensely : Rus-
sia is meeting it with prompt, skilful, and energetic
encouragements; Austria and Prussia are acutely
sensible of the danger, but know not how to guard
against it. Such are the fruits of Prince Metter-
nich's vaunted statecraft. +
A pamphlet lately published in France, and pur-
porting to be A Leiter addressed by a Nobleman of
Gallicia to Prince Metternich respecting his Circu-
lar Despatch of 7th March, 1846, may be considered
as the official manifesto of the new school of Po-
lish politics. It is known to be regarded in that
light in the diplomatic circles of Berlin and Vienna.
The author calls upon his countrymen to break for-
ever with the juggling. statesmanship and the delu-
sive popular sympathies of western Europe, and
108
HUNT.
ELAND
cast themselves without reserve upon the ruler of
the great Sclavonic empire. Thus, he tells them,
if they cannot command their own destiny as a
political body, they may find a new one as individ-
uals of the same race, and have their share in the
greatness of that union of all the Sclaves which
the atrocities of the stranger will have served to
expedite. “Let us begin,” he says, “to choose
freely what we have hitherto endured. As soon as
we shall have ceased to bear ourselves as slaves,
our master will, in spite of himself, be our brother.”
Nothing can be more welcome to the Czar than
sentiments such as these. To say nothing of the
prospects of territorial aggrandizement which they
encourage, (a temptation to which Russia was
never indifferent,) they offer Nicholas a means of
effacing the Gallicizing tendencies of his Polish
subjects, and of setting up on his western frontier
an effectual barrier against the inroads of the con-
stitutional contagion.
It is only just now they have begun even in Ger-
many to reflect on the peculiar attitude assumed by
the Russian government during the massacre of
Gallicia. When the Russian soldiers entered Cra-
cow, they were received with delight by the towns-
people, because they delivered them from the de-
tested Austrians. Several of the persecuted Gal-
lician nobles obtained refuge in the Russian terri-
tory; and the peasants who ventured to pursue
them over the frontier were all sent to the mines or
cxecuted. The same just policy was observed in
the kingdom of Poland; where certain peasants,
liaving attempted, in imitation of their neighbors,
to lay hands on some of the landowners whom they
chose to consider rebels, were almost instantly put
to death by the authorities. All this has produced
an impression in Austrian Poland highly favorable
to Russia; the Czar is now exceedingly popular in
Gallicia.
Availing himself of these propitious circum-
stances, Nicholas has taken some bold steps to
conciliate his own Polish subjects likewise. The
German papers were full lately of his visit to
Warsaw, where they say he walked about the
streets without an escort. This may be a court
fiction; but it has had its effect in the quarters for
which it was intended. Certain significant phrases
were also seasonably set afloat: the Czar is re-
ported to have said, that his people of Poland were
beginning to put confidence in him, and that he
would make them a great people. The police
were enjoined to relax their severity—though it
was found necessary at the same time to enlarge
the prisons, as there was not room in them for the
numbers arrested. Above all, certain very desira-
ble reforms were taken into consideration, and
seem likely to be accomplished. Among these are
the abolition of the line of custom-houses between
Poland and Russia; a measure which would be
highly beneficial to the people, and useful in many
ways to the government; and a scheme for improv-
ing the relations between the landlord and the
peasant. It is the Austrian policy to sow enmity
between the Gallician peasant and his lord, by re-
taining and augmenting every means by which the
latter can be made to appear to the former in the
character of a harsh taskmaster and public func-
tionary. . Russia is eager to establish the broadest
contrast in this respect between her own conduct
and that of Austria. The Augsburg Gazette of
the 27th August announces, that É.i. Paske-
witch has brought back from St. Petersburg a
matured and settled plan for the redemption of
corvées and all other rents and services in kind,
and that it will be speedily put in operation.
Posen is perhaps even more full of the Russian-
izing ferment than any other part of Poland.
Nicholas thinks he acts the part of a good brother-
in-law in preventing Frederick William, by fair
means or by foul, from entangling himself in con-
stitutional engagements; and therefore he is glad
to alarm and busy him on the side of Posen. The
Emperor's agents were extremely numerous and
active there, (on behalf of the common interests
of the Three Great Powers, as they alleged,) until
the cabinet of Berlin took umbrage at their pres-
ence and obliged them to withdraw. From that
moment, the country began to be agitated with
rumors favorable to the designs of Russia. “The
Poles ought to look to Nicholas as their deliverer
and leader; Nicholas was a Sclave, and none but
a Sclave could regenerate all Poland; Nicholas
Emperor of the Sclaves would be quite a different
personage from Nicholas Emperor of Russia.” It
was stoutly asserted the other day that the Czar
would soon abdicate in favor of his son, and that he
intended to erect for himself an independent king-
dom, including Poland, and extending from the
Bug to the Oder. Ridiculous as was the story, its
effect was such that the Prussian ministry thought
it necessary to refute it formally in their official
journal.–Spectator, 5th Sept.
ELAND HUNT-A few elands were observed;
and, these valuable creatures not having been as
frequently met with as we could have wished, we
pursued them, hoping to lay in a good supply of
fat.
Four of them fell to our rifles, and we returned
in high spirits. Pearson had a bad fall, his horse
coming down in rocky ground, but was not materi-
ally hurt, although his gun-stock was broken in
half. The scene at one period of the pursuit is
worthy of description, though words can but inad-
equately convey it to the reader's mind. The
elands were crossing an extensive plain, the horses
by the side of the huge bulls looking no larger
than donkeys; each horseman having selected ;
victim. Intent upon chasing the ponderous crea-
tures, whose sides and dewlaps reeked with per-
spiration, we did not perceive the advance of two
rhinoceroses till they were close upon us, one on
each side within one hundred yards;–they were
in a very excited state, while some troops of the
blue gnoo, quagga, and Sassaybie, dashing past,
increased their astonishment and indignation;--
they ploughed the soil with their horns, and charged
through the dust at everything which came near
them, their ugly heads looking too large for their
bodies. It was amusing to see with what utter dis’
regard the other animals, conscious of their super
rior fleetness, treated the rhinoceroses.—Life in the
ilderness.
THE brig Marquis of Chandos, which arrived this
week in St. Katharine's Dock, has brought the firs;
importation of beef from Russia. She brings 24,82
packages from Tavanrog : each package is enclose
in a tin case, the contents weighing from 8 pounds tº
10 pounds each; and the beef is pronounced, by goo
judges, to be of excellent quality.—Spect.
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
109
Descrinº: From the Church of England Quarterly Review.
‘ºtion ºf the Skeleton of an ertinct Gigantic
§§ ...”ith observations on the Osteology, Natu-
th 4ffinities, and Probable Habits of the Mega-
..ºid, Quadrupeds in general. By Richard
WEN, F. R. S., &c. J. Van Voorst.
- IT is Il
tion of
dWe p
Qt our purpose to undertake an examina-
this splendid volume, the title of which we
Would }laced before our readers. All ..whom it
Other W. must already know that, like all the
eeds orks of the same distinguished anatomist, it
Teach º commendation from us, and is beyond the
Work i. , Our censure. But we refer to the first
d º . class—to the very highest authority—to
Order t the correctness of which we fully admit, in
the º show that, while we admit the value of all
listo *ºnes which are making into the natural
*} of the earth, and acknowledge the bearing
Sº researches upon the fossilized remains of a
j world, we do not admit that these remains
*Posited before the creation of man; and do
Ten i. that the strata in which they are found
i."...he Mosaic account of the deluge inadmissi-
ºr. we maintain that the deluge, as it is
?'d/ > . i. Moses, was most certainly supernatu-
assum tº the geologists have most unaccountably
ed that it was brought about by natural causes.
Ow. sagacity and unrivalled precision of
*We rendered his facts incontrovertible; and
€S * certain of the osteology and natural af.
of". "...unany of these extinct species as we are
% forms and propensities of living animals.
lion, however, still remains—how these
ln the acquired their present appearance and position
na. Sarth? Was it by natural—was it by super-
9n the agency? We assert that the deluge bears,
lºing b. face of things, indubitable proofs of its
this t *ought about by supernatural agency; and
th."ºrefore, will carry with it evidence to decide
by ... guestion, and afford the means of showing
tº kind of supernatural agency the fossil re-
b *
situ i. have been brought into the condition and
T. in which they at present appear.
ºuge, and its preparatory and concomitant
*ces, is therefore the question to which
in the first instance, direct the attention
Inore oº: ºrs; professing, however, to do little
under "...this occasion than to bring the subject
* Consideration of our readers, to sug-
ºn." upon it for their reflection and
O * * *
º dilige
Orm
e are
hiti
e
fossil
º, and to supply a few reasons for a
is c.inquiry into some of the circumstan-
§iven to . with the deluge than has yet been
°m. Great coolness of judgment should,
er, b
extens...ºxercised upon it, and much varied and
of it.” information brought to the consideration
{{ *III ARR AND THE DELUGE.
Gop. sºid unto Noah, Make thee an ark of
and j. rooms shalt thou make in the ark,
An this Pººh it within and without with pitch.
lengi O * fashion thou shalt make it of: the
bread. º *k shall be three hundred cubits, the
Subits.” “A” fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty
ln a cubit lºw shalt thou make to the ark, and
the j * thou finish it above; and the door
* Seco ºl. thou set in the side thereof: with
And thus § : *nd third stories shalt thou make it.
°ºmania him. .i ºrding to all that God
ow, thi º º
'* plain statement of a fact, which is pre-
sented to us as an object of faith, needs no human.
ingenuity nor research to make it the more credi-
ble : it is quite sufficient that the divine word has
revealed it to secure our belief of it; nor is it con-
sistent with faith in the word of God to scrutinize
that word under the plea of verifying it, which is
often only a pretext of infidelity: the simple scrip-
tural declaration that such a fact as the deluge has
happened being verification and proof sufficient to
. worse than needless the addition of any facts
to the testimony of revelation. Perhaps, simple
faith ends on such subjects whenever critical in-
quiry begins; for it would seem to be inconsistent
with faith to be caring about proofs of those facts,
as the Scriptures have revealed. We therefore
disclaim, at the outset, all intention or desire of
offering a single observation for any such purpose
as the confirmation of our faith in the scriptural ac-
count of the deluge: that account is infallible truth,
and has no need whatever of human observations
and calculations to make it more credible. But
there is a peculiarity in the scriptural account of
the deluge which seems especially to court inquiry
—that account being singularly full and minute in
its details: therein the dimen-
sions of the ark are most ac-
curately given, and the dates
of all the chief circumstances
connected with it are minute-
ly recorded. We are told
directly what it could contain,
and indirectly what it did
contain ; and both when it
was filled and when it was
emptied. Now all these facts,
and dates, and figures, were
given to us, not accidentally
but designedly : it might be
to encourage the further in-
quiry of the admiring and
adoring believer, or to chal-
lenge the researches and ques-
tionings of the caviller. Here
are numerous facts stated,
clear dimensions given, and
all the required data supplied,
by which every one who has
doubts or unbelief in his heart
may make the appeal to his
judgment: and, if he is uh- #
able to disprove the state-
ments placed before him, and
yet will not believe them, God
but vindicates his own right-
eousness in announcing to all
º a judgment upon unbe-
IEI.

DIMENsions of THE ARK
—length, three hundred cu-
bits—breadth, fifty—height,
thirty; and as the length of
the cubit was unquestionably
21.888 inches, the length of
the Ark will be five hundred
and forty-seven feet-breadth,
ninety-one feet—height, fifty-
four feet. The form of the
ark, therefore, and its propor-
tions, will be represented by
the following outline, which
is on the scale of one inch to
the hundred feet:—
110
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
In contrast with this we place the outline of the
hulk of a first-rate ship of war—the Nelson, of one
hundred and twenty guns, with the length of two
hundred and five feet—breadth, fifty—height,
twenty-four.
\
And, also, the outline of the British Queen steam
ship, the length of which is two hundred and forty-
three feet—breadth, forty—height, twenty-nine.
\ _^
Their sterns would show thus:—
| - U
—V-
The Ark, The Nelson. The British Queen.
The proportions of these vessels will thus be:—
The Ark—The breadth is one sixth of the length,
and the depth one tenth.
The Nelson—The breadth is one fourth of the
length, and the depth short of one ninth.
The British Queen—The breadth is one sixth of
the length, and the depth more than one eighth.
Now, as it is clearly impossible that a vessel of
the length and breadth of the ark could be oth-
erwise than a floating vessel, designed entirely for
perfectly still waters, we have supposed it to be
flat-bottomed and straight-sided ; both as making it
the more buoyant and as giving to it the greatest
capacity. It was devoid of all sailing properties;
had neither rigging nor rudder; its build was sim-
ply that of a huge float, to all outward appearance
wholly at the mercy of the winds and the waves,
liable to be drifted or driven about according as
currents or winds for the time prevailed; but, as
we shall show, the ark could not, for a moment,
have been subjected to the influence of either
winds or tides. The extraordinary length of the
ark proves, at once, the miraculous power that
was, at every moment, in exercise for its preserva-
tion; since no vessel of the ark's proportions could
naturally live for an hour in disturbed waters;, the
very first wave that rose would inevitably break its
back and rend it entirely asunder; nor, with all
our experience in ship building, would it be possi-
ble to construct a vessel of the ark's proportions
and to navigate it from Dover to Calais, in rough
weather—the least swell of the ocean, by raising
one, end and depressing the other, would break it
in the middle and cause it to founder ; nor could
any possible contrivance or ingenuity of construc.
tion prevent this consequence, and the clear and
just conclusion therefore is, that the ark floated in
perfectly still waters; and, that whatever might
be the agitation of the great deep when its foun-
tains were broken up, or whatever the force of the
currents as the Seas kept advancing and gaining on
the land, yet must the waters around the ark, and
for a considerable distance, of necessity have been
salm and still ; not a wave could have rolled near
it—not a ripple could have been broken against it
—not a breath of wind could have blown upon it,
nor could the currents have drifted it; the ark
floated, and merely floated, on the smoothest wa-
ters, at a time when the ocean was heaving and
swelling and rolling onward furiously upon the
land at the rate of one hundred and seventy-six
feet additional in depth each day for one hundred
and fifty days together. Around the ark, how-
ever, those ocean waves found a barrier impossible
to be passed; it was as if the finger of the Al-
º had drawn a line upon the waters around
it, and had then said to the ocean what he declared
to Job he did once say to it: “Hitherto shalt thou
come, but no further; and here shalt thy proud
waves be stayed,” (Job xxxviii. 11 :) and the
Psalmist would seem to have alluded to this sub-
ject in Psalm xcii., where he says—“The floods
are risen—the floods lift up their waves: the waves
of the sea are mighty, and rage horribly; but yet
the Lord who dwelleth on high is mightier;” and
certainly his might was shown on this occasion; for,
raging as the ocean then did, and as it never since
has done, and pouring its mighty body of waters,
every succeeding wave gaining in height upon the
preceding, the fiat of the Almighty turned them all
aside to hasten onward elsewhere to their work
and mission of destruction, and the ark remained as
motionless and undisturbed as though resting on
dry land. And if the very peculiar construction
of the ark had not made such a conclusion inevita-
ble, the purpose for which it was built would have
proved that such was the fact; for, had the ark
pitched in the least from the swell of the waves, or
rolled at all from side to side under the influence
of the wind, which, from its great length and little
width, it must most distressingly have done, the
whole world of animals therein contained could not
have kept their footing ; of very necessity, there-
fore, a dead calm must have prevailed around the
ark during the whole of the one hundred and fifty
days that it was floating on the waters.
he dimensions of the ark being given, it would
not be impossible so to plan out its supposed con-
struction as to determine with tolerable accuracy
the quantity of timber it would require. A practiº
cal ship-builder would be able, by a close and care-
ful calculation, to ascertain it with something like
a tolerable approximation to the truth. As to the
timber itself, it was of no value; but the labor of
collecting it together and preparing it must have
been very great, and no more was used, we may
reasonably suppose, than was essentially necessary
for its construction. We have therefore calcu-
lated for the vessel the quantity only of timber that
seemed indispensable, and have supposed in the
calculation that the ark was divided into three sto-
ries and was roofed over, and that to two fifths of
its height it was doubly boarded with a layer of
asphalte between, and that a portion of the hold
of the vessel was in like manner hoarded for th9.
safe keeping of the fresh water; and without de;
tailing the general plan, or working out the many
details and measurements of its several parts, our
calculation would give about 245,000 cubic feet 0
timber for the complement that would be required:
this at fifty feet per load would give 4,900 loads:
and as the largest trees would be the easiest worke
and were then in the greatest abundance, under
five hundred trees of ten load in each would be the
whole quantity needed. However, it would seem
to be impossible to build the ark without raising * .
scaffold around it; this could not be less than fifty

THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION. 111
feet high, nor less in length when measured round
.*:300 feet, and would probably require 28,000
Subic feet, or 600
loads of timber: thus the ut-
ºf the builders' needs might not exceed 550
.**in: from the dimensions of the ark being SO
accuratel
era l
from the
Len
Width ".
- feight * * 54 º 4 * * * : : º º : * †
. . . . Then . . ." for joists &c. . .
* *
T
ble c
gth of
extern
}
687,9
y given, we are able to calculate with tol-
orrectness its actual capacity, deducting
#. #ſ. for partitions &c., leaves 500ft. clear space.
* * * * * *
* - ºr º º 50
. . . . . 500 by 80 by 50=2,000,000
hus, though the ark occupied a space equal in
al measurements to 547 by 91 by 54 =
38 cubic feet, yet the actual internal clear
º for stowage would be only 2,000,000 cubic
*'he 9apacity of the ark being thus ascertained,
did it
tha
Ilê
* proper subject for inquiry would be, what
"9mtain : . But the question is undoubtedly
- ... * which is the most difficult to answer of all
W er
* Connected with the subject, since to an-
S
habit lt ºright requires a perfect knowledge of the
.e., the size, and the food of every creature that
º - lives
sts—of every beast, bird, and reptile that now
9n the earth.
fº * Wºuld even this knowledge be sufficient;
Ilal
be
Of
lºg w
ls evi - º ºg
3. .**ident that knowledge to this extent is in no
Rºssession: by possibility the day may come
Wh
SO In ulti
*lmost |
the
disti
IIlſ)
Speci
added
the k
'S
plied are the variety of the genera in
*ll the orders of aves and mammalia, that
I] *.discriminating judgment is necessary to
'ºsh what was the parent stock—the origi-
es of the whole family; and to this must
ºn the
OW in . º
...; but that day is not yet come. Every year,
*"...the fullest and most correct information
kind and the quantity of food every living
guld require for a whole year's subsistence.
greater part of all these facts will be
º 3. d d * - º º
subj. Ҽ something to our information on the
* T
* ..
in
tion
being a
jºi
º itest
º h
, - SUlt, h .
- i. fo
. . . with
. . . . foo
tho
ark"
Ce
ii. § would be
* , ºre classed
is: .k
- 90; and of the insects, of which until
\ ... Cre
tain
Ultm
.*y year-new animals are met with, and
y
''' inany that have long been classed are still
edge i.*Inperfectly known, and our whole knowl-
G. f
hav
in every new land discovered; but the
r * too deficient and imperfect for our pres-
**, which is to prove what animals must
€ * * &
º i.e. with Noah into the ark.
“vierar
°onnexi
of p
° many perplexing circumstances, also,
9, with the present location and distribu-
ſº *ticular animals, those of the new world
in the . *, entirely of different families to those
; those in New Holland having not the
*semblance to any found elsewhere—
*I Ves
Pect ti
of a jºt a s
r *sance as the ornithorhynchus, and the
ura the first named is a quadruped covered
ted...", suckling its young; yet it is web-
Vair, Tº has d
vain
Othe
bill like a duck, and is oviparous. In
Sh º º
r all we look for a type of this creature in any
“ountry;
Peculia
- - r
Sely ." a
and yet other countries have their
nd distinct races as exclusively to
t seems, consequently, hopeless to
ubject so extensive and so difficult
usan *It should ever perfectly be cleared up :
th
y din yet
Test,
a. º.ºrve —al
.*.* of years ha *
& We Dal wav since the ark
84 forth’i, e passed away
º's living thousands to replenish the
We know not to this day what the
! is with us on this subject wild
Ul
%29?njecture : the knowledge of the last
ºn ; ;th
ased t
, ,
..called ignorance in this; 500
by Ray, and 5,000 since by La-
ſhown 5,000 fishes are now in-
lately so little was known, there are now known
and classed 100,000!—and it is supposed that this
is scarcely a tenth of the whole number actually
existing...The subject indeed seems exhaustless,
and would appear to defy all our powers to grasp
it; the discoveries of to-day overthrow all our cal-
culations and conclusions of yesterday; and did we
need anything perfectly to convince us of the
worthlessness of all merely, human speculations
upon such subjects, it would be the difficulties
which surround us at this, the first stage of it. We
ask the question, for what was the ark prepared
And we quote from Scripture the answer, “For
the twos and the sevens of all flesh wherein is the
breath of life”—and there ends our knowledge of
the subject. What those twos were, and what
those sevens were, we cannot say ; so far as the
Scriptures have revealed facts, just so far do we
make our proofs good; but where they cease to
explain, there we cease to comprehend; and the
more we search into this subject, and the more
earnestly we strive to understand it, the more cer-
tainly are we forced to the same acknowledgment
of the Psalmist, and to say, “Such knowledge is
too wonderful ſor me, I cannot attain to it!”
Where was the ark built?
No direct answer would seem possible to this
question: nor, from our dearth of facts, have we
any other resource than to surmise and speculate.
and conjecture. Had but the site of Eden been,
perfectly known to us, all the probabilities wouldi
have tended to direct our attention to the district.
where Eden was; for it seems reasonable and natu-.
ral that the children of Seth should have remained
in the neighborhood of their grandfather Adam,
and that Adam himself should have wandered no
further from Eden than stern necessity compelled,
him. Of Cain, we are expressly told that he did"
withdraw from the neighborhood of his father, to.
the land of Nod, which was eastward of Eden ;
and as nothing similar is recorded of Seth or his
descendants, that they also went out from the pres--
ence of their father, and as we can imagine no mo--
tive with them for any distant migrations, it seems,
most reasonable to conclude that all Seth's descend--
ants, until Noah's time, did remain in or near to the
district of their father Adam, wherever..that was..
The site of Eden, therefore, could it be correctly
ascertained, would greatly aid us to a right deci--
sion of this question: but ascertained it probably
never will be, since there seems to be no spot'in,
the world answering to the description which the
Scriptures give of it; and if it was not one among
many other purposes of the deluge 19, destroy, to .
make desolate, or to render it impossible to recog-
nize the site even, of the garden of Eden, yet its
destruction seemed to be an almost inevitable con-
sequence of the deluge; before, therefore, we could
offer even a rational conjecture as to the locality
of Eden, it would'seem necessary to consider what
changes the flood might or must have produced on
the earth's surface. . . . . º
Two agencies were in ºperation to produce
great changes : first, the weight of water, miles in
depth upon land that had never before been sub-
jected to a greater pressure than that of the atmos-
phere; and secondly, the continual current of such
an accumulation of oceans that for months together
rolled in upon the land. As to the first of these,
two consequences would follow from the weight
and pressure of the ocean; the earth would be
thoroughly saturated, so far as what is called its
surface was concerned; from its long continued
112 "The DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPosition.
immersion underwater, combined with the extreme would be the old Cyrus river, now the Kur, which ,
pressure of that water, its surface must in conse-|runs into the Caspian;. Gihon would be the old
quence have become everywhere of a mud-like con-|Tigris, compassing, however, not the modern Ethi:
sistence; numerous landslips would follow; masses|opia but the ancient Mesopotamia; Hiddekel would
of mountains would slide down into the valleys, as be the old Araxes, now the Aras, which runs east-
they are continually doing in Switzerland to this ward into the Caspian; and Euphrates would be
day, and in a greater or less degree every year the old Euphrates; and this supposition, that
after heavy and continued rains. The course of |Armenia was the land of the patriarchs, is rather
rivers would in consequence be turned, and into strengthened than otherwise by the fact that the
new channels: what were before plains would be-|Mount Ararat, upon which the ark rested was in
come lakes; and what were before lakes, being the centre of this district. ". . . . . . . . . . .
filled up with the debris of mountains, would be-| From the best examination we can make of the
come plains. And while the waters were thus land of Armenia, from geological and other maps , .
extensively operating on the surface in obliterating| that give in detail the sources and course of its
the old landmarks, and in undermining and toppling|rivers, and the range and elevation of its moun-
down the old mountains, they were as extensively tains, we incline to the opinion that the Kusse
at work in many places beneath the surface in ele-|Dagh mountain, which is east of Erzeroum and
vating new mountains in their stead ; for; from the west of Ararat, arose at the deluge from the site .
thorough soaking of the earth, volcanic fires would of the garden of Eden ; and that, before the deluge .
be lighted up, water being the great exciting agent called that volcanic range into existence, the whole
in volcanoes in all cases, and their fury and vio- of Armenia westward of Ararat was, a plain ; and
fence would be tenfold increased in this case by the that the river that went out of Eden and thence
extreme weight of water upon them. It is pre-| parted into four heads, had, before the elevation of
cisely under pressure of this kind that molten lava, the Kusse Dagh and Erivan ranges, its source in
as it cools, crystallizes into granite ; and, as there mount Ararat, and would thence naturally flow in
can be no volcanoes very distant from the ocean or the direction which the four rivers still take—north,
some inland, sea, the extinct volcanoes we now east, west, and south, exactly as the Scriptures
meet with in the middle of continents were proba- state they did once flow. It so happens that an
bly first called into exercise by the waters of the able observer and naturalist has lately visited this .
deluge, and when that water was withdrawn they district, and his notes upon it prove that very ex-
would naturally expire. Nor is the mere pressure | tensive changes have been made on it, both by
on the earth from the weight of the waters of the waters above and volcanic fires beneath... He dé-
ocean to be overlooked, while enumerating the scribes this portion of the Taurus range as present-
causes which must have produced great changes in |ing to view “powerful dykes of diallage rock and
its surface. The waters, to have risen fifteen cuphoticles,” both volcanic productions; and that '.'
cubits above the tops of the mountains, must have extensive beds of altered limestone, jaspers, and
rolled miles deep over many of the plains and val-|sand-stones, have been traversed, "disrupted, and
leys, and the dislocations and the rendings of the tilted up or overthrown by these dykes, which,
earth's surface must, from this cause alone, have whenever they appear, appear to have broken up .
been tremendous. The result of some very simple the beds of the surrounding rocks and altered their
experiments, not long since made, will prove this: character (p. 271 ;) he represents the district as
A wine bottle, well corked but empty, when sunk| well wooded, (p. 24,) the forest trees being pine, .
in the ocean to the depth of a hundred fathoms, oak, chesnut, ash, beech, maple, plane: here are . . .
burst from the pressure of the waters above it. also rich copper, mines, yielding yearly two and a
Another filled with fresh water and well corked, fourth millions of pounds (p. 273 ;) bitumen and
when it had descended two hundred fathoms, had boulders of native iron in abundance were seen
the cork driven in and reversed, all the fresh water|laying about, some of which measured three
was forced out, and salt water was in its place | feet in length and one and a half in thickness (p.
forced in. Another, filled with highly rectified 285.) , ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
spirits, burst at the depth of four hundred fathoms;| Thus, so far as the materials and the natural . . .
and cylindrical copper tubes were crushed quite productions would go, the country north or south
flat at the depth of three hundred fathoms; and of the IIamaran range ºf Taurus would supply all
when the whole of the earth's surface was sub- that was necessary for the building and equipment . .
jected, for months together, to a pressure of water of a fleet; and if it was from this district that Noah
of twenty times greater power to crush than this, drew his stores, he must have found all things
it might reasonably be concluded that very exten-|ready to his hånd , and provided for him in the
sive alterations and no little destruction would fol- greatest profusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
low; and that from the -combined operation of | As to the description of timber used by Noah in
these causes, and of many others similar in their the building of the ark it would be useless to offer,
effects to these, the land of Eden would not and a single conjecture: What, was Gopher-wood
could not be found answering to the description seems never to have been since known: the Sep-
which the Scriptures give of it. To conjecture tuagint translators clearly knew nothing about it:
therefore, and soberly, is all apparently that we they refrain even from naming it, and merely de-
can do ; and if we might conjecture on such a sub- describe it as šiūoy rerooyonor—four-sided or
ject, we should fix on the land of Armenia for the squared timber. Had the wood been Cyprus wood, .
site of Eden and the habitation of Noah. . The dis-|as some commentators have supposed, there seems
tinguishing characteristics of Eden' in the Scrip- no reason why it should not have been at once so. º
tural account of it are its four rivers; and perhaps called, as it is by the Septuagint writers in Can- ;
even these, in this district, and notwithstanding all|ticles i. 14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
the subsequent changes, we may yet be able to The English translators say that the ark had
trace out; for if that river which has ever been “three stories,” and so probably it had ; but the
known, so far as history extends, by the name of word “stories” is not in the original Hebrew, no:
Euphrates was the Euphrates of Eden, then Pison in the Greek Septuagint. The “rooms” also of
* -
f'
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
113
the English version are in the Hebrew literally
tº: as they are in the rooqiaº of the Greek
Or . tiºn, and rooqia; would imply separate berths
C * for the carnivorous animals and distinct en-
ºres for all others.
... ** “window” of the sixteenth verse, is
c.” in the Septuagint, a word, which
. nº, very distinct meaning, probably be-
b the Hebrew word was in itself difficult to
i...". whilst in chap. viii. 6, the win-
I) * - - º -
tºº." e English version is 3voida in the Sep
"there is a difference of some moment be-
jº lº English version, and the Septuagint
En i. ° subject of clean and unclean fowls. The
*h version speaks in chap. vii. 2, of every
ast by sevens, and of beasts not clean by
; and of fowls also of the air by sevens; but
*Ptuagint says—
twe
C €an be
WOS
** xrnvoy twy zašaquy, stra, anta
Ain . . . . . . duo, övo
And in the third verse—
* * * * * *
** 7tetsuwww toy za Sagay, snºra, srira.
* * * * * * pum Övo, Övo
and sub
Yersion
eptua
sequently, in chap. viii. 20, the English
seems in itself to verify the accuracy of the
gint by saying—and by thus making ex-
r * ... º T º
i. a distinction—that Noah took, upon
.. out of the ark, of every clean fowl as of
jean beast, and offered them up for a burnt
g.
.." distinction between clean and unclean fowls
Se thus made upon their going out of the ark,
i.reasonable to suppose, with the Septua-
jºlai it was made upon their going into it;
sil', he enumeration of the unclean fowls we
pair * Consequence limit the number admitted to a
âch : th r. but few. and are all
*pacious. ey are, however, *
WHO
*ULD HAve BEEN THE BUILDERs of THE
ARK ?
lsº his three sons manifestly could not
ing i. t it alone and unassisted ; and, as to hir-
that an ters in those days, it is difficult to conceive
dition } man could be in so impoverished a con-
*arth be tº desire to labor for hire; with the whole
ºvery or ºre him to choose his possession upon,
Own th. must have had such abundance of his
and, as jºy would seem impossible to any :
seemed t 9 voluntary labor, all who then lived
an acº have regarded thc building of the ark as
rided ànaticism and folly; and what they de-
teered .ºspised they would scarcely have volun:
fact Wºl %r labor to complete. Perhaps the real
tan ciº that as Noah was the acknowledged head
from .9f all the families and tribes descended
work ... they who did not respect the patriarch's
§ pair Wºrning might have respected him as
Willin riarchal head, and at times have given their
*ld to what th ld still account
"ument ºney would su as a
Sºundless ‘. patriarch's religious folly or of his
ºy were the
Š0 hands wever, that by som
.* persuasi. , however, y some
*º been r other, it is quite certain, must
ºuilding S #9t to work together in framing and
the ar wº *ge, and so wonderful a structure as
several ..."...in raising and fixing in their
Places, and }. the height of thirty, forty,
and fifty feet, timbers that must, in the far greater
prºportion, have been tons in weight.
The time omployed in building the ark may be
assigned to any period within one hundred and
twenty years. Noah is reported as five hundred
years old before any mention of the ark was made,
and he entered into it in his six hundredth year:
or chap. iii. 6, may, as some think, have reference
to the time allowed to the world for repentance be-
tween the first communication made to Noah re-
specting the ark and his final entrance into it.
The Lord said, “My Spirit shall not always strive
with man, yet his days shall be an hundred and
twenty years.” This application of the words has
certainly the merit of making them the more defi-
nite and comprehensible.
We have hitherto reasoned upon the circum-
stances connected with the ark on the most natural
suppositions, and rather upon what was probable
than what was possible; but the fact must have
been that Noah was miraculously aided at every
stage of the proceeding, from the laying down of
the first timber until he was himself inclosed within
the ark. Nor does it diminish anything of the faith
of Noah, of his confidence in God, or of his ad-
mirable obedience to the very extraordinary com-
mand he had received, that he was guided continu-
ally, and at every step of his duty, instructed, by
the Divine Mind. Though Noah was the builder,
God was the Designer; for by no possibility could
Noah have obtained the experience necessary for
building such a vessel, and especially for such a
purpose : he, probably, had never seen the ocean,
and could have had no knowledge of the number of
animals he was to provide for, or of the quantit
and description of food they would each and all
daily need. Thus, in all things he must have been
taught of God continually what to do; for no one
but God could know what living things were on
the earth, and he alone knew which were to be
preserved, and at what time they would be ad-
mitted into the ark and when dismissed from it.
Noah knew nothing, probably, of this until the
time came—until the animals began of themselves
to enter into the ark under God's guidance: he
must, therefore, have received instructions direct
from God as to the quantity and variety of food-
such as maize, rice, corn, pulse, barley, hay,
straw, &c., and the quantity of water so many
creatures would for more than a year require.
There was nothing natural, therefore, in, Noah's
proceeding, except in the labor of his hands. . .
The ark, in all its details, in all its interior
arrangements, must have been designed by the
Divine Mind, equally with its outward form and
dimensions: all that Noah could do was, to work
out the orders he had i. : he º .
self know nothing, plan nothing, cºntrºve nothing;
but was a mere #. in the hands of God to
build up that which God, designed. It was the
mind of God, not the mind ºf Noah, that planned
it, as it was the power of God, nºt any power in
Noah, that brought all the animals and birds and
reptiles of the earth to enter it.
For a summary of what concerns the ark, we
would, therefore, state the following facts and offer
the following conjectures.
That it was built north of Taurus, in Armenia;
that it was 525 feet long, 87 feet broad, and 53
feet deep ; that it required about 245,000 cubic
feet of timber; that its capacity was 2,000,000
cubic feet of clear space; that it was commenced
about A.M. 1556, and completed A.M. 1656.
11.1
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
Noah entered the ark on the º
10th day of 2nd month, an- ; 26th October
swering to our . . . . .
The rain began to fall 17th
of 2d month, answering *}” November
Otl I •
And continued to fall 40 days, : 12th December.
30th March.
answering to our . . . .
The ark grounded 17th of 7th
month, answering to our . .
The waters began to abate 150
days after 2d November, an-
swering to our . . . . . .
73 days afterwards—1st of 10th
month—tops of mountains
seen, answering to our . . .
40 days after the º
1st April.
11th June.
was opened, answering to $ 21st July.
Ollf ... • * * * * *
In seven days again opened,
answering to our iº º
In seven days later again
opened, answering to our
The covering of the ark re-
moved 1st of 1st month, an-
swering to our . . . . .
The earth dried 27th of 2nd
month, answering to our .
28th July.
4th August.
16th September.
10th November.
The foregoing dates are given on the suppo-
sition that the original civil year of the Hebrews
began on the 16th of September, and that the
number and the length of their months were as
under :-
Month. Days. 16th gº." 16th
# * th Sept. to 16t
1st, Tisri, 30 Oct.
2d, Bull Marchestan, 29 "...” “ ”
iº 16th Nov. to 15th
3d, Chisleu, 30 Dec.
4th, Thebeth, 20 tº pes. to 13th
14th Jan. to 12th
5th, Sebat, 30 º O h
13th Feb. to 13t
6th, Adar, 29 March.
7th, Nisan or Abib 30 * to 12th
8th, Ijar or Zif, 29 ºri to 11th
i. 12th May to 10t
9th, Sivan, 30 in. y h
10th, Thamimuz, go $ 11th, June to 9th
11th, Ab, 30
12th, Elul, 29 }
The Jewish year, being a lunar year, cºnsisted
only of 354 days, and required a month of thirty
days, to be added every third year, which was
jºy introduced between the months Adar and
1D.
It will be seen in the above computation of dates
that the ark grounded on the 17th of the 7th month,
(30th of March,) and that the waters having pre-
vailed upon the earth 150 days, calculating from
the 2d of November when the rain first fell, began
from the date of the 150 to abate; the ark, there-
fore, grounded when the waters were at their
utmost height, and a day or two previous to their
ebb, or their return to their place again; but the
uly.
10th July to 8th
A.
ug.
9th August to 6th
Sept.
waters at their utmost height were fifteen cubits
upwards. . But upwards of what? is the question
—of the highest point of land we may naturally
conclude; therefore, as fifteen cubits is twenty-six
feet, the ark drew twenty-six when afloat and
burdened—i.e., very nearly half its height, which
agrees with the draught of all large vessels when
fully manned and stored. This fact was by no
means an unimportant one to ascertain, since
nothing satisfactory could be determined upon in
reference to the interior arrangements of the ark,
and to that portion of it which the animals would
be likely to occupy, till the ark's draught was
proved, which the above enumeration of Scripture
dates seem distinctly to point out.
These dates also furnish the means of calculating
with great exactness the rate per day of the rising
and subsidence of the waters. If the ark grounded
in twenty-six feet of water, and if Little Ararat,
being 13,100 feet high, was of equal height with
the other mountains around it, and the tops of
these mountains were seen seventy-three days sub-
sequently, the waters must have subsided during
those seventy-three days at the rate of forty-two
feet five inches each day; and as the summit of
Ararat is nearly three miles above the level of the
ocean, or rather 15,390 feet, and the earth was
dried by the 10th of November, the waters sub-
sided those 15,390 feet in one hundred and fifty-
four days, which is on an average of very nearly
one hundred feet per day: or calculating their fall
from the summit of Little Ararat, they subsided
13,100 feet in eighty-one days, which is one hun-
dred and sixty-three feet each day.
It is a subject certainly fruitful of conjectures.
and is one upon which probably nothing but con-
jectures can be offered, that the whole of the ani-
mals remained enclosed in the ark so long after any
apparent necessity for their remaining there haſ
ceased. The dove did not return after the 2d of
August, and yet we hear of neither animals nor
birds being released till subsequently to the 10th
of November ; and yet their close and unnatura
confinement would have seemingly rendered their
condition out of the ark under almost every circum-
stance preferable, since they must for those three
months have been living on dry and stale food;
while the new was springing up abundantly aroun
them : their water had been confined for nine or
ten months in the hull of the vessel, while innu-
merable springs of fresh water were running from
the sides of the mountains on whose tops they
rested.
It might at first sight appear a question specur
lative in the extreme to ask where did the water;
of the deluge come from 4–In what direction di
they flow in upon the land 4–Where, in 154 days,
did they all return ? But the truth can suffer nº
injury at our hands, provided we keep close to the
Scripture testimony, and reason only upon fact,
which are open to every inquirer and observer, an
offer nothing but facts as grounds of all our cont
jectural observations upon it.
l The Scripture testimony of the deluge is as fol-
OWS :- º
“In the six hundredth year of Noah's life, iſ
the 2d month, the 17th day of the month, the sam”
day were all the fountains of the great deep broke;
up, and the windows of heaven were opened, aſ
the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty
nights, and the flood was forty days upon the earth,
and the waters increased and bare up the ark, aſ
it was lifted up above the earth, and the wate"
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
115
Pºiled and were increased greatly upon the
º the ark went upon the face of the waters,
eart! * Witers prevailed, exceedingly upon the
º, and all the high hills that were under the
w; º were covered; fifteen cubits up-
w. id the waters prevail, and the mountains
Carth °overed, and the waters prevailed upon the
one hundred and fifty days.”
noi * specimen of descriptive writing, perhaps
in t "g mºre beautiful than this is to be met with
tº. Wºrld. , Not only does it present to us the
i. ising, but the ocean continuing to rise, till
dre . and hills and mountains, one after another,
wº from our view, and of all that was once the
of i. We can only see the ark floating on the face
lish 8 waters. The description, even in the Eng-
translation, is prečminently striking and grand.
the º to the mind, with every added word,
.* of the gradual and continual rise of the
ºuntil nothing but waters are seen.
th. thing is clear from the above description—
the d Nº. not the rain that fell, that alone caused
wa. ge; it rained forty days, during which the
er . and the ark floated; but it was
greatl ° rain had ceased that the waters increased
i., and it was long after they had ceased that
Yaters increased exceedingly.
of i. We are told that not only were the windows
grº. opened, but that all the ſountains of the
i."...ºp were broken up. We know nothing of
jºids, which our translators had for the
Tea i. windows of heaven:” the marginal
º is “flood-gates,” and the Hebrew and the
** jº, seem equally to agree in the word
exp. probably we are to understand by the
torr ºnxhat we mean by saying it rained |
... To the “ſountains of the great deep”
the ... tn; aftvadov,) we are evidently to look as
ini. gent of the deluge; but what are, we tº
The .nº by the “ſountains of the great deep!
0 be # for tºyal is in Hebrew b to pour out,
that ºl ; the meaning therefore seems to be,
of th. Waters of the great deep were poured out
ºvery . beds to be diffused over the earth, and
ion #. that we are in possession of, in connex-
and un the subject, confirms this interpretation
OY °rstanding of the words.
occº. in all our observations upon the every-day
dis. in the material world, we invariably
simples: * Almighty power is exercised by the
O §...ºne-that the Almighty power makes
$xercise of power—that it is not creative power in
Šestroyi one day for some especial purpose, and
dt i Power in exercise the next, to get rid of
this re. $º.it had but just created; and, applying
was...ºning to the deluge, it would seem to be a
°Ceans al Power to create fresh waters when the
Sºcasion *ady on the earth are far more than the
tion of . *eds; and had there been a sudden crea-
been .* to effect the flood, there must have
Sause the a Sudden destruction of them ; but to
land need Waters to ſlow five miles deep upon the
Ocea * not the addition of a single drop to the
º' surrounding it.
.."...ºly, for instance, would a second
$ºrth rou °ºused if the present velocity of the
ished "..."; its own axis was in any degree dimin-
the º that velocity decreased, the influence of
.very fi i. the water would be increased, and
t Ocean . of the moon's influence upon
ºw tilled ºld raise the tides above all the lands
and inhabited by man. The whirl of
r -: $
*d its axis, in twenty-four hours, car-
O
del.
ries all the waters of the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans round with it at the rate of nearly a thou-
sand miles an hour, which is a velocity so great as
to render it impossible for the moon to exercise
more than a momentary influence upon that por-
tion of the earth's surface which, from rotundity
and rotation, is brought the nearest to her. Even
with the present velocity the influence of the moon
is very perceptible in the two great oceans that
surround the globe ; they roll on and toil after her
in vain, and the only consequence is that the waters
which lie directly under her path, and therefore
the nearest to her, are always raised about six feet
above the level of the rest ; but they are hardly
raised by their nearer proximity to her at one mo-
ment than the raising force is diminished at the
next by their being withdrawn further from her,
and every succeeding instant the further from the
direct line of her greatest influence. But if the
earth moved with that velocity that would allow
the moon a minute's influence upon every portion
of its surface instead of a single moment, and if
that moment's influence is sufficient to raise such a
mass and breadth of ocean six feet in height above
its proper level, the minute's influence would raise
them in a ratio that would leave uncovered by the
waves no spot that could be cultivated by man; the
utmost that would remain would be peaks of hills
and sides of mountains as alone inaccessible to the
tides.
We do not, however, raise any supposition upon
this in reference to the deluge, as we consider it
most unreasonable to suppose that the earth's
velocity was diminished—the planetary motions
disturbed—the beautiful symmetrical movement of
the heavenly bodies, the intricate and complicated
actions and influences which every planet with its
satellite exercises over and with the other, would
be all deranged, merely to draw the oceans of the
earth for a brief time from their beds—an effect
that would be produced from far simpler causes;
besides, even had such a supposition been raised,
facts and evidences innumerable would disprove it;
for the stream of the deluge was not in the tract
of the moon ; the tidal current is from west to
east, while the stream of the deluge was from
south to north. We must, therefore, look to other
influences or to other agents, and perhaps to the
law of gravitation and attraction, by which all
bodies, liquid or solid, are governed.
Newton's words are—“Every particle of matter
in the universe attracts every other particle with a
force directly proportioned to the mass (and densi-
ty) of the attracting particle, and inversely to the
square of the distance between them ;” and the
Creator, having given this general, law to matter,
may have applied it for the especial purpose of the
deluge : for it needed no more than a temporary
addition to this power somewhere, on some one
point or other on the earth's surface, to draw the
ocean towards that point; and if a greater measure
of that power had been transferred to any mass of
solid matter near the North Poles—to either of the
islands, for instance, of Nova Zembla or Spitsber-
gen—precisely such a flood as the Scriptures speak
of would be produced, and the waters of the
Atlantic and Pacific would be drawn in the exact
direction in which they would seem to have flown.
How increased attraction could be in force without
increased density we know not: it cannot be other-
wise than a hidden mystery to us. As to the
means resorted to to produce the deluge, and the
material agents employed, miraculous power was
116
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
of course necessary to produce it : all that we-can
do is to look to the facts before us that testify of
the deluge, and to discern, if we can, the direction
of its current while advancing and retreating.
We are inclined to think that facts prove the
current of the waters to have been from south to
north in the first instance; and we understand
these words, “the fountains of the great deep were
broken up,” as indicating that a new direction was
given to the waters of the southern Atlantic ocean,
and that they were drawn northward from their bed
to set in upon the land. There are many circum-
stances which seem to prove that their course on-
ward was from south to north, while their return-
ing course from north to south is unquestionable ;
and, supposing this question for the moment to be
conceded, one consequence of the assumed fact
would be, that the advancing waves would bear
along with them to the north all things that would
float of all the animals and productions of the south.
All drowned animals, it is well known, float for a
longer or shorter time, according to their bulk ;
and none would more readily do so or for a longer
time than the larger animals, such as the elephant
and rhinoceros, and the still larger extinct species.
These live generally in the plains or on the side of
low ranges of hills, and would be among the first
drowned, and float, therefore, on the surface of the
more advanced waters; and would be carried, in
consequence, to the extreme north, on the .
tion that the point to which the waters were drawn
was the north. On the same supposition that the
course of the waters was to the north, and that
having reached that point they paused and ebbed,
and turned again to their place in the south, it is
clear that the waters that first reached the Pole
would be the last to leave it ; for a time they would
have no flow nor motion whatever, having flown on
So far as they were able, and having no power to
return from the great body and resistance of the
waters behind them. In this state of rest they
would deposit all that in their first turbulent and
rapid course they had borne along with them, and
which had, by that time, become saturated and de-
cayed : and exactly as we should suppose, we find
it to be : the whole of the north of Europe and
Asia, so far as it has been examined or observed,
is covered with perfect skeletons and disjointed
bones, and even with the actual carcases of the
rhinoceros and the elephant : they are found in the
deposits of mud that form the soil of the extensive
plains in the north of Russia, embedded twenty-
five feet and more beneath the surface : they have
been found whole in a frozen state in lat. 64, and
even in lat. 74 ; and their disjointed bones, in al-
most incredible profusion, are scattered over the
whole of Europe, north, from the Ural Mountains,
on the confines of Siberia, to the mouth of the
Severn. The plains of Prussia are literally strew-
ed with them ; and there is scarcely a bed of gravel
in this country to the north of the chalk range that
does not contain fragments, larger or smaller ac-
cording to the locality, north or south of the Hum-
ber, of bones of elephants and other animals that
must all have lived under the equator, or nearly
S0. -
These skeletons, however, are never found whole
with us as they are in the north of Russia, where
they appear to have been very quietly deposited in
the mud; but with us they are always mingled
with gravel; and we might therefore conclude that,
from whatever quarter the gravel came, from that
same quarter came the elephants’ bones. Upon
examining these beds of gravel throughout Eng-
land, they are always found to consist of fragments
of those rocks that lay to the north of them; thus,
from the gravel pits near Great Grandsden, Hun-
tingdonshire, Specimens of every rock that exists
between it and the Frith of Forth have been found;
and the gravel pits at the foot of the Gog Magog
hills contain specimens of limestone, trap, sand-
stone, granite, porphyry—the porphyry rounded—
roving that it had been rolled on from afar.
}. of the rhinoceros and elephant are found in
the gravel pits of Barnwell and the observatory,
and tusks of the elephant at Foulmire.
The indications of the course of the current of
the returning waters, after the deluge, is still more
strikingly seen in the grooves it cut out for itself in
the several chains of hills that crossed its path, es-
pecially those in the great trough of Scotland; and
these would prove that the set of the current in
that locality was from northwest to southeast
The rocks that are so peculiar to Westmoreland
also prove this ; for from the Red Pike mountain
large blocks have been carried down into the valley
of Annandale and into parts of Lancashire; and at
Netherhoe there are some lying on the surface six
feet long, seven feet high, and four and a half
wide. There is a block resembling a serpentine,
twenty-one feet long, ten feet high, and nine feet
wide, lying in a situation which proves the wonder-
ful force of the waters in that rocky chain and its
power to scoop out a passage for itself, as there is
at present a valley a thousand feet deep between
that block and the only serpentine rock in that
neighborhood. A similar deposit of these boulders,
as they are called, is also found on the eastern side
of those hills; and even so far as the coasts of Lin-
colnshire and Norfolk. At Heighton Castle, near
Maryport, is a granite block ten feet and a half
long, nine feet high, and six feet wide, of the schap
porphyritic red granite ; and the whole plain of Eu-
rope, from Holland through Prussia into Russia, is
covered with gravel that is nothing more than
rounded fragments of rocks which have been driven
down and rounded by attrition from the Scandina-
vian chain. Numbers, also, of granite boulders,
from the granite mountains of Scotland, are found
at Westmoreland, Durham and Yorkshire ; and
fragments of basalt have been found in the gravel at
Trumpington, near Cambridge, which could only
have come, apparently, from the Mull of Gallo-
way.
There is a more or less lofty range of chalk hills
running across England, in a line from Bury St.
Edmunds to a little westward of the Isle of Port-
land; it is at the foot of the north side of that
chain that the last of the gravel brought down from
the northern hills is deposited, the strength of the
current being insufficient at length to force the gravel
over the high and steep, escarpment of the chalk
range : thus, in the district of the Weald of Kent,
the gravel beds contain no other specimens of rocks
than of those south of the Thames—i.e., specimens
of flint from the chalk range and of the green san
from the Seven Oaks range, together with a few
fragments of the harder portions of the iron sand-
stone: in consequence, none of the bones so gen-
erally found in the gravel north of the Dunstable
range of chalk hills are ever found in that neigh-
borhood.
Although mention has hitherto been made only
of the bones of the rhinoceros and the elephant as
found in such quantities in the gravel, yet the
bones of other animals are also found, of a peculiar
THE DELUGE A MIRACULOUS INTERPOSITION.
117
‘haracter and of extinct species. The discovery of
**keletons of these creatures, so incontestably
Proving their existence, opens a new subject of in-
ºwhº did they exist!—in the old world
i. ºr in the new world also When did they
delu ...extinct !-prior to, at, or subsequent to the
trib 5. The Mosaic record says nothing of any
to . ºanimals left behind to perish altogether and
€ ° blotted out of creation from the period of the
. but that is a record of what were saved
Ile º than of those that perished; and it does not
j "º the supposition of a fact—it does not dis-
j the possibility of a circumstance—that no
.."...ircumstance is alluded to in the Mosaic rec-
thei *e it was the purpose of that record to give
. generally, and not to detail every fact that
ion *d minutely ; thus, in the record of the crea-
must ºy facts are omitted to be mentioned which
allud . happened, and many circumstances not
3. to in the account of the deluge must yet have
ieve *dj, and it seems perfectly reasonable to be:
nº. the more we search into the facts of
"... history the more we see of reason to believe
º animals, admirably suited to the old world,
i. men were so few upon it, and the earth so
is...it in its climates and productions to what it
wn." night be very ill suited to the new world,
greatl men, are designed to multiply upon it so
So y to the end of time.
the ºr as we can see into the general purpose of
and ...Mind in the creation, it was to give life
berth enjoyment of existence to the greatest num-
fi.” the earth could sustain; but it does not
Shoul ā; necessity that the species once created
itself ; "rever remain the same. . Even the earth
and is: greatly changed from what it once was,
rst rº no means in that same condition as when
tor's h ed into its orbit a new world from the Crea-
Contin ands. It is not the same either in its seas, its
ar."º, its mountains, or its plains; its climates
ucti,' ame; nor are any of the earlier pro-
anythi * ºf the carth or the ocean the same, or
or’.3 like the same, that are found on the land
San sº Yater now: for instance, of eight thou-
of wº. of fish at present known to exist, and
fou in th rawings or dried specimens are to be
eight tho * cabinets of Europe, not one of those
such ..." and resemble the fish found embedded in
*- Quantities in the lias stratum in England
This º which was deposited prior to the chalk.
lt § Stratum diagonally across England:
$xtends : runs diagonally g
..", and it Tom Whitby to the mouth of the Sey-
"Ils th.” course may be judged by naming the
ºster, Ch . built upon it; and those are Glou-
à."ºnham, Rugby, and Melton Mowbray.
§nimal.., also, with remains of a vast variety of
have a.Plants, not one of which is known to
and ; y ºistence at this time. Further north,
Ous li .. older formation, such as the carbonifer-
Stands tone on which Richmond, in Yorkshire,
Šislete. *nimal remains there ſound prove the
all that a of a race differing more widely still from
ºe.º. existing. The same difference is
fish fjºin the almost tless varieties of shell-
$9tund in t countless yar -
§sing.ºseveral strata which are crossed in
§: chalk ºrighton to Whitehaven. Those in
i. Il º lºh is the latest deposit, more nearly
j & ent ...semble the genera found now ; but
ſills of
t Or ºly distinct from those in the oolitic
§ely dist."ºptonshire; and those again are en-
* in tº . * : -
º i..." such as are deposited in the
nd limest. O Derbyshire. But in the oolitic
the ch Strata the sh º
al e Shells are not found as in
k, *ttered about here and there and far
and wide apart, and merely buried in the mass
around them, but actually form of themselves the
main substance of the rock. It is a chain of lofty
hills composed, it might almost be said, entirely of
once animated creatures.
The subject is too vast to be further observed
upon here, and is only introduced in proof of great
changes having been effected on the earth since its
formation. The climate also seems to have under-
gone great change; the ferns and palms or calami-
tes in the coal fields, of enormous proportions and
of the greatest variety and beauty, indicate a climate
hotter and moister than any now found under the
equator; while the plants found in the oolitic se-
ries suppose a less degree of heat, such as it is at
this day under the equator; and such as are found
in the chalk series suppose a climate temperate as
Otl|r OWIl.
Of the ertinct plants we may merely observe
upon those in the coal fields, especially those in the
coal mines of Bohemia, of forms and characters un-
like everything now to be found.
Of the extinct animals we may first notice those
of the order Lacerta –marine lizards they might be
called, and they are found imbedded in #. lias and
sandstone strata.
First, the Ichthyosaurus—this creature had the
mouth of a porpoise, the teeth of a crocodile, the head
of a lizard, the vertebrae of a fish, and the breastbone
of the ornythorhynchus; its fins were four broad
paddles, and it moved as a fish by the vibratory mo-
tion of its tail; its usual length was forty feet, its
food was fish, and it appears designed for deep wa-
ters.
Second, the Plesiosaurus.—There are six spe-
cies of this reptile : it had the crocodile's teeth
with the lizard's head, which was set on a swan-
like neck of such length that the vertebrae of the
neck alone numbered thirty-three, whilst the trunk
and the tail were of the proportions of an ordinary
quadruped; the ribs were set on like those of a
chameleon, and the paddles were like those of a
whale : its food was fish, and it lived probably in
shallow waters. º
Third, the Pterodactyle (order Saurian).-Had
the neck and head of a bird, wings like a bat, with
a body and tail of the ordinary mammalia; the
skull was small, the snout like that of the crocodile,
and it was armed with sixty teeth: the tips of the
wings were fingers ending with Long hooked
claws.
The Terrestrial Lizards were the megalosaurus,
mylosaurus, iguanodon, mysosaurus, mososaurus;
creatures, some forty feet, some seventy feet long.
The skeletons of these and of other extinct tribes hav-
ing been found, some in situ and nearly whole, are
preserved in both the Oxford and British museums;
and many varieties that we have not are in the mu-
seums of Paris and Germany.
All these, however, were more or less amphib-
ious, and for animals that were so there is not the
least need to provide a place in the ark. The case
is widely different, however, with those we shall
next allude to; for, at some time or other, it may
be before the flood and it may be never since, there
existed on the earth mammalia of a gigantic size
unlike any that are to be found now. In the enu.
meration of the animals enclosed within the ark are
we to include these? If they were preserved then,
how is it that they are all extinct now? And why,
if they were then preserved as useful or essential to
the new world, are they not still ſound within it?
They have been extinct, it is presumed, for many
ages; and why—if there was first creation and then
118
INTERVENTION.
in the ark preservation—why were they immedi-
ately subsequent to the deluge allowed to perish 1–
for perished the whole race is: nothing like them
is found—nothing like them has ever been heard of
as existing: . it is not reasonable to suppose that
any such animals were received into the ark that
were intended should die off almost immediately on
their coming out of it: when did these creatures,
therefore, disappear altogether! If the earth, after
the deluge, was suited to their existence it is so
still, and no cause can be assigned why they should
all since have died. We must really suppose, in
consequence, that at the deluge they were left on
the earth, and purposely, that they might all be
destroyed; and that no pairs of these quadrupeds
were guided as the others were, towards the ark
for preservation. Of these extinct species of ani-
mals we may name first, the dinotherium; second,
the megatherium—an animal resembling in some
points the sloth, in others the armadillo, and in
others the anteater. It was twelve feet long, eight
feet high, and five feet broad; its feet, a yard in
length, were armed with gigantic claws; but the
extraordinary part of the animal was its tail, which
was out of all proportion large, even when taking
into account its large body; third, megalonix;
fourth, two genera of large edentata; fifth, two
genera of large pachydermata ; sixth, a gigantic
species, toxodon platensis, with affinities to the
radentia and edentata; seventh, machranchenica
patachonica, with affinities to the ruminantia and
camelido; and many also of the families of effodi-
entia, bradypoda, pachydermata, ruminantia, ten
of the feras, twenty-one of the glires, many of the
marsupalia and the simiaº, have been disinterred
lately from the neighborhood of the Rio das Wellas
river. All these tribes are extinct: at least, no
living specimens have ever been met with ; and
supposing them, therefore, to have perished, and to
have been designedly left to perish when all others
were preserved, we shall take no account of these
in the enumeration of such animals as are now found
on the earth, and which must in consequence have
been preserved in the ark; and for which, of neces-
sity, a sufficient space both for themselves and for
the food and the water they needed must have been
provided within it.
It is to be borne in mind that in the early Greek
legends, such as Apollo Pythius, we have traces
of a belief that monsters existed after the flood,
which were speedily exterminated. Whether this
was derived from their having actually existed, or
morely from their carcases being found, we do not
stop to inquire. And a somewhat similar tradition,
in a translantic dress, was found amongst the Amer-
ican Indians, concerning the “big bull” of their
“salt licks.” Certain it is that the mammoth of
iberia, which was preserved in the ice, existed up
to the time of the last universal catastrophe, and
every believer in the Bible holds that this was the
deluge of Noah; therefore, some of the species
acknowledged to be extinct existed at the time of
the deluge of Noah; and this being established in
any one instance renders it probable in other instan-
ces, and throws the burden of proof on those who
deny the existence of any extinct animals at so
recent a period.
INTERVENTION.
The solution of the Spanish marriage question
has raised a commotion in Spain, and also, it ap:
pears, in divors diplomatic minds in London and
Paris. The union of Queen Isabella with her
cousin Don Francisco has sunk to a subordinate
interest in comparison with the match between the
Infanta Luisa and the Duc de Montpensier. The
publication of the bans between those two engag-
ing young people threatens to kindle the blaze of
war. The Spanish dislike the French with all the
intensity of neighborly dissension; they will not
tolerate the idea that a cadet of the house of Or-
|leans should possess a Spanish princess, and they
have declared war against him. The national
papers have raised a doubt, on constitutional
grounds, whether the marriage would be legal.
Mr. Bulwer, it is averred, has protested against the
match on diplomatic grounds; and it is understood
that he is supported by Lord Palmerston. It is
even said that the British government will interfero
to prevent the wedding : this at least must be a
mistake.
Even supposing that the occasion were sufficient
to justify intervention, it is not clear on what point
the interference could be made to turn, or in what
way it could be carried into effect. Would the
British government complain, and submit t—A.
truly ridiculous position. Are they prepared to go
to war?—Where would they find the money,
where the imperative reasons for war which would
reconcile the English people to be taxed for med-
dling in a Spanish affair? Would they take a
middle course, and exclude either of the offending
nations, France or Spain, from commercial inter-
course with this country —A ministry who should
resort to such a measure, on such a pretext, would
not remain long in power. Intervention seems in-
evitably to result in the dilemma of helpless com-
plaint or war.”
The day is passing by when statesmen were
suffered to interfere in the affairs of foreign coun-
tries on purely diplomatic views. There must be
some practically tangible reasons for it. Dogmas
are going out of use, and the English public is no
longer to be conjured into acquiescence by the
mystical “balance of power” which has cost us so
much. Nor will it blindly assent to the opposite
dogma of “nonintervention.” If British interests,
in neutral quarters, are threatened with direct in-
jury by the act of any foreign country, or by the
concurrent act of two foreign states, then it is 0.
duty to interfere, even in the absence of positive
hostility. Or interference may be justified by thº
invitation of a foreign state expressly asking a
and protection. But here no British interest is a
stake, except by the most remote and forced con.
structions : there is no invitation. We have n°
title to obstruct the free and spontaneous act of th?
constituted Spanish government, nor even the act
to which that government may be persuaded, bº
cause we guess at some untoward future result.
The presumption is that some day the Duc dº
Montpensier's wife might succeed to the thron”
of Spain; or, by a still more remote possibility.
their progeny might succeed to the throne of bot
Spain and France. What then? A junction 9
the two thrones may be considered impossible; a
were it to become imminent, abundant o portuniº
to interfere would arise. But the mere fact that “
future sovereign of Spain may have a French.
Sort has in it nothing to alarm. The internatioſ.”
relations of Western Europe, now-a-days, are
*We copy this article partly because of its bearing
upon the question of British intervention between
United States and Mexico.—Liv. Age.
INTERVENTION.
119
º more by its peoples than by the individu-
the * happen to sit upon the thrones. Even in
pow ºys of Louis the Fourteenth and arbitrary
j the project of the Family Compact was a
and Št failure. Since that time, Spain, France
Pngland, have seen extraordinary changes; in
º * People have acquired a larger share of
J. #. in all, even in Spain, the people are not a
She §º be disposed of by the ruler like a flock of
j ; though the constituted authorities may
º: sºy special act of official policy, the slow
.8% engine of public opinion directs the
*al policy of the nation. ow France and
p § differ so widely, that it would be more im-
i. le for them to agree than for England with
i. If it is not for human knowledge to pro-
... absolute impossibility, it is at least quite
* that the union of France and Spain must
her . posterior to the age of the Infanta Luisa or
als. ildren—altogether beyond the scan of living
ulation.
thi §iplomatists, therefore, were to interfere in
upo Panish marriage, they would proceed only
"their own abstract theories and fussy systems
*ging their self-importance into play. That
talki "glish statesman could go the length of
bj about war in such a case, is, as Lord Mel-
e. Would say, “the maddest proposition that
..º.d the brain of man;” and if Lord Pal-
c.were really taken so unwell, no doubt his
"..ºles would see to his being placed in safety.
Pectator, 12 Sept.
ºwº-
F
*om the London Morning Chronicle of August 26. Considered
W as Lord Palmerston's organ.
Lord º Lord G. Bentinck, made his onslaught on
itur Yndhurst, we remarked upon the significant
wise . of the member for Shrewsbury. Other:
his sh ...torical, he was here silent. The wit of
bea °toric was replaced by the miracle of his for-
...And this was to the disadvantage of
the .99rge ; since the modesty of his friend was
**ure of his own intemperance.
kijºustomed were we to , see these two
§une cquis, illum superare pugnis
obilem–
‘Ou º
j º lances simultaneously, and spur their
Šing.unison, that the new phenomenon of a
*nded attack on the part of the member for
gānce .ggested the unwelcome idea of extrava-
other "... the one side and disapproval on the
| Was a sad thing to see a brave man fight
acker. But, perhaps, he was over-
Pollux got sometimes into scrapes
$".Castor was unable to join him. There
"...in Asia Minor of such scrupulous pro-
at, although prečminent in its natural
º º * Will not answer to any impure invoca-
9 silene **!ence of D'Israeli in rel, ndhurst was
* of this decorous echo ; and it was Lord
*itness §ºnck who had the credit of feeling the
he table e negative rebuke.
Upon th have since been turned. In the de-
°0, and * state of British interests in
ºn that. effects upon them of the war
M * George °ºuntry and the United States, it was
r. D.8% who asked the sensible question, and
º Cy
lS an ech
Diety,
bate
Mexi
betw
S º
jt. i. who enlarged into the trashy com-
istory and § the irrelevance of the extraneous
° contradicted statistics, there was
W
nothing in Lord George's speech which did not,
when compared with his late exhibitions, show
favorably both for his temper and his capacity. At
any rate his speech on Tuesday has proved him to
be as fit a probationer for a prospective secretary-
ship of foreign affairs, as for a paulo post futurum
premiership. Such is the versatility of real genius,
and such the power of assimilation in a new field
of research, and upon new elements of cram. The
simple question as to whether England had offered
its mediation between Mexico and America was
asked of the secretary of foreign affairs; and it
was asked without a single personality, and with
its errors as to matters of fact limited to one solitary
hallucination about the introduction into Mexico of
foreign manufactures in American vessels. Let
this be recorded; and let a new use be contem-
plated for the model republic. It is evidently no
favorite of Lord G. Bentinck's. Could it not, by a
little manouvring, be made a safety-valve to his
irritation—a scapegoat for his natural victims?
Let him turn the current of his wrath from Peel to
Polk, and thence from Polk to Pennsylvania.
Then let him shade off his resentments delicately,
till they fall upon slavery or sugar, republican-
ism or repudiation, or some such insensible ab-
straction.
To Lord George Bentinck's question nothing
could be clearer than the reply of Lord Palmerston.
The late ministry had suggested, the present minis-
try had offered, mediation.
What more could be done Cabinets must con-
sider, and the Atlantic is a wide ocean. There
must be time for deliberation, and there must be
time for the return of steamers. Mexico, too, is a
wide area, and the annexation that would totally
annihilate its independent existence, and attach it
to America, must, in Lord Palmerston's opinion. be
but slow.
Hereat Mr. D'Israeli was dissatisfied. It would
have been some consolation to them if the noble lord
had stated that the offer of mediation had been
accepted. No doubt it would. A man that writes
from Calcutta to an agent in London, inquiring
whether a certain proposal for a certain loan of
money can be agreed to, is consoled when he hears
that it has been accepted. A timid suitor to a proud
beauty, equally distant both in manners and locality,
is consoled when he hears that his offers have been
accepted. Culprits, too, are consoled when they
hear that the application for a reprieve has been
accepted. Indeed, as a general rule, acceptances,
except in the way of city business, are essentially
of a consolatory nature. Still they must, in the
usual course of events, be waited for ; and if the
member for Shrewsbury grow impatient in the
interim—why then—his friends must put up for
him the prayer,
“Ye gods annihilate but time and, Space,
And make one member happy.
As for his enemies, they may possibly think him
froward and unreasonable; which if they do, the
world in general will probably coincide in their
opinion. * ... º.
Right in his appreciation of the utter incapacity
of the Mexicans for self-government, Mr. D'Israeli
is unhappy in his illustrations from the Old World.
After enlarging upon the helplessness of the
Spaniard of the New World, after despairi | of
the political integrity of Mexico being upheld by
any efforts of Mexico itself, and after noticing the
120
NEW EXPLOSIVE COMPOUND–FLOWERS.
outward and visible signs of weakness that had
becn manifested at different times, and in various
quarters, by the repeated invitations on the part of
the separate Mexican states to foreign powers, he
proclaims his belief in the futility of all forms of
diplomacy. “But if European diplomacy failed,
what could be done There was a third course.
Were they prepared to take it? Would they act
towards Mexico as they had acted towards other
states under similar circumstances? Would they
protect Mexico Would they do for Mexico what
had been done for another revolutionized colony—
what they had done for Greece Would they
establish, with other great powers interested, a pro-
tectory which would give Mexico a chance of ten
years of tranquillity?”
Even as in the Eastcheap Tavern the dying Fal-
staff babbled about green fields, so, even in the far
west, and beyond the Atlantic, does the eloquent
ex-protected revert to the sounds and symbols
of a previous and a happier state of existence.
º is, to him, a term too interwoven
Wlt
“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs his mortal frame”-
to be abandoned even amid the dissonant consonant
names of Mexican localities, and the nasalisms of
transatlantic oratory. Like the Ranz des Vaches
the old sound haunts him—
“Protection, oh protection
The glorious sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Hath heard its sacred name.”
Protection for corn, protection for candle-grease,
protection for Jamaica sugar, protection for Deme-
rara rum, protection for the ducal coronet, protec-
tion for the Dorsetshire laborer; finally protection
for Mexico, and all the states belonging to her
unable to protect themselves. Thank IIeaven, we
have at least grown catholic in our sentiments, and
have extended this same a gis of protection beyond
the mere pale of our own island-home. It spreads
its shade from Chichester to Chihuahua.
But Greece—Greece is neither the political nor
the historical equivalent to Mexico. Greece is the
parallel to Texas. It is the slice cut off, not the
remainder. The real Mexico of Europe is Tur-
key; and this we do protect; but not according
to analogies of Mr. D'Israeli. The example of
Greece was, if anything, a reason for the acknowl-
edgment of Texas. As applied to the integrity
of Mexico, it afforded a precedent on the other
side.
Chivalry, therefore, prompts Mr. D'Israeli to in-
stigate England to a Mexican protectorship. The
proffered mediation is to be declined, and then our
interference is to change its character. What
shape is it to assume? Now, no one knows better
than Mr. D'Israeli that there is but one ratio ultima,
viz., the edge of the sword, or the mouth of the
Cºſiſ] Oſh.
* And this is to be the remedy for the injuries in-
flicted upon British commerce by the present war.
|ſ. * Wºº, most truly should we charge. Mr.
D Israeli with being a homoeopathist in his politics,
since he would then make thosword the antidote to
the sword. In justice to his logic this is not the
ease. . The present state of British interests was
only the title page of the book, the text of the ser-
mon. It was disposed of in the first set of figures
of Lord George's exordium. All beyond was epi-
sodical : what had been done in Texas with Lord
George, what was to be done in Jamaica and
Canada with Mr. D'Israeli. Hence, then, the real
reason for an offer of English mediation was the
danger, not of London being stinted in its mercury
and cochineal, but of the United States being
aggrandized overmuch.
We say nothing, at present, of the case itself;
but if such a preamble to our diplomacy pass mus-
ter in Washington, we shall apply to the trans-
atlantic statesmen the remark of the Athenians
upon the Melians, viz., “That we wonder at their
simplicity more than we admire their magnanim-
ity.”
THE attention of the scientific world has been
drawn to the discovery, by Professor Schönbein, of
an explosive compound which appears to possess
many advantages over gunpowder. A cotton is pre-
pared, by a process not yet divulged—but j. is
in all probability one that º on the formation
of a nitrogen compound. This cotton possesses
many remarkable properties. On the application
of a spark, the solid mass is at once converted to a
gaseous state; and a scientific gentleman who has
witnessed some experiments in the laboratory of
Prof. Schönbein, informs us that, whereas an equal
weight of gunpowder, when exploded, filled the
apartment with smoke, the cotton exploded without
producing any—leaving only a few atoms of carbo-
naceous matter behind. Common balls and shells
have been projected by this prepared cotton, and it
is stated to have nearly double the projectile force of
gunpowder. An interesting experiment was re-
cently tried on the wall of an old castle. It had
been calculated that from three to four pounds of
gunpowder would be required to destroy it—and a
hole capable of holding that quantity was prepared,
Professor Schönbein, being desirous of testing the
explosive force of his new preparation, placed four
ounces of it in the hole; which, when fired, blew
the massy wall to pieces. Another valuable prop-
erty of this cotton is, that it is not injured by wet;
as it appears that, after being dried, it has lost
nothing of its power. It, of course, remains to be
seen if it is, in all respects, equal to gunpowder:
but, under many circumstances it must prove of
great value. It is expected that Professor Schön-
bein will attend the meeting of the British Associa-
tion, at Southampton;–when, no doubt, we shall
hear more of this extraordinary discovery.
FLOWERS.
YE are the Scriptures of the Earth,
Sweet ſlowers, fair and frail;
A sermon speaks in every bud
That wooes the summer gale.
Ye lift your heads at early morn,
To greet the sunny ray,
And cast your fragrance forth to praise
The Lord of night and day.
Sown in the damp and cheerless earth,
Ye slumber for a while,
Then waken unto glorious life,
And bid creation Smile.
Thus when within the darksome tomb
Our mortal frame shall lie,
The soul, freed from the bonds of sin,
Shall join the choir on high.
THE DISPONENT.
121
CHAPTER VII.
to º: question was now, how they were possibly
© aſ: .g., the many months that must still
º j efore Nature would supply the help that
Ult enied. The case looked desperate enough,
when . old Liso said, it was easy to praise God
too oft e.granary was full ; though even then they
the ti en forgot to do so. When it was empty was
ed t me to trust Him. Not but what she lament-
i. and labor that now devolved on her
of i. grandson, and wished he could be relieved
Ka. º of his family—herself and old
Ilo º ois—who were each of them, she said, of
d j except to love him. But Mart chided her
... "...ly, and told her that love was more
... than anything else in the world; and we
ºk so too.
º . º Sellenkūll were not yet devoid of
e ºes. There were stores of various kinds in
circu . and farm, which could be converted by a
GW r . process into corn, and there were even a
Ult i. es which Mart had husbanded up beside;
then .." of all these was easy to foresee, and
SČen ºw was more to be obtained: Mart had
Worl ºy a neighbor, go down gradually in the
proces never to lift up his head again, by the same
oº: which was now hanging over him, and
Ult §. of despondency would occasionally arise;
was th raced up his heart manfully, felt that now
tem. to fight and not to give way, and de-
e °d that, let ruin knock ever so loudly at his
tº act of his should let it in.
fruits, too, of many a thrifty habit now ap-
... Many an armful of fodder had Mart
, collected at times when nobody else
and from waste places which all neglect-
i. for the support of his cattle there was no
jº fear. Mart held fast to the old Lettish
nouth which says, “The cow gives milk by the
his º the hen lays eggs by the bill;” and
he look . animals verified it. In short, wherever
ºf alw : on his own domain, he found the result
cheere d }. doing things well at the time, and this
Iart lm to do more.
*y, an . to the pastor after service next Sun-
But le told him the treatment he had received.
the past id not attempt to seek for justice, nor did
where º offer to obtain it; for both knew that
hent cº unjust Hakenrichter and a cruel Dispo-
injur º against the peasants, their power
only . * outdoes his power of protection, and
'he *es with the least show of it.
Sight ..º. old man was serious and low. The
He ls congregation told many a tale of woe:
shari." sullen men, and suffering women, and
!nterest *4 children among them, and felt that his
hom."; their spiritual welfare would have come
With the . i. hearts with more effect if seconded
9ccurred . º of their bodily wants. Not that this
orst sy ºnis hearers. They were fallen to the
CO º that can appear in a nation or in a
they Coul | ; their only thought was how , little
out. eli live upon, and how long they could hold
help f. rom others seemed as visionary as
hea t t °mselves, and they listened with meek
- e add •l.
Ҽnce and trust. ress which exhorted them to
.Noth
his tº. *: the pastor had done, and still did,
gra
jºy soon aſ
LIVING AGE.
WOL., XI, 11
for the consequences of leaving his ground unsown ;
a small quantity was also distributed every week
among the families most in need. Still it was
nothing when subdivided among the numbers re-
quiring it; and, in truth, to have provided them
with one week's sufficient maintenance would have
been utterly beyond the good man's power.
He gave Mart, however, a job for the next
week, at so much per day. “It is a pity such
hands as yours should be idle, Mart; and you
may be sure of your money, although so little
of it.”
Mart thanked him with a happy face once
more ; and, leaving the Pastorat, joined the con-
gregation in the walk home to the village.
It was seldom he came in for any of the news
and gossip of the little community, and it would
have been better for his peace if he had not now ;
for there was but one prevailing theme. Not the
scarcity and unhealthiness of the season, for that
was looked upon as too much God's doing to be
murmured at, hut the many and increasing cruel-
ties of the base-born tyrant over them. There
were stories which made Mart's very heart sick.
Of boys who had been overworked, of girls who
had been defrauded of their little earnings—of both
who had been dreadfully beaten and misused.
Then there were men lying at home ill with the
effects of corporal punishment; some for having
neglected work or pilfered trifles; but most for
having merely turned like the worm when they
were trodden upon.
Mart was wretched. Every word seemed to
pluck at those bitter bad feelings which he hated
more even than the wickedness which roused theim.
He left the groups, and dropped back to the Braut-
werber, who was walking behind, his eyes, as
usual, on the ground, and his puny little boy toiling
along by his side. But this was not the way to
change the current of Mart's thoughts. He knew,
and so did everybody else, that Juhann's weakly
looks and habitual depression were the result of
one of those acts of intolerable tyranny of which
so many had just been related. He had been
beaten under semblance of the law, but in reality
to gratify the malice of a master who always found
law in Russia for all his cruelty; and he had never
held up his head after it. The man's spirit was
broken * . Tº º is
Mart, as we have seen, could do more with him
than anybody else, and generally, managed, to
brighten up the moody though gentle face ºf his
friend. But this time his heart failed him. In his
good-humored way he took hold of the child's
other hand, and walked on for a minute 9: two in
silence. Then suddenly he stopped, for Mart was
towing away both father and child at an uncon-
scionāble rate; and it struck him all at once that
the little feet lingered.
“Are you tired, my little fellow !"
“Ja, vegga”—yes, very—said the poor child.
In a moment he was seated aloft on a firm arm,
the little pale face close to Mart's still ruddy
cheek. *
“How light he is,” said Mart inadvertently, as
he pressed the squalid tiny form to him. A pang
shot over the father's face.
“Yes,” said he, “he is skin and bones, like all
of us; chopped straw does not make man's flesh:
elieve them. He had drained his The church-cart will have many a journey, but all
tly a pe ºr harvest by supplying seed-corn light ones this year.”
Cxxv.1 P*sant too degraded and reduced to care |
Mart pretended to laugh off this speech. “But
122
THE DISPONENT.
your little boy has been very ill; no wonder he
is so thin. It is well he got through that fever at
3 *
“Better still if he had not, perhaps; but death
does not take the offered child : but he 'll go this
winter, and the other too.”
“. It is wrong to say that,” said Mart; and they
walked on in silence till they reached Juhann's
dwelling. It was not often that Mart had time to
see into one of his neighbors' interiors; and none
could offer a stronger contrast to his own than this.
The Brautwerber's farm was one of the most
miserable in the miserable village. The little barn
and cowshed were quite unroofed, to feed those
whom it no longer protected from the cold, and the
house itself was not in much better condition.
The roof had sunk ; the posts had given way; and
the doorway, wider and lower even than usual,
seemed an entrance far more fitted for animals than
for men, and was in truth quite as much used as
such by the one as the other.
Mart bowed his lofty head, and went in. The
first moving objects that became visible through
the smoky atmosphere were three gaunt, high-
backed pigs—one of which was busy with its snout
grubbing in a low crib filled with filthy straw,
which apparently constituted the only family bed.
Farther on was a shapeless mass on the floor,
which, but for two little skeleton legs which
dangled from it, might have been taken for some
unclean beast also. As the men entered, the legs
agitated themselves rather violently. The mother,
for she it was, now got up from the kind of lair,
where, like an animal, she had been brooding over
her young, and let a little thing of two years old
drop from her. It stood for a moment tottering,
then tumbled and roared. The father advanced,
took it up tenderly, and hushed it : it was evident
the children loved him, and he them, in spite of
what he had said. But oh what a home this
was for a man to come to
No Livonian will let a friend enter his door
without setting something before him to eat, and
bread was put upon the board. Such bread Mart
had seldom seen : chaff was the principle ingredi-
ent, corn the least. The loaf was as light in pro-
portion as the poor children it failed to nourish.
And as Mart looked at the thin limbs and large
bodies of the innocent little beings, he saw at
once the result of a long continuation of such
diet.
Juhann did not press his friend to do more than
break the bread—a process too easily accomplished;
for it failed in all the properties of adhesion : but
he gave a piece to the children, who swallowed
it as quickly as it passed their lips, as if mastica-
tion were thrown away upon such materials.
“Is there nothing to drink?”, inquired, the
Brautwerber of his wife. “Where is the milk?”
“The cow is dry, and the calf is dead; but
there is water,” said the woman.
“Yes,” said Juhann, “water enough.” And,
stealing a bitter smile at Mart, he added, “Water
in the oven :” this being a Lettish phrase express-
ive of extreme dearth.
Wretched, thoughts accompanied Mart in his
lonely walk home, and some self-upbraidings too :
for, compared with this household, and too many
he knew were like it, his was rioting in abundance:
A good sound rye, loaf, big as a log of wood, and
something like it in appearance, with a little butt
of milk, found their way to the Brautwerber's door
before many hours had elapsed. Mart took to
water from that evening.
But one bitter thought there was which would
not be so easily banished. It had long glimmered
dimly in his breast : and now that walk home from
church fanned it up into feverish strength, making
him start with terror from his sleep at night, and
bringing a deep flush across his face by day. It
was the thought lest that which had broken his
poor friend's spirit and health should ever come
home to him. The mere possibility seemed too
great a degradation, and, situated as he was, the
probability was too obvious. Anything else in the
shape of personal endurance that his mind could
conjure up he felt could be borne. He could bear
being starved by inches, or worked to the bone;
he could stand foul language, and submit to wring-
ing injustice. But to receive from the hands of
another such ignominy as the most brutal master
scarcely bestows on his most wretched beast; to
deny that he had been born a man ; to forget that
he was to die one ; and to stand an animal in all
save its dumbness, and be beaten ? this he felt was
beyond his powers of endurance; and, if inflicted,
would leave him either a villain or an idiot. Fer-
vently did he vow to himself to guard every word
and deed rather than give his enemy the slightest
opportunity for that, which every other indignity,
if necessary, should be endured to avoid. And
deliberately also had that enemy vowed to himself
to wait his time, and watch his opportunity, but
that with nothing less should his vengeance bo
satisfied.
Meanwhile the job at the pastor's was com-
pleted, and Mart was left to his own devices for
obtaining corn. These were not few, and but too
much time to put them into execution. The day
was spent in tracking and snaring game—the
game-laws being a source of oppression which the
Russian government still holds in reserve. A
space was hewn clear by his strong arm in the
deep, frozen stream before their door, and kept so,
where many a primitive mode of attracting and
catching the cold fish beneath was adopted—once
even a seal was caught—and when a little sledge-
load of this kind had been collected—for it matters
not how long the frozen booty is kept—a journey
was undertaken to distant estates where resident
families gave promise of a sale. The reward of
such journeys was very inadequate to the time an
labor, for sometimes man and horse toiled fifty or
sixty wersts, out and home, for a small sum:
which the poverty of one buyer, or the hackling
meanness of another, cut down to the lowest, with-
out regard either to the labor that had earned or
the want that needed it.
It may be asked here, and naturally, why, with
all these materials for food around them, the stary-
ing population did not avail themselves of them in
their natural state 4 why they did not themselves
consume the game in their woods and the fish in
their rivers 1 But this is only one of the many
instances of the want of simple sense which existº
in a half-civilized land. They look upon bread as
the great necessary for man's sustenance, and tº
whatever expedients they may resort to eke out *
scanty or a bad supply, they would starve rather
than attempt to substitute anything else in it”
place. ſº
Nor were Mart's expeditions without excessiv"
hardship, and even danger. His fine person wº
well defended with all that the care and industry
THE DISPONENT,
123
. Yºung and his old wife, as he called them,
Côars *. The thick woollen stockings, the
rº d ngerless gloves, were always mended or
Oth º: -the brown woollen coat had never a but-
Unsto issing—the cover-all sheep-skin never a hole
and ... and as Anno helped to equip her kind
first ºy helpmate for these expeditions, and he
the . down his tall head, while she pulled out
leſ) urls which her wrappers had confined, and
... it again with one of his beaming smiles,
#hos thought in her innocence that not even the
his º himself could carry a sweeter face upon
| *"ºulders Certainly, since ignorance was
.* it had been especially folly in this case to be
W . Sri * r
tº. for poetical delusions are too few among
estr
protection in which she had lived since her marriage
had completely removed them from her mind; she
had cast them off as a sound limb does unsound
flesh. While old Liso took higher ground: misery,
and the coarsest misery, too, she had known plenty
of, but her mind was raised above it.
Nothing gives, so high a tone to a family circle
in any rank of life as the influence of an aged
woman who possesses the double wisdom both to
edify and to attract. We say an aged woman, be-
cause there is something in old age itself which
partakes more of the feminine than of the masculine
character; not only on account of its weakness,
but in the strength which, as with the female sex,
at every age, they have through that very weak-
suffering race for any of them to be wantonly ness. Also there is something in the wisdom of a
*yed, and an abstract faith in the perfection really experienced female mind which seems to us
º: * majesty is certainly one of the most
Q!) . Personal beauty she might have found
a.Peri. countenance more than she could
jº, but as for the heart that shines
jects * l, God help poor Anno, and all his sub-
º return, however, to a better man. The sec-
... nonth in the year was now advanced—snow
Set i. unusual quantities, and an intense frost had
ºko ſh The country was open to whoever liked to
faith º shortest way across it, and Mart and his
in . little horse toiled over many a swamp which
Qven ºmer never felt the foot of man, and rarely
lome in winter. Karria Pois he always left at
his m. Where he was more wanted than irotting by
the .* s side. Sometimes Mart's sledge was
s.” to force a toilsome track where none had
hai. before; often the first to resume one which
#. few days of snow had covered over.
thou 's was all very well in fine, still weather,
gh even then the exposure was cruclly severe;
ins. Journeys of this length he who started in
si.". might return in snow-drift, when the
tºn. earth and sky were both hidden to the
wil j and man and horse, after floundering be-
Out . along, might either find themselves thrown
Same all knowledge of the road, or returned to the
li. Pot, they had left hours before. Many, in
Iart . have stopped never to go on again, and
ºlfects º all his energy to resist the benumbing
diet to rom without and within. For the spare
CS which he had been reduced for many weeks
and t Pecially at a time when he needed the best;
.*,bitter blast chilled his warm, young blood
* never done before. There in a desolate,
ºi. . with a black, porous, blotting-paper
t . y above him, and the thick, falling snow
rema.g every means of guidance that still
* failing around, the weary man oſten halted with
but tº heart, and, unseen but by One, looked to
fondl * for succor. Then the arm was passed
si. "ºr, his horse's neck—the willing creature
*gain with fresh courage—for the Livonian
*9tse, like his master, only requires good
lS make him the most valuable servant, and
r0m |. alone took them right home.
° benigh 9 two women, who waited anxiously for
ture of . ited traveller, Mart kept many an adven-
$ness of | Kind, or made light of it; but the wea-
sin. frame, equally as the hours of intense
ceale.". which renovated it, told what he con-
Was not º shome was worth returning to: there
$rown o ". comfort and union, but there was the
Gver know °m both—refinement. If Anno had
* *, the grossnesses of life incidental to
On
º
S
jº to
er º
7 and hardship, the atmosphere of care and
more applicable to the general needs of human
nature than in that of her fellow man; partly per-
haps from being drawn from sources which, occu-
pying an apparently subordinate position in the
affairs of this life, vary less with their changes, but
chiefly in heing more really and closely connected
with the vital principles of the Christian religion.
There was much in old Liso's character and
manner which might be compared to those admira-
ble aged women of God not unfrequently found in
the Scotch Presbyterian Church. Like them she
had all that intelligence and refined mode of expres-
sion in the midst of poverty and hardship, which,
however wonderful it may seem, is easily to be ac-
counted for; for who can retain commonplace ideas
or vulgar speech who know the Bible by heart, as
Liso did, and as those to whom we have compared
her generally do!
Besides all this, the good old grandmother had a
sweet countenance, which goes for much in a per-
son's merit and attractiveness—and rightly—since
whatever may be said of the gift of beauty, every
one makes the best part of their own face.
To both wife and grandmother, in spite of Mart's
prudence and discretion, these journeys became a
source of anxiety. Anno suggested the plan of
greater economy of the stock in hand, rather than
of further such laborious efforts to replenish it.
Her father, she said, always mixed the corn with
straw, even in the best years; and in bad ones, for
aught she knew, it was made of nothing else. And
Mart answered, that certainly she had thriven won:
derfully well on such diet, but that still he could
not afford to rob his cattle to feed her. &
“No, Anno,” he said, “I may have hard nights
and days too, sometimes, out in this weather, but
I should have harder still to sit at home and see you
eat bad bread, and know that others had none at
all.” And this silenced Anno. º
Liso had other anxieties; she felt that this mode
of existence was worse even for mind than for body.
She knew that there were charms for the young
in a free, uncontrolled life, however hard; that
there were snares for the generous and credulous in
the strange and wild company he necessarily fell in
with, and that there was sore temptation for the
cold and weary in many an isolated Krug, or pub-
lic house; which, in Livonia, bear no better char-
acter with sober old grandmothers than they do
anywhere else. But Liso, stuck fast to the old
Lettish motto, and a beautiful one it is—“Work
and pray.” The first, her growing infirmities con-
siderably hindercd in her own estimation; but the
second, in her own language thanks be to God, she
neither wanted eyes, nor ears, nor hands, nor feet
for. “Better,” she said, with another proverb, with
124
THE DISPONENT.
“a prayer behind the door than a scolding before
the stove;” and some parents would not be the
worse of thinking so too.
CHAPTER VIII.
As we have said before, Mart kept most of his
lost ways and overturns in drifts and such incidents
from the two women; but one incident he could
not conceal. The scarcity and hardness of the sea-
son affected the inhabitants of the forest as well as
those of the villages, and the wolves came out
from their fastnesses, with a boldness they do not
often show. Many a single one and even couples
together had skulked across Mart's path with an
evil look, but quickened their retreat at that shrill
shout, at the top of his voice, which he had prac-
tised since a child.
One evening his way home lay through a desolate
morassy wood, which stretched for ten wersts on
one side of his little farm, and where the track, deep
between accumulations of high snow, gave only
just sufficient width for the little horse and sledge.
Mart's eyes were closed and his senses heavy with
weariness, nevertheless he soon began to be aware
that the animal was quickening its pace unwont-
edly; again it jerked forward—quicker still—and a
low neighing sound of terror effectually roused the
drowsy man. He looked in front; all was as usual
—a wild scanty forest, standing knee-deep in a
bed of snow—the narrow trough of a track winding
through it—here and there pyramids of snow which
showed the huge ant-hills of the country—the
heavens bright—the earth white—not a living object
but the horse before. He looked behind—the scene
was just the same—white snow, and leafless trees,
and a winding track; but close to the sledge were
three dark gaunt animals, heavily galloping, and
another was fast gaining behind. The jaws of the
foremost, with the lowness of the sledge, were
within reach of Mart's shoulder. He cared not for
that—he knew that it was his horse they wanted
first; and saw in an instant that all depended on the
animal's courage more than on his own. If the
frightened creature could have the nerve to keep
steady in the track, the chances were much in its
favor, for the moment the wolves turned off in order
to pass and get ahead of it, the depth of the snow
diminished their speed; but should the horse, in its
terror, plunge aside and flounder in the snow, Mart
knew that it would be lost. He leaned forward,
called the animal cheerfully by its name, and laid
his hand on its back as he was often wont to do, in
times of fatigue or difficulty—the poor beast knew
the kind voice and hand—raised its ears, which
were laid flat back with terror and fell into an
evener pace.
Mart shouted violently—but the wolves WCre
either too keen or too many—it made no impres-
sion. It was an awful time both for master
and horse. Mart kept his hand on the ani-
mal, while his eye watched the ferocious brutes,
who were often within arm's length. He had a
hatchet, which he always carried on these occasions,
to chop the frozen fish; he felt for it and grasped
it in his hand, but forbore to use it, for the closer
the wºlves kept at the back of the sledge, the less T
were they seen by the horse. Every minute, how-
ever, one or more of them broke out of the track in
the attempt to pass; and although they instantly
lost footing in the snow, yet the unblinkered eyes
of the little animal had caught sight of the dreaded
foe, and a plunge forward made Mart turn his eye
with anxiety to see that it kept straight in the nar-
row track.
One of the wolves was more than usually huge
and long-limbed, and more than once it had con-
trived, in spite of the deep snow, to advance nearer
abreast of the sledge than any of its companions.
Upon this grim creature Mart more especially kept
watch, and caught the green light which played
from its eyeballs. It turned off again—the snow
laid fleeter for a space—the wolf kept its footing—
it gained—for their pace is enormous—the little
horse's eye glared round at it. Mart withdrew his
hand, wet with the animal's perspiration; the wolf
was just beyond arm's reach, but he kept his
hatchet in readiness. The horse was now in des-
perate gallop, and the wolf just abreast—it sud-
denly turned sharp towards it—now was Mart's
time. He dealt a tremendous blow—the wolf
avoided it, but stumbled in the snow, and in a
moment was yards behind.
The distance from home was now quickly short:
ening beneath the horse's hoofs, which continued
to carry the sledge at full gallop, till the fear of an
overturn became a source of fresh anxiety. Mart
was quite aware by this time that these were no
common lazy wolves he had to deal with, but sharp:
set determined brutes, to whom man or beast would
be alike welcome. These were not the animals to
be deterred by the signs of man's dwelling, as is
usually the case, and there was an ugly wersto
wide open space between the outskirts of the forest
and his house, which he looked to with real appre-
hension.
They were now at the very edge of the wood-
the road became opener—the wolves gained on each
side—the horse bounded furiously forward, caught
the sledge against the stump of a tree—it overturned
—was swept away at a tremendous pace, and Mart
was left alone in the snow. In a moment a heavy
claw had slit the throat and down the front of his
sheepskin—it was well Anno's wrappers lay 50
thick beneath. He threw off the brute and rose-
his hatchet had been jerked out of his hand in the
fall—he cast a desperate glance around, but saw iſ
not. The horse was now almost out of sight, two
of the wolves were close to the defenceless man,
and the two others, deserting the animal, were
bounding back to him. Mart faced the foremost,
he could do no more, and in an instant was sur
rounded.
Here we must leave him, however cruel it may
seem. Meanwhile the two women were as usuſ'
expecting him anxiously at home—ſor Mart wº
late. Anno was sitting beneath the pine-woo
candle at the spinning-wheel. Liso had risen frº
hers and gone into the smaller chamber, especially
devoted to her. Old Karria Pois was lying befor;
the stove fast asleep. Of a sudden the dog pricke
up his ears, listened, rose-ran to the door aſ
whined—then. returning to Anno, wagged his tail,
ran back and whining again, scratched at the doo"
Karria Pois usually gave signal of Mart's approach:
though not in so urgent a way, and Anno open"
the door expecting to see her husband. The dº
dashed furiously out, but no sign of Mart appeared:
he young wife went out into the piercing air
saw and heard nothing, and was slowly turning ſº
when a sound caught her ear—it was the sound 9
hoofs striking full and sharp upon the frozen group".
So had Mari never approached before. But thº.
was no time for wonder, for the next moment t
horse galloped up to the door and stopped. An”
THE DISPONENT.
125
*y instantly that something had happened—the
*imal was dripping with foam and trembling all
§ºr-the sledge was reversed, and, above all, Mart
Was not there.
mno was but the girl still ; she called quick to
* grandmother—the old woman did not answer—
* flew into the inner room; Liso was standing
#9tionless with her face turned from the door.
*e was no light, save from the little snowed-up
"dow; but Anno saw enough to know that she
*od in prayer. “Oh! Jummalſ'' (God) said
the poor girl to herself, “hear her?” and leaving
* undisturbed, she ran again out of the house,
§ºe.9ne look at the trembling horse, and then, all
"mbling herself, began to retrace the jagged track
"Which it had come.
l !e must now return to Mart, whom we have
eft in a frightful position. He knew what it was
* Put forth his strength in games and wrestling-
*ches, and it was such as shoulder to shoulder
*" muscle to muscle, few could withstand. But it
§º as nothing now against the heavyweight—the
.*like teeth—the rending grasp that held him
ºn on every side. For a few seconds the despe-
º Violence of a man to whom life is sweet, and
º , a death most horrible, shook off the pitiless
*ilants; but his own blood had dyed the snow,
§ the sight of it seemed to turn ferocity into fury.
* blood-hounds closed again upon him—they
Pulled him down:
da eople say there is no time to think in sudden
. :—they have never known one. There are
ººthoughts struck from the mind in one moment's
"slon with sudden and desperate peril than in
º of fearless security. The sweets of this earth
ii. * home that lay so near—the mystery of
*Yen, swept over poor Mart's mind; nay, even
*ticulars found time to intrude. He thought how
h "no, and Liso would watch through the night—
... his mangled remains would tell all in the
ºming—Anno's despair—the village lament: he
*ght of all this, and more, and knew himself in
º ºws of hungry wolves!. Then those foul lurid
i. glared over him; the tightening of the throat
‘’Wed, and thinking was over. Still he struggled
Sease his arms—the grasp on the throat was
Su jºin; him—his senses reeled—when on a
°n-dash came another animal hard-breathing
{l - - - º
i.;; threw itself into the midst with one sharp
W. and fastened upon the chief assailant. The
j" relaxed their fury for an instant; Mart
dog fºly to his feet, and recognized his brave
dered, or a second he stood stunned and bewil;
...When he saw one wolf retreating, and ill
turn dºing the dauntless, Karria Pois. He
*...to help him, and a bright object caught his
;..." was his hatchet lying on the snow within
up ..ºngth of his last struggle. Mart snatched it
i. was now himself again. Blood was drip-
uj. him, but his limbs were uninjured, and
º Were the strokes he dealt.
Cowe Wolf soon law dead at his feet; the other
and he *nd retreated, spilling its blood as it went,
ed hij. skulking round; and now Mart, pour-
§º. e fury on the great monster, which held
is mast 9ts in as stifling a grasp as he had done
6 im. It was no easy task to release the dog.
ribs, a i %t rung on the wolf's skull, rattled on his
's . laid bare the gaunt backbone; but the
the w * body interrupted any mortal wound, and
* seemed to feel no other. Poor Karria
** was desperate; his legs were all drawn
t ois' C
Oge º
gether, Protecting the very parts he sought to
|
wound, when suddenly he stretched himself out
with some fresh agony, and the hatchet was buried
deep in the wolf's throat. Many more fierce
strokes were needed before life was extinct; and
as Mart rose, a hand on his shoulder startled him,
and his wife fell on his bosom.
“ Mart '''
“ Anno ''' ---
Long did the young, couple stand in speechless
embrace; but the weaker supported the stronger;
for Mart's manly nerve was gone, and he leant on
Anno like a strengthless child.
“Mart, Mart! Oh! you are safe—dear Mart 1"
For all answer, Mart pressed her closer.
“But what is here 1* for her hand which laid
on his shoulder was wet with a warm clammy sub-
stance, and there was light enough to see that dark
stain which nothing else is like. +
“Mart! you are hurt—you are bleeding !” and
going back a step, she saw for the first time her
husband's condition. The two dead wolves—the
gasping dog—the bloody and furrowed snow ! and
the full and dreadful truth came upon her and she
burst into passionate sobs.
In truth Mart presented a frightful aspect; his
sheepskin hung in strips, for each claw had cut
it like a knife; his shoulder was bare, not only
to the flesh, but to the bone; his long hair was
dishevelled; every article of clothing was torn and
awry. It was too evident that some dreadful
struggle had taken place, and Anno now saw with
what.
It was now Mart's turn to support; his strength
was returned, and with it his unflagging sweet-
IlêSS.
“Anno' Einokenne? Anno pai don't cry so;
I am safe and well, only a few scratches on my
skin : you 'll have to patch me up as well as my
clothes. Let's attend to poor Karria Pois—nobody
but you could have made me forget him—I fear he
is more hurt than his master.”
And the young couple leant over him and ten-
derly examined his wounds. Then with many
tears Anno related how in the deepest sleep the
faithful old dog had seemed to receive tidings of his
master's danger; and Mart described how he had
reached his side when his need was at the greatest
—though he did not say how great that need had
been—but Anno knew ; and then both caressed
him more and more.
There was life in the old dog yet, and more than
they had ventured at first to expect; his throat was
lacerated, his ear torm through, and many a bite
and a rent had he on his body, but he licked the
hands that felt his wounds, and, rising on his feet,
shook a shower of blood from him. Then he de-
liberately smelt first at one wolf's carcass and then
at the other, to ascertain that all was right, and
having done this, hobbled off towards home as if
he felt he was no further required. -
“Come home, Mart; can you walk!” said
Anno.
“Yes, yes, as well as ever; but I have not done
with these grey men yet (this being a common ap-
pellation for the wolves by the peasantry;) the
night's work is worth two silver rubles to me; the
rest of the brutes will be down their companions'
throats before the morning ;” and so saying he cut
off the ears, by which token the Lettish peasant is
entitled to a reward in money on showing it to a
magistrate.
Mart was soon seated in his own warm house,
waited on by his two tender companions, who ex-
| ??
126
THE - DISPONENT.
amined his wounds and injuries with alternate hor-
ror and gratitude.
“You were praying for me, grandmother, Anno
tells me, when she left the house;—God heard you.
Never say again that you and old Karria Pois are
of no use ; you two have saved my life.”
These words were more than the venerable pa-
rent could bear with composure; and she turned
away to lift up her heart again.
“All have been of use to-night,” said Anno in
a low tone ; “grandmother, Karria Pois, even the
poor horse; only I have done nothing.”
“You are my own Einokenne,” said Mart, lower
still, and leant his weary head against her.
“Now, Anno, pai! go and wash Karria Pois
too.” This was done, and soon master and dog
were deep in slumber.
CIIAPTER IX.
This encounter put an end to Mart's journeys for
the present; not but what he speedily recovered
from it, but it proved the prelude to further aggres-
sions from the same animal, though not of so peril-
ous a kind. The wolf does not often attack man,
except when flung helplessly before him, as Mart had
been. It is the tenants of the farmyard, and not
of the farmhouse, they seek. Scarcely a night
now clapsed without a calf, foal, sheep, or even
some poor famished cow or horse falling a victim—
the dilapidated state of the buildings which housed
the miserable animals, affording but too easy an
entry. In vain did Mart urge the expenditure of a
little hearty labor to make fast those which re-
mained.
“What will you do,” he said to the Brautwer-
ber, “in the summer, when you want your calf to
sell, and your colt to work!”
Juhann shook his head.
“The summer will never come for me,” he
said ; and then looked down at his attenuated hands
and arms, which seemed little able to wield an axe.
Mart mended his cow-shed for him and for others
besides.
But he was not satisfied with merely keeping the
enemy out. Accompanied by a few of the hardiest
and least superstitious of the peasants, and furnish-
ed with dogs and weapons, Mart headed several
expeditions in search of the ravenous, animals,
tracking them by footmarks left but a few hours
before, or by the fresh blood-drops of some recent
prey which accompanied them. . *
We mention the least superstitious of the peas-
ants as most disposed to follow Mart, because with
many it is a rooted belief that the destruction of
one wolf only increases the rangor of his compan-
ions. In cases where the traveller is hard pressed
to escape from a pack of them, there is no doubt
that the fall of one wolf, and the consequent taste
of his blood, increases tenfold the voracity of the
rest; but when the farmyard suffers from nightly
invasion, it stands to reason that there is no help
but to attack the invader.
Mart, however, met with much opposition in the
matter; his companions lagged away, or came un-
willingly, and very few besides himself and the
dogs thoroughly entered into the spirit of the chace.
As for the dogs, they seemed to consider it as a
happy opportunity for paying off many an old
score, and it was difficult to call them back from a
pursuit which, when, once separated from their
companions, could only lead to their destruction.
Between dog and wolf there exists a natural hatred,
which the one exhibits in an open tear-throat ani-
mosity, and the other in a relentless cunning. The
wolf feigns flight to lead his victim on ; he imitates
the whine of a dog to deceive him, and when the
stratagems have led the courageous animal beyond
protection, his doom is sealed.
Two or three fine young dogs thus fell a sacrifice
to their rashness and inexperience, but Mart suffered
no anxiety for Karria Pois; he was the first to
show his disapproval of any unnecessary valor, and
to give the example of readiness in the retreat, as
much as of courage in the onset : otherwise the
expeditions were generally successful; one or more
pair of ears, or, if a young wolf, the skin, being
the usual trophies they returned with ; and then
Mart had regularly to incur a long journey in order
to claim the reward adjudged by law : for the Ha-
kenrichter we have described was not likely to have
any more of his visits, and the other nearest mag-
istrate lived twenty-four wersts off.
By these and other means did Mart persevere in
maintaining his own household, and helping many
another. But it was heart-breaking work as the
spring slowly advanced; for, to the hardship of bad
and insufficient nourishment were now added the
eſſects of it, and coffin after coffin found its way to
the dead-house in the churchyard, there to await
the softening of the earth that was to receive it.
The child not yet firm on its feet, the aged totter-
ing on theirs, went first, and light were the coffins,
as the poor Brautwerber had said they would be.
Old Tonno was the first to bring death into
Mart's doors. The charge of him and his few re-
maining stock had been added to Mart's other
cares, and indeed ever since the marriage of his
daughter both Mart and Anno had contributed the
work of their hands to supply his need and comfort.
One Sunday he was missing from his seat in church,
and that same afternoon Anno and Mart found the
old man drooping at home, and, each walking by
ºlºgº, brought him tenderly under their own
IOOI.
There is something infinitely more touching, in
some senses, in the death of the lowest beggar,
than in that of the highest potentate upon earth.
The little they have to renounce speaks so bitterly
of the little they have enjoyed. There may be a
sad moral to the human heart in their love of life,
but there is a keen reproach in their indifference to
it. Tonno had never had any philosophy, and not
much religion, as far as was apparent. IIe had
been a complainer all his life, very obstinate and
rather sullen; but from the moment the hand of
death was upon him he showed himself gentle,
cheerful, and communicative, bestowed words often-
derness upon his daughter, and wholesome manly
advice upon Mart. It had been remarked of him
by many of his companions and contemporaries on
the few occasions of festivity which had enlivened
poor Tonno's life, that he always came out in very
different colors from those he usually exhibited.
Whether this was attributable to the warming in-
fluence of the liquids usually circulated on such
occasions, mattered not ; if this was intoxication,
nobody wished to see him sober, for Tonno was
never so likeable under any other aspect. It seem-
ed always as if he wanted to forget his cares, to be
himself.
But a deeper reason, though one we can little
understand, lay beneath; for the approach of death
had the same effect. It appeared as if he had
thrown off a weight, or knew himself so near tho
time for doing so, that he no longer felt the bur-
then. He had not a regret for the past, nor an ap-
THE DISPONENT.
127
Prehension for the future. The pastor came and
lºyed with him. Tonno assented to all, especial-
| ºthe sorrows and trials of this life, and the in-
*ly superior nature of that which was to come;
º for faith of a higher sort there seemed no room
Il . old man's mysterious mind. There was
. ºng for it to do; no doubts to overcome ; no
§§ts to subdue.
to..." pastor, was accustomed to see odd exhibi-
**, of the human character, among a race of
rºle whose lives veer between the elevation of a
*And the grossness of an animal. A clergy-
º from a different country might have been puz-
su 9r dismayed, but the good old man's ſervid faith
O ºliº that comfort which his poor-simple sheep
i. denied him. He knew their hardships, and
. and long-sufferings; he knew them to be
. and foolish, and mistrustful and suspicious of
O en, but he rarely knew them .."; vindictive,
... Perfidious, and never questioning God's provi-
*...* or doubting his word. He looked, therefore,
onno's sinking eye with mixed feelings; but
and faith were uppermost. As he left he ex-
lê sed a hope, as most kind-hearted people do, that
II. *ight find him better on his next visit. “No
. Pastor,” the dying man replied, “God seems
think that I have toiled and starved long enough :
So do I. So Jummal aga”—God be with
*3 and these were his last words.
Ot 9 ºur usual standard of reasoning his death was
Wi “difying, for the sources of that cheerfulness
* which he welcomed it were incomprehensible,
"," was unfeignedly touching.
grº." wept for him as a daughter, and Mart re-
. him with a sincerity which a few days be-
Th * could not have thought possible.
hiº next call upon Mart's sympathies was from
the ; friend. Mart's generous help had kept
had amily from starvation, but the seeds of death
fun long been sown. The Sunday after Tonno's
It ºl Mart carried a small light coffin to church.
aft **, Juhann's youngest child; and the Sunday
... that he assisted to liſt a larger and heavier
i. into the cart. It was his wife, Mart saw
...Placed by the side of her child in the mournful
ol. and as he looked at them, and then
hot "...at the numbers it already contained, he did
Pity them.
fri hen he came back and went in to comfort his
TICnd.
in . and the child were seated side by side,
...”ct silence, upon a bench before the stove,
Thé ; all appearance, had sat there for hours.
object ittle, pale, puny boy was always a touching
than . and now, in this atmosphere of woe, more so
Over i. The father's gloom seemed to have
S adowed it till it no longer loved the sun. It
paid. childish smiles nor ways; it was always
grow i *d,ºuict, and looked as if it would never
t tº y nor alter in mind.
Šat dow ificult to address a silent mourner, Mart
ki."ºnext his friend and took the child on his
monos l] º, said all he could, but extracted only
after º abic answers or none at all. At length,
will be Pause, he broke out : “This little fellow
|Ae tak d burden to you now ; you had better let
Then . him home—he will be well cared for.”
...” answered quick, “No, Mart, no!
all i. # go, nobody but you and your wife
We can '* ºn, but we II live together as long as
nee and §º aying, he took the boy off Mart's
side, and §ated him again, meek and quiet at his
'* Mart left the pair with a heavy heart.
love
Pres
Every fresh sight of Juhann only renewed those
feelings of pity for him and of dread for himself,
which Mart with difficulty kept under. This
thought was the besetting thorn in his path. He
looked at it until he could not bear it; he tried to
banish it, and found it too deeply rooted. It hung
over him like some evil prophecy. He felt that the
very determination to avoid ignominy was making
him fit for it. No violent word, no unjust task,
now provoked a common share of indignation from
Mart. The dread of that one possible dishonor
seemed to extinguish a better feeling than itself.
Mart was dissatisfied and out of tune; it was the
first poison in his life, for it undermined his self.
respect.
If we have not mentioned the Disponent, it is not
because he had at all abated in his rancorous perse-
cution. Not one word, look or action of Mart's had
been overlooked; he only bided his time.
Mart's independence and generous help to others
all through the hard winter had been gall and bit-
terness to Ian's bad heart, and he now felt the
effects in being suddenly required to work four days
in the week at a large distillery recently erected on
the estate. At another time the young man would.
have complained, or remonstrated—for this was an
unjust imposition of labor—but he had learnt wis-
dom, or rather, what he hated, cunning, and, hoping
that a few weeks’ work and patience would release
him, he submitted without a word.
But this employment brought him into frequent
contact with his enemy, and the perpetual chaſe upon
his temper was too much. Mart was not one of
those pieces of perfection which look down serenely
on trials they do not feel. No! he was generous
and quick, and could not have been the one without
the other. He was irritated, wanted to be angry,
and dared not; and the feelings became bitter and
peevish, held in, which would have been manly and
noble let out. For anger is a true thing, and it is
not because it is wrong in us, but because it is
too good for them, that we repress it either to the
rogue or the fool, and then a worse feeling takes
its place.
Mart grew gloomy. He could not be cross to
Anno ; she was too dependent on him; but more
than once was his head bowed into his grandmo-
ther's lap in sorrow for a hasty word, which he
repented the more for knowing it to be so in-
stantly forgiven.
“Oh! grandmother,” he said, “if I lose hope,
I shall go down as many a better man has done
before me. And I am losing it already.”
But worse was to come for poor Mart, and a
heavy day it was, when the Disponent informed
him that he must move in a month into old Tonno's
forsaken tenement; for that he wanted to put
somebody else into his. Mart bore this on his heart
for two days, for he had learned to brood; but then
the mist before his better nature gave way and he
unburdened his heart to Anno and Liso, and com-
ſorted them by allowing them to comfort him.
Mart knew that the change was illegal—that no
little hereditary tenant could be moved without
full consent or full compensation; but to whom
could he complain! The pastor he had forborne to
trouble with his cares, for the old man's spirits
were failing with the misery around him. But he
went to him now and simply told his tale. Tho
pastor looked up into Mart's open face, and sighed
as he saw how much care and want had sharpened
it in the last three months.
“Don’t despair, Mart,” he said; “I have been
128
THE DISPONENT.
young and now am, old; yet never saw I the
righteous forsaken. God has tried you, but he has
your cares and trials have laid at my heart, and now
that I am leaving you encompassed with them, He
also blessed you much this sad winter. I know how
you have helped your neighbors. Take my word,
you won’t be forsaken ; only keep up a trusting and
a patient heart. I would say the same, could I
help you as I wish I could; for Mart, believe me,
it is as sore a trial for me to see all this going on, and
not be able to prevent it, as it can be to you to
leave your father's home;” and the tears started
into the old man's eyes.
“If the young baron were but here, I could
do much, for I know he has a kind and humane
heart,” said the old man, thinking aloud; “such a
good face too.”
Mart asked when he was expected to return.
“Ah Mart, that I don’t know. He likes for-
eign countries better than poor Livonia, and 1
don't much wonder at it,” he added with a heavy
sigh. The old man was low and sorrowful. Mart
thanked him, but determined in his heart not to
burthen him again with cares he could not mitigate.
Still he felt relieved, and, what he most needed,
raised in his own esteem. The pastor had spoken
of him with respect and praise, and he went home
in a glow of better feelings.
Poor fellow ! they were doomed to be sadly tried.
Old Liso was ill ! The aged frame had at length
given way. She had borne much, and º a little
more was needed to make that too much. The pros-
pect of leaving the house she had so long known sup-
plied this. She had not complained, and no one
would have guessed that the blow had struck so
hard ; nor had it; but it was sufficient to upset
what had been long tottering.
Our readers will have been surprised that no
medical man should have been summoned in these
various emergencies, but the nearest was sixty
wersts off, and, had he been but six, the maladies
of the distressed village were such as no mere medi-
cal advice could have much assisted. Wholesome
laws and just administrators of them, and a kind
and resident proprietor, were the medicine they
needed. For old Liso, however, nothing could
now have helped. She was past seventy years of
age, and among the poor Livonian peasants the
term beyond which all is vanity and vexation of
spirit commences much earlier.
All night her grandchildren watched, and as the
rising sun threw its cold beams full through Liso's
little dusky pane, Mart leaned over the humble bed
and saw that the look of life was fast departing.
The young peasant was alone with her whom he
loved with a less absorbing, though more rooted,
feeling than his wife, for he had never, known the
time when that feeling was not. The love for
Anno had made him know himself to be a man, that
for his grandmother had continued to keep him the
child; and as he stood looking at the dear familiar
face which had never had for him but that one
look of which we never tire, sweet memories and
gloomy forebodings rose together in his mind, and he
groaned aloud.
Lisa's failing senses responded to the sound.
She stretched forth both her withered hands to him.
“ Mart ! my son my son 1’’
Mart fairly gave way, “Oh grandmother,
grandmother!, how shall I live without you! You
are leaving mº, when I need you most. " I am sore
encompassed.”
Liso raised herself up. “My son listen to me.
If God were ever with me in this life, and he has
never failed—He is now. He knows how heavy
gives me a peace I never knew before. Oh such
peace ſ” and Liso paused for breath. “God can-
not lie. I am a poor wretched old creature, but He
cannot deceive me—He is not waiting till I am
gone to turn His back upon you. No, Mart; fear
not He will come to your help in his good time.
Man's extremity is God's opportunity. I speak
his thoughts—my own are gone.”
Liso said all this in broken sentences. Still
Mart held her hands in an agony of grief.
“Grandmother; I am weak and sinful. Man is
hard upon me—very hard ; and if God should hide
his face, only for a little season, I fear to fall.”
Liso withdrew her hands. With her last
strength she folded them together, and repeated in
a firm voice this verse from Isaiah—“And though
the Lord give you the bread of adversity, and the
water of affliction, yet shall not thy teachers be re-
moved into a corner. But thine eyes shall see thy
teachers, and thine ears shall hear a word behind
thee, saying, ‘This is the way—walk ye in it—
when ye turn to the right hand and when ye turn
to the left.’”
So died the good old Liso, and her death was
edifying, for the simplest heart could understand
what it was that blunted its sting !
CHAPTER X.
THE young people were now left alone, to feel
how much that pious old woman had been inter-
woven in every source of their happiness, even as
those which each believed they derived exclusively
from the other. Her loss, instead of drawing them
closer together, seemed for a while to interpose a
strangeness which neither could quite have account-
ed for. But the truth was, that Liso's age and ex-
perience, instead of making Anno appear younger
and more ignorant, had had the contrary effect.
The gentle time-worn matron and the timid inex-
perienced girl had blended so harmoniously to-
gether, that no one knew, till one was taken away,
where their characters met, or where they divided.
Then Mart found that he was left alone with one
who depended upon him more than he had known,
and Anno felt that she stood unassisted with a hus-
band who was accustomed to more than she had
given. But the blank, though painful, was right,
for Liso deserved to be most missed in that which
she had least displayed—in the importance she had
given to Anno, and in the influence she had exer-
cised over Mart. Her death too happened at a
time when this would be most felt; for Mart, occu-
pied with internal struggles, which none but his
venerable parent could have shared, was less open
than usual, and Anno, from that reason, thrown
more on herself, was more timid.
The death of Liso and the changes in Mart's oc-
cupation had occasioned a kind of interregnum in
which he had become comparatively unconscious
of the sufferings of his poor neighbors; and mean:
while those sufferings had become greater than
ever. The reader will weary of the monotony 0
our tale; but we tell it as it happened, and must
happen in a country where man’s laws help to
make nature's more unkind. The only variety in
a seven months' winter which begins in scarcity, 18
that it sets in famine. This was the case now.
The progress of the season told the truth only
plainer, Long and light days were come, and meſ;
could no longer burrow in their smoky dens aſ
sleep like animals; but came abroad with palli
THE DISPONENT. 129
iº and sunken limbs, and looked each other in
wº Strong, men had become nervous and
ba. and girls looked sharp and old—young
Tents gave no pleasure to their mothers—aged, pa-
w...” burthen to their children. There
j brutal selfishness to make you weep for
lng "man nature—but also some traits of touch-
~to ºtion—and where are these wholly absent!
sh.”. it. The orphan was taken in-the
had n beggar was fed—some were helped who
d 9 claim, and others were helped who could
‘...º no return.
the i. Spring was unusually protracted. It was
i.; of May before the mountains of snow
Would to diminish and the rivers to unlock; and it
Veget be yet a full month or six weeks before
8 jº would cover the earth, and relieve the
tle, º, peasant of the burthen of his starving cat-
of th his is especially the season which the poor
lºse countries can seldom, under any circum-
. weather without help-when the best
tºge: supplies begin to fail both for man and
woº. Pºintly bear long-too long for
ºbstai efall a country whose inhabitants learn to
... ºom, necessaries—and nºw a cry arose
g.”g them that the Bauer Klete, or peasants'
8 jº, to which each is compelled to contribute,
its con at length be opened to them. For what had
Ot t tents been wrung from them, if they were
tº: restored again in such an extremity!
ſect be an once, however, had a petition to this ef-
fused . made during the winter, but stoutly re-
$f cou y the Disponent, who held the keys—backed,
been *se, by the Hakenrichter. The stores had not
prºd for years; not, indeed, since the
Il Disponent had come into office.
tio."ºne following Sunday, therefore, a consulta-
chi. held among the chief peasants, after
ºined' to consider the matter; and it was deter-
Hake that a deputation should wait upon the
*{ichter to urge the petition—ostensibly be-
cau...was highest in authority, but really be-
baj”.ºost of them feared to approach the other
and . under whom the whole village groaned
Of ºld in misery. The pastor also approved
ants, º an. He himself, unknown to the peas-
§eived endeavored to negotiate for a supply, but
e... answer which warned him, for their
he felt lºt to appear on the present occasion. Also,
their ‘. at the petitioners carried that misery on
ºil.’ persons, which no further evidence was
urces º confirm. It was plain that if the re-
G wº the Bauer Klete were intended to relieve
the 9 had the double claim both of needing
hore i. having supplied them, that time was now
refs.” come. Mart was requested to join, but
&nd returned home.
foun °putation set out immediately. They
"ritten * Hakenrichter, and obtained from him a
unloc º *er for the doors of the Bauer Klete to be
fºlio am. and its contents distributed in certain
lage i. "g them. Great was the joy of the vil-
his jºlt. The next morning they presented
look. per of happy promise to the Disponent. He
*ºlently at them—put his hand into his
*, and pull p
§y-bu. ed out—not the keys of the gran-
H alº.ºther similar piece of paper from the
h, in j ºintermanding the first. The simple
ºrked th ºlign of their hearts, had not re-
Hakº.; is they came out of one door of the
*nother i. house, the Disponent went in at
Suade ºf t *it cost him but little trouble to per
lat worthy dignitary that he had been, what
his vanity most abhorred, and yet invariably in-
curred, viz., grossly imposed upon.
The village was now in a ferment. The resent-
ment of many was very loud and very safe. Men
and women scolded together in a perfect babel of
voices, and uttered big threats which were spent in
the utterance; but a few there were who said but
little, and that little not loud—and these were spir-
its not to be trifled with.
Mart kept aloof from the whole matter. No one
could say that he ever shunned danger or refused
help, but he could do nothing here but embroil him-
self, and his spirit was quenched as he went about
his unjust labor with a feeling which was some-
times patience, but oftener desperation.
Meanwhile it had become a matter of difficult
how to maintain even his own reduced household,
and ever since Mart's time had been thus taken
from him, Anno, originally at Liso's suggestion,
had endeavored to employ her own more profitably.
The good grandmother had to the last spun a finer
thread than any other woman in the parish, and,
from her, Anno had learnt many a notable little
manufacture which finds favor among the higher
classes. These she would either commission a
neighbor bound for a distant expedition to dispose
of for her, or herself, accompanied by a girl from
the village, take a day-long walk and sell them at
such houses as she could reach.
Mart had known his wife in such safe keeping
with his grandmother and his thoughts had been so
much distracted with other anxieties, that he had
relaxed the vigilance with which he had at first in-
tercepted all º: on the part of the Disponent
to approach her. What attempts he had made too
—Anno had carefully concealed. She had not told
Mart that he had more than once followed her with
bad artful words; and that she had always, since
that, made a circuit in order to avoid his windows
—nor that he had once since the death of Liso, and
during the absence of Mart, dared to enter the
house, and that she had hidden herself in the empty
meal-box till he was gone. Anno was enough of
the woman to feel the utmost dread of the villain,
and to use every stratagem to avoid him, but too
much of the child to take the right means of seek-
ing protection.
The waters had now subsided, and there were
those few days of suspense in nature when the
earth, as if just emerged from a chrysalis covering,
lies motionless beneath the fresh warmth and light,
waiting for strength to expand its wings. Anno had
been out the whole day on one of her lace-selling
expeditions, and Mart had returned home earlier
than usual from the distillery. He found the house
at Sellenkūll deserted, and expecting Anno every
instant, who was more than commonly late, he set
off walking to meet her. º
Anno had gone alone this time without Mart's
knowledge, for it was an understood thing that he
forbade her ever venturing unaccompanied: . But
habit had made her bolder. The interval of thaw,
when no one can stir, had reduced their meal, and f
increased her stock of lace; and though her usual
companion could not go with her, yet she thought
the day too fine to be lost. The walk was very far,
but quite successful, and she retraced her steps
homeward with a light heart. She took the usual
détour to avoid the Disponent's windows; but as
she emerged again on the road between his house
and the Hof, she observed that a man's figure was
following. She walked quick—the man gained
upon her. Like a frightened hare she ran, and he
130
THE DISPONENT.
ran too. . Anno relied upon finding some workmen
among the farming buildings that surrounded the
great house, but the same reason that had released
Mart earlier had also sent them all home. Not a
soul was there. The buildings stood confusedly
together. She turned a corner, was out of sight
of her pursuer for a moment, and dashing through
an open doorway into a kind of wood-house, hid
herself among the loose timbers and logs.
She heard the steps pass by—drew herself deep-
er and deeper into her place of concealment, and
shifted the boards noiselessly till they covered her
more effectually. After some minutes the foot-
steps approached again—Anno's heart beat visibly
through her woolen jacket;-they entered the
house—searched on all sides—moved some of the
wood till it fell roughly upon her—had it broken a
limb she would not have uttered a sound—and after
keeping her on the stretch of terror for minutes
longer than ever minutes were before, a coarse
voice she knew too well uttered an oath, and the
steps left the building. Anno remained without
movement; listening breathless to every sound.
There was perfect silence. Once again she heard
the steps—then again they ceased.
Anno waited and waited there in her constrained
position till an hour seemed to have elapsed. Then
cautiously and by degrees, she crept forward,
moved every impediment with as much fear and
precaution as if she had been a culprit escaping
from prison, and at length stood free. With the
instinct of self-defence she took up a log of wood
cut ready for firing. With this in her hand she
stealthily cnerged—looked to right and to left, and
was just going to plunge into the wide world before
her, when the door of the wood-house, which had
laid back apparently against the wall, was flung
forward, and the Disponent seized her by the arm.
Anno screamed !—a shrill scream which echoed
through the buildings.
“Yes! you may scream,” said Ian insolently;
“there is no one to hear. I have caught you
now !” and then changing his tone,
“So you were stealing the wood—were you?
taken in the fact: come you home with me,” and
he dragged her along. The poor girl screamed,
and wept, and struggled, and *...i. Tho Dis-
ponent only dragged her the faster. All of a sud-
den, as if an angel from heaven had swept down
to her rescue, there came a sound of rushing steps
and hard-pent indignant breath, and in a moment
Mart's strong fist grasped the Disponent's collar.
“ Wretch! Willain l’” said the young peasant—
his lips quivering with fury. “ Let go my wife—
this moment—let her go.'.
The Disponent turned like a savage ; he let go
Anno, and at the same time aimed a blow at Mart's
face. The young man warded it off.
“She is a thief,” said Ian. *
“You lie,” said Mart, and shook him fiercely.
Then the Disponent called her something worse.
Mart rolled his eyes wildly around him; Snatched
the billet of wood which remained unconsciously in
Anno's grasp, and still holding his enemy by the
collar, poured blow after blow upon his shoulders.
Ian was a great muscular man, and he struggled
and fought tremendously; but the pent-up flood
had burst—Mart's fury had become frenzy, and his
strength was as that of a maniac. He ceased not
till it was spent, and then flinging the wretch from
him, who staggered upon his feet, he threw the
billet after him.
“There! come near my wife again, if you
dare.”
“Hurrah l’” said a voice behind him. “ Hur-
rah! Mart—well done º’’ and the Brautwerberstood
a few paces from the scene.
The Disponent turned round, gnashed his teeth,
and shook his fist. “You shall both smart for
this,” he said, and hobbled away.
Not a word was spoken as the couple returned to
Sellenküll. Mart knew well what he had done,
but also knew that, had every punishment and tor-
ture which the malice of a Russian can devise, been
the penalty, he could not and would not have done
otherwise. He might rue the deed, but he could
never repent it. That evil he most dreaded, and
the fear of which had so long disturbed his peace,
might come upon him ; he was more at peace with
himself than he had been for months. Alas! he
knew not how soon it would again depart from
him
The next morning he went to work as usual ;
and before he returned in the evening, knew that
he was sentenced to the utmost penalty which Li-
vonian landholders are permitted to inflict on their
peasants—that being the utmost human strength
can bear—in other words, to receive forty blows
from a club.
. The Brautwerber was to receive twenty, as a par-
ticipator in intent, if not in deed—the sentence to be
carried into effect three days from this time, in a
place most exposed to view in the village.
It is painful now to look into that house at
Sellenküll, so long the residence of peace, happi-
ness, and piety. Anno had wept till she was
weary. Never before had she known such a
weight of woe. Sorrow, dread, and bitter remorse
distracted her by turns. She dared not speak to
her husband, and when she did lift up her eyes to
his face she saw an expression which smote her heart
worse than all beside. It was not of unkindness
towards herself—that would have been a relief-
she would have lowered herself to the dust before
him ; but it was a hard, stern, rebellious look, that
restrained all anger—suffered no sympathy, and
was laying waste all that was good and tender with-
in. His short-lived peace was gone. It supported
him in the moment of triumph, but failed before
the approach of degradation. Anno watched for a
moment to relieve her full heart, and soften his—to
ease her heavy weight by helping to bear his; but
it came not, and she had no strength whilst he had
a wrong one. For Mart went on doggedly with
his stated employments, as if while he kept up the
outer mechanism of his life as usual, no one should
dare to question what was passing within. Deep
commiseration have we with those whose duty is
appointed to break the hard heart before they can
make way for the comfort they long to give it.
Few have the courage or the power—and poor
Anno had not.
“Oh that Liso had been alive she would have
known how to reach his heart; but I, wretched
that I am, have brought all this misery upon him,
and now cannot help him to bear it.” nd thus
the poor girl lamented, while Mart again went forth
silent to his labor.
Meanwhile the ferment in the village had ap-
parently subsided; but we have said there were a
few spirits, deep but not loud, who were not to be
trifled with. These had laid a plan, and now kept
it. And early in that same day the Bauer Klete
was broken open and forcibly entered.
THE DISPONENT.
131
It 10ds empty !
... Was at his work in the distillery. He had
..º. in heating a huge vat sunk into the
stoodi. and rising about four feet above it, which
the .." a kind of open shed, and was now filling
Klete . with steam. The road from the Bauer
lre º Past the distillery. As he replenished the
On an. ich was reached from a cavity in the earth
iº. side, a party of peasants came up. Their
illen * language were those of injured reckless
brok. hey were the same party who had just
the "...ºpen the granary. Mart asked them why
© § were not at work, for their labor lay in a per-
.. 9pposite direction; and they told him in a
ai." ºneaning words what it was they had been
i.". The men were desperate, and they spoke
d kindred spirit.
look ". moment the Disponent came up. He
and *Into the boiling vat, and down into the fire,
lay *dered Mart to bring more wood. The wood
!", another shed about fifty yards off. Mart
}. but lingered, and looked behind. The
:*ponent º: ** **, re-lz
With vi was ordering the men off to their work
iolent gestures. Many voices answered;
* voice, higher that the rest, told him that he
i.e. the granary: and he in return swore at
selves and told them they had stolen the corn them-
again. Mart went on a step, and looked back
th. s here was a scuffle—men struggling—
then º obscured the scene for an instant:
midst “...saw again. The Disponent was in the
9f them;-he was off his feet—and oh!
heaven! they were forcing him into the
Wat
Od of
boiling
{{ i. lººp. whispered at Mart's injured heart,
resisted lm die.” The heart listened, leapt, and
of t 94. Swift as a thought he was in the centre
ion. struggle. The wretched man was almost
ing t * over the edge of the vat ; his hands cling-
his i.º brazen rim, as if they should sever from
in the y sooner than quit hold; his teeth clenched
forth i. of a stout thickset man, who was putting
Ponen º whole strength, his head against the Dis-
Peasa . body, to heave him in. It was the same
º who had drawn first at the recruiting time.
the ha Were º up his legs; one was beating
forcin ºlds, to make them let gº; another was
teet § back the head, which still cling by the
over H. another moment he must have been
when th is strength was marvellous, but fruitless;
and M * strength of another came to his succor,
Own º s iron grasp was over all. He tore him
den, a º feet again; for his onset had been sud-
s º the force often men, or rather of a right-
wo. was in him, “Maddis —brethrenº–
devil º be murderers? Let the villain live! The
in. five his own soon enough.” The men
their . | “d their hold. The Disponent stood in
clothes l Sº with bleeding face and hands, and torn
Withicſ then they opened the way for him, and
Ilê i. and hootings drove him from the shed.
blood º a look of diabolical intent—clenched his
ºil.’’ 1St at them—mounted his horse with diffi-
in...he animal about the head, till it broke
of t ºus gallop, and went off in the direction
º Hakenrichter.
pe.' "º left the shed till the men had dis-
Speak to ° was too proud and too generous to
Would i. . them of what had happened. He
9f praise **ºn ashamed to have received a word
he knew ''. tº have heard a word of contrition, for
been. ow hard and desperate his own heart had
His thoughts were bewildered; the dreadful
struggle that had just passed before him—the vio-
lent passions he had witnessed and felt, suspended
for a while the sense of what had been and what
was to come. But as these gradually subsided, the
punishment that awaited him seemed for the first
time to fall on his spirit with its whole fearful reali-
ty. Till now he had had something within him
stronger even than the dread of degradation—the pride
of a rebellious heart; now that had given way, and
Mart's punishment was to take place on the mor-
row !
He stood on the same spot where the battle for
life and death had just been fought; and he knew
how great was his misery, for he could have wel-
comed the death the other had escaped; nay, he
felt for a moment as if he could have sought it.
We have no right to search further into the feel-
ings of the much-tried man. There are secret pas-
sions in each nature hidden even to our own knowl-
edge, till some circumstance out of the course of
that nature calls them forth, either to be crushed
in their birth or to live to our destruction. The
common foes and the common trials of this life are
the only fair tests by which a good man should be
judged, and not a monstrous conjuration of adver-
sity, long the terror of his imagination, and now Sud-
denly realized to his senses, like this which hung
over poor Mart. It was a moral phantom before
which the ordinary strength and courage of a man
may quail, without any reproach to his manliness or
to his religious principles. -
Meanwhile the change seemed to affect body as
well as mind. The strong hands trembled; the
muscular limbs refused to put forth their power. It
was well the Disponent did not return as usual, for
Mart could not work. He wore out the day as he
had never worn out one before, not even with the
terrors of the recruitage before him, and set off for
home earlier than usual.
Mart and the Brautwerber had not met since their
respective sentences had reached them. At first he
had purposely kept aloof... Now he felt as if he
would gladly have looked him in the face—or seen
him, himself unseen—though to exchange a Word
on the subject nearest each heart he felt would be
beyond his power, and, upon any other, a kind of
mockery. ". he mused thus he saw the two
well known figures approaching—the stooping
father and the puny child. Mart stood irresolute
what to do, but Juhann decided the matter; as he
drew near he crossed to the other side of the road,
averting his face. Mart saw that he, avoided him.
He stood looking after his poor friend with a bleed-
ing heart. The figure had something, so jºyless
and hopeless in it; yet he walked quickly, almost
wildly so, till the little feet ran unequally at his
side.
That evening the husband, and wife mingled
their sorrow. Mart's heart had thrown off all dis-
guise and restraint. He permitted sympathy; he
asked advice; he begged forgiveness; he showed
despair. Anno had never Seen him thus utterly
prostrate in spirit before, and it seemed to advance
her years in thought and courage. He told her,
for his heart could keep nothing on it, of the dread.
ful scene of the morning ; how nearly murder had
been committed amongst them, and of the tempta-
tion he had felt to permit it. And Anno listened
with kindling eyes.
“Oh, Mart!, surely he must let you off now.
You saved his life '''
Mart shook his head.
132
THE DISponENT.
“Is he a man like other men, Anno 1 No; he
is a Disponent : neither mercy nor gratitude was
ever known to him. No, no—those poor fellows
will suffer next. Oh, God! what shall we all do.”
Then changing his tone with a bitterness quite for-
eign to his nature: “I see how it will all be,
Anno ; to-morrow ;” and he shut his eyes as
if to exclude the picture. “Next week we turn
out of our house, and next autumn I shall be taken
for a recruit: that will be the end of us:” and he
walked up and down in a state of mind sad and fear-
ful to witness.
That night Anno was kept awake with many
thoughts. Mart had not slept since his sentence
had reached him. She heard his deep sighs and
restless movements during the first watches of the
night; then he fell into a deep slumber: but his
little wife never closed her eyes.
CHAPTER -XI.
MART slept sound and late, and the sun was far
higher in the heavens than usual when he arose.
It was not a distillery day: that was why Anno
had not waked him ; but he knew what day it was,
and the mind resumed its weight instantly, and felt
it the heavier for the short respite it had enjoyed.
Anno was not in the house; she was doubtless with-
out, for the door stood wide open, and let in a gleam
of sunshine. Then Mart heard a step. He turned
to look for her, but a smaller shadow darkened the
threshold, and Juhann’s little boy entered. Mart
looked at the child with surprise.
“Where's your father?”
“Gone back again,” said the little meek voice.
“But what are you come for, little Juhann?”
“Father told me to come. He brought me, but
not all the way; I walked alone from the bridge:”
and the little fellow said this with great satis-
faction.
Mart did not know what to make of all this. He
called Anno, but no answer came. He looked round
the house—’t was evident she had left it.
He then questioned the child again, but little
pale Juhann never wavered from his tale—his
father had brought him part of the way, and gone
home again. He had bid him come on straight to
Mart's house, and tell him he had sent him. The
child carried a little dirty bundle. Mart looked into
it: it contained a few squalid articles of Livonian
childhood's attire, Mart's mind misgave him with
an undefined fear. He stood undecided for an
instant; then he took out bread and milk, and gave
it to the child; told him not to leave the house;
gave him in charge to Karria Pois, who perfectly
understood the commission and laid down at the
open door; and then set off quickly for the Braut-
werber's dwelling. Anno's absence puzzled him,
but he did not think of that now. tº º
It was a most exquisite morning, combining the
freshness of dawn with the brightness of noonday;
and both acting upon the hidden treasures of the
earth with the resistless force and wondrous speed
9f a northern spring. All vegetable life was obey-
ing the call. The grass leapt up at once from its
brown bed into soft straight spikes hardly steady on
their feet. The tender swollen buds of the shrubs
and deciduous, trees throw open leaf after leaf,
crowding one before the other, till the innermost
saw the light; and the coarse rinds and tough barks
of the hardier fir and pine tribes began to move with
an inner life, and broke out into joyous stirring
sounds, as if thankful to emancipate what they had
so long and tightly covered.
|
|
It was fortunate our poor Mart was not given tº
moralizing, or the joyousness of all around might
have sharpened the despondency within. Still hº
felt something of this, though indistinctly, as hiº
eyes saw the fresh verdure and his nostrils breathe
the balmy air, and his heart carried a heavy load!
A vague sense of foreboding urged him on, and hº
quickened his steps till he came within sight of
Juhann's house. It lay in full sunshine; all stil
and peaceful around it. Mart stood at the thresh"
old and looked in at the first chamber. No on”
was there. He called: no one answered. He
went through into the inner room, and more tha"
his worst fears were at once realized—Juhann's
body hung lifeless behind the door
he body was warm as in life, though perfectly
dead. Mart girded up his feelings with a strong
will; took it down: laid it on the wretched bed,
and covered up the face he shuddered to look oſ',
Then he cast himself on his knees beside it, aſ
first came groans of anguish, and then bitter tearé,
as the young man poured forth his oppressed aſ
afflicted soul in fervent prayer to his Maker. The
tyranny he had struggled under had now borne it”
worst fruit. The oppressor had now doubly sinned
in himself and in his victim. For who could arraig'
that mute helpless clay for the act that had made"
so Mart knew that the soul of his poor friendswº
guiltless of its own enfranchisement. He knew
that the guardian spirit must have deserted ſº
sacred temple, ere the pious, patient sufferer wou
have lifted a hand to demolish it. But he he ha
murmured against the will of the Most High with *
clear reason and a sound understanding; and *
the recollection of his own proud and rebelliouº
spirit rose up before him, he felt that his crime wº
far the heavier of the two. It was true he wº
called upon to bear what he had most dreaded"
encounter, and most prayed to be spared; but wº
there not One who had given His cheek to tº
scorners, and His shoulders to the smiters! In Iº
strength would he take up his cross and follow Hirº.
. though his spirit might recoil, it should no long”
rebel.
Long did the young man remain prostrate beſ.”
the remains of the friend he had loved so wellº
then he arose with a broken and a contrite hea"
and gazed mournfully upon them. The body lay
there so weary and worn out, as if life had be".
one perpetual task, and death its first moment."
case. To all the springs of joy and hope it hº
died years before, and , the mortal machine lº.
pressed heavy on the spirit without them. Thº.
limbs had never been eased of their toil by one el.
tic bound of the mind; and what human limbs wº
not give way, thus left to labor alone! :,1st
Poor Juhann Mart’s surmises were his i.
due. The recurrence of the same sentence tº
had first broken his spirit had now finally overtº.w
it. His reason, which the long settled melanch" d
of years had been insensibly undermining, ".
begun to waver on her seat from the moment h 3
had received the tidings of his punishment; and a
the time for its accomplishment drew nigh, ".
finally left him a prey to the wild suggestions.".
disordered mind. Yet it is a sweet though sad les
Son in the sorrowful page of human infirmity,
know that in all the perversions and distortions º:
the poor mental machine, thus left to its own " g
rule, the love for his child kept true to its p ".
He had deliberately brought the child to his frie" h6
house; he had consciously left it there with t
conviction that that friend would redeem his trº"
THE DISPONENT.
133
tº, having thus taken precautions which
€ne i. ly for his intended purpose, he had hast-
Inani one with the self-gratulating cunning of a
*, and committed the deed.
ini. be to his spirit! Mart felt that it was an
dSt i witness, as he took the sinewless and now
at i. illing hand in his, and vowed a solemn vow
.*nceforth the child should be dear to his heart
tº: ºn, and precious in his eyes as the last
Ulrm st of a loved and murdered friend. Then he
* to leave the house of death and seek the lit.
° Orphan.
viii. first he must give tidings of the event in the
8 §º, and send a messenger to inform the pastor.
* “losed the door of the house a fellow-peasant
p on." and hastily inquired where was the Dis-
ot in' for that the pastor wanted him. He was
wº the field, nor at the Hof, nor in his own
Seen ... nobody had seen him: Mart had not
he W. either; but he thought in his heart that
positi uld be found at the Hakenrichter's giving de-
... of the yesterday's occurrence, if he had
jº. it before; and if not there, he knew too
be si it by a certain hour that afternoon he would
not. to make his appearance. But he said
.."; ; and hearing the pastor was in the village,
.*.* the man the sorrowful tidings to convey to
and i. turned his own face homeward. Anno's
is t Juhann's eyes were all that should meet
ëlle º fatal hour arrived. When he reached
K. tüll, the child sat upon the threshold, and
A. Pois, by it wagging his great tail; but
Was still absent.
of § ºt now follow her in the mingled affairs
bent.". Anno had risen early that morning,
the ni ...ting plans which the silent hours of
med; t had ripened in her mind. She had im-
£ondu bly seen to what advantage Mart's noble
favor "...of the previous day could be turned in his
plan º* made known in the right quarter, Her
tor, i . therefore simply this; to go to the pas-
.."orm him of the whole affair from beginning
{lake. ºd either beg him to accompany her to the
Ilê "ichter, or leave him to undertake the cause
Ji. he might think best. Hakenrichter or not
*SSur *hter—Russian or not Russian—she felt
is...ºt have a heart of some kind; only
fleſ." had none. As for this latter, the re-
was ri | the night had convinced her that Mart
hay, i * in expecting nothing from his gratitude:
Viction *.* true woman, when once she admits con:
Whº: all, she went further still, and doubted
ean an would not even forego his second ven-
§atisfy ºr a few hours, so as the more securely to
long the first. Then the men themselves, as
à. did not speak, would be too much inter-
tion"...ºncealing their frightful attempt to men-
was n ºw it had been prevented. In short, there
Self, an ºne who could stir in the matter but her-
tead. "0 time to lose, for four o'clock was the
She sh . She had deliberated much whether
the had ask Mart's leave to consult the pastor—
had º *ked it when the sentence first came, and
now, i. *rnly denied—she dared not ask again
at the ... should meet with the same answer;
the jº. time he had not bound her to secrecy,
lº, ...was fee : still it was a bold act to
slºwer .."imes she walked quicker, sometimes
Then in." 1. came and went in her mind.
best thought the pastor would advise for the
and's If he *PProved, no one could do otherwise,
S he w
*ſked steadily on.
h
* *ed the great mansion and through the
farming buildings with a heavy heart, and took the
usual round to avoid the Disponent's windows;
but she saw from a distance that his horse, saddled
and bridled, was feeding down by the stream, and
fearing he would soon be coming out, she hastened
her steps. It was a long nine wersts' walk to the
Pastorat, and Anno was thankful when she saw
the church tower. Nevertheless she felt a little
flurried with what was before her when she
reached the back door of the humble wooden build-
ing and inquired for the “Pastor Erra.” But she
felt indescribably worse on receiving for answer
that the pastor had just driven away on one of his
parish rounds, and would not be home till late in
the afternoon. Anno's heart sunk within her; the
stay and comfort of her whole purpose was gone;
she felt worse than forsaken; she felt, at first,
as if she was guilty. The color mounted crimson
under her cap, and she sat down on a bench,
hardly knowing what to think, far less what to
do.
But Anno was not required to think. Such
plans, once set agoing in the mind, have a life and
action of their own. An unlooked for interruption
like this may shake and unsettle them for a while;
but if we only wait patiently, they adapt them-
selves into fresh forms, seemingly without any
agency of ours.
Anno had not sat there many minutes before she
found what she had to do. The pastor's absence
had not altered one argument for her mission ; it
had only taken away all that had made it easy to
herself. It was too late to have her husband’s
leave or advice now, and she had rather never see
him again than go back and confess that her heart
had failed her in the task, merely because she
found it more difficult than she had expected. At
first the thought crossed her that she would follow
the pastor to the village ; but there she would
meet people, or even Mart might see her, or she
might miss the pastor after all, and lose precious
time. No ; it was plain she must go on to the
Hakenrichter's alone. Anno had never heard
either of Elizabeth of Siberia or of Jeannie Deans;
but something of the spirit of both was in her, as
she rose from her seat with a further walk of seven
wersts before her, and the dreadful Hakenrichter at
the end of it.
In truth Anno's mission was now by no means
an easy one; for to all appearance the chief argu-
ment for saving Mart from punishment could not
be fully brought forward without putting others in
jeopardy of the same ; but this she was resolved
nothing should induce her to do. . Come what
might, the names of the men who had made the
attempt on the Disponent should not pass her lips;
otherwise she made no plan of what she was to
say, and thought with dismay of the pastor's
superior eloquence. But she was resolved not to
care for any bullyings or cross-questionings that
might await her, for she felt nothing could confuse
her in her story—she had only the truth to tell—
though she might not tell the whole of it. Not
but she was assailed by fits of terror regarding her
probable reception by the Hakenrichter, and also
possible encounter with the Disponent either there
or on the road, but the one great anxiety for Mart
soon bore all lesser ones down : she looked up to
the sun, saw it high in the heavens, and rested not
till the great house was before her.
Here she was confronted with the awful object
of her journey sooner than she had expected; for
the Hakenrichter himself was walking up the road
134
THE DISPONENT.
accompanied by a young man Anno had never seen
before. They would have taken no notice of her
** terra ommegast,” or good morning, but she stop-
ped straight, before them, made that supplicatory
action with her hands which we have mentioned
before, and stood still.
“What do you want, woman 1" said the Haken-
richter with his terrific voice : “get you gone—
what do you want?”
Anno meekly answered that she wanted to speak
with the Hakenrichter Erra.
“Nonsense, you don't want; I'm busy, can't
you see : Come another time.” And then he
turned to the stranger, and with a most urbane
voice began to explain that the office of Haken-
richter was one of incessant toil and trouble, and
that no one in the province performed it so punc-
tiliously as himself.
“But can’t you speak to this poor girl?” said
the young man, who had remarked Anno's anxious
and wistful expression, and was looking with inter-
est at her pretty face and person.
“Oh ’t is all nonsense ; only some got-up
tale : one must not encourage these canaille.
Where do you come from, woman?”
Anno gave the name of the estate, and the
Hakenrichter burst out laughing, and said in Ger-
man, “From Essmegghi !—one of your own
sheep, Herr Baron You'll have enough of it
soon. Well! well ! go in and wait.”
Anno went in and sat silent in the Volkstube. In
about half an hour she was summoned into an inner
room. Her heart did beat terribly, for now the
time was come, and all depended on her. The
Hakenrichter was seated on a divan smoking a
cigar ; the stranger was standing by the window.
The sight of him was an encouragement to her ;
for women, children, and the unfortunate—and
Anno was all three—have an instinct for knowing
their friends.
The Hakenrichter looked up, saw that it was a
very pretty young girl standing before him, and
addressed her in tones very different to those he
had at first adopted, but which Anno liked still
less. But he wished to appear both humane and
witty in the eyes of his companion, and was under
the impression that an insolent familiarity exactly
combined the two.
“Weil, my pretty maid! what are you come
for Do you want me to get you a hus-
band 4”
“I am married,” said Anno quietly, pointing to
the matron's cap on her head, as if that was all-
sufficient proof. -
“Oh you are married' are you ! . That's
stupid of you; husbands are troublesome things for
such pretty girls as you. Here-let me hear all
about it—come closer.”
But Anno neither answered a word nor stirred
an inch. The Hakenrichter went on in the same
strain, and she turned a distressed and a modest
look to the young man at the window. He had
listened to the whole, and now came forward with
a gesture of impatience.
“Let the poor woman speak, Herr Hakenrichter;
I should like to hear what she has to say. What
did you come for, my good girl?" he said en-
couragingly.
“I came to speak about my husband,” said
Anno.
“And who is your husband 1’’
“He is a three-day peasant on the Essmegghi
mois.”
“What's his name 1” said the Hakenrichter in
a voice of authority, as if he thought it time for
him to interfere.
“Mart Addafer,” said Anno.
“Mart Addafer" said the Hakenrichter. “Mart
Addafer Why, is n’t that the fellow who beat
the Disponent # Is n't that the man who 's to be
ſlogged for it to-day !” A deep painful flush over-
spread Anno's face and throat.
“He 's a lazy insolent dog,” said the Haken-
richter to his companion. “He beat the Disponent
because he caught him stealing wood. He 's the
worst peasant on the whole estate.”
“Oh, no! no " said Anno vehemently, “that 's
not true ; not one word. My husband never stole
wood—he is not lazy. Oh! let me speak—pray
let me speak;” and she clasped her hands and
came forward with passionate entreaty. And she
did speak. Words poured out, quick and eager,
the abundance of a woman's heart. She told them
that the Disponent was her husband's enemy, and
that he had sought every opportunity to injure him.
She related how he had defrauded him of his
gains, and taxed him with unjust work, and ex-
posed him to the risk of the recruitage, and sum-
moned him to leave his house: and how the whole
parish had suffered ; and how the Disponent had
prevented the Bauer Klete from being thrown
open—and no wonder ; and then she found she was
getting on to dangerous ground, and she suddenly
stopped.
“But what has made the Disponent so particu-
larly your husband's enemy?” said the stranger.
It would have been more logical, certainly, if Anno
had begun with this part of the story ; though the
absence of plan vouched the more for its truth with
any who could understand what truth was. But
she wanted the help of a question, as all untaught
speakers do.
And now, with a change of manner and with 3
downcast eye, as if the eagerness to speak had
given way to a consciousness of what she was say:
ing, she related the rather extraordinary mistakº
on her part, which had given rise to Ian's ill will
—though why he kept it up so virulently she could
not tell—for Mart never injured or provoked him ;
but still she knew this was the reason why he wº
so hard upon them, and so did Mart ; and she told
them how he would not allow her to work at the
Disponent's house, but had paid a woman for her,
and how he had labored to maintain his own house"
hold and help his neighbors during this severe win.
ter; and how there was nobody to be compared tº
Mart, for that he was always industrious aſ
always kind, and but for him many more woul!
have been starved to death ; and she was going 9
eloquently in this direction, when another question
brought her up, and again the eyes were cast down;
and she owned that the Disponent had never cease
to persecute her, and had said many wrong thing;
to her—more than Mart knew ; and how he ha
once come into her house, and how she alway”
took a round to avoid his windows; and finally
she described the scene in the wood-house, an'
how the Disponent was dragging her away tº
his house, when Mart heard her scream, and cam”
up.
“And what did your husband do 1" said tº
lºg man, who had never taken his eyes 0
€r.
“Mart beat him,” said Anno with a little he**
tation.
“But,” she added eagerly, “Mart never stole
THE DISPONENT.
135
an ºr
. º He only took the piece that was in my
...hat." said the poor girl, “he threw
i.” Wºs a short pause, and Anno stood, with
º: breath and eye, looking from one to the
each à: burning crimson spot fastened high upon
& St *ek. “What a villain that man is tº said
ranger. “Thank God, I am back 1"
{ { Y. †iter burst into a loud laugh.
Baron On’t believe all this story, do you, Herr
he b hey’ll impose on you easy enough.”
sha. "...º. turned quick to Anno, and said
.." V.“Woman is all this true that you have
{ { §º d Is it all true !”
Li #" said Anno solemnly; “true !—yes.
º: $ould not have given me strength to come
“And . again there was a pause. .
for yº" at do you want the Hakenrichter to do
sº clasped her hands. She had given her
Still º *luently, but the end and object of it all
ºncou *ined behind; and now she saw but little
{{ §ºn on that hard ugly face.
San se *: the Erra knows what I want.
is not nd me home a happy woman. My husband
n i gilty—he is not a bad man. He is the best
§.” the parish, if I dared to tell you all. Oh!
uj.have heard my words—you would not
}. † *n innocent man! It will ruin him for life.
ºr look up again after it, and it will break
*}” And tears for the first time began to
° down her cheeks.
e ba º tº
8èsture ron rose up with an angry and disturbed
{ { 4.
The Erra
trickl
lm jºb, nonsense !” said the Hakenrichter, puff.
break * cigar; “none of this—not so easy to
tºur hearts. How do I know this is true?”
ately . . . . it is true, all true,” said Anno passion-
{{ ion and more, if I dared to £ak.
º In º
"ºratiº º let the poor man off,” said the baron
fast ... it can't be done,” said the Hakenrichter,
down sing into a passion. “The sentence is written
£gic; * has passed through the Gouvernement's
Hjºš already, You know nothing about
:*::"ichter's business.”
lº. I know truth from falsehood,” said the
tend ãº, kindling too. . “And you don't pre-
§uilty O aws here punish a man, whether he 1S
dow.” "O, merely because his sentence is written
{{ }rn .
"ichter *.* parcel of nonsense,” said the Haken-
What jºan't be humbugged by a fool of a girl.
beat al ;iness had a fellow like her husband to
Whº, "ºnent He deserves a flogging for it.
dre * * beating to him They don't feel it. I
§§y he has had plenty before now.”
stan. * never!” cried Anno, interrupting the
§. who, boiling with indignation, was about
...Qh Erra, Erra, I have more to say:
"an—a Yºu all. Erra, the Disponent is a wicked
ging h. wicked man. He ought to be beg-
of leavi ° himself for my husband's pardon, instead
Mart .. ºne to do it. He ought, indeed ; for
§ly ye ed his life only yesterday. He saved him
him ; *day, when the men would have thrown
boiling vat. He alone saved him.”
\to the
“W
* men?” said the Hºnºr, is eyes
i. *ra; the Bauer Klete was empty—
°hildren pty, *ºd they were starving men, and their
* dying. And he angered them when
they could bear no more ; and t was in the dis-
tillery 1”
“What! they tried to throw lim into the boil-
ing vat?” said the stranger with horror.
“Oh they knew not what they did. But Mart
saved him—he alone; though God knows Ian has
injured him more than he has done any other, much
more, and is now letting him be beaten unjustly.”
And she covered her face with her hands and sob-
bed piteously.
“How dreadful this is : What a disgraceful,
infamous state of things!” said the stranger. “But
it is my fault.” -
And then he drew from Anno, as soon as she
had recovered herself, a more coherent account of
the matter; learnt how the resources of the Bauer
Rlete had been denied to them during the whole of
that dreadful winter; and again, when their need
was past bearing : how some of the peasants—but
her Mart was not of the number—had broken it
open in their desperation—had found it robbed of
its contents, and knew who alone could have done
lt.
“But are you sure,” said the young man, trying
to be very cautious, “that the peasants had not
really robbed it themselves?—perhaps at some
earlier period in the winter, when they were hard
pressed,” he added, as if to induce her to confess.
But Anno answered, that it was easy for those to
think so who had not seen the misery of those who
were alive, nor felt the light coffins of those who
were gone. The young man shuddered. If they
had stolen the corn, what had they done with it?
No–the Disponent always kept the key, and it
was plain enough now, why he was so unwilling
to have it put into the door. This was only one
of his many acts of dishonesty.
Erra came home, he would find plenty.
Anno was too much preoccupied to observe the
odd expressions that came over her hearer's face,
who now went on to question her, and heard how
the Disponcmt had come across them when their
passions were thus excited, and threatened, and
abused them for the very thing he had done him-
self, as he had often done before, she said, with
impunity, and might have done now, if the boiling
vat had not been just at hand.
“And who were the men 1” said the Hakenrich-
ter; “tell me their names.”
Anno answered nothing.
“What are their names?” he repeated.
Anno shook her head.
He did not urge her further, though, whether
withheld by some better feelings latent in his
breast, or by his companion's rising indignation, or
by the recollection that he should hear it all in due
time from the Disponent, we must leave
“What signify their names,” said the stranger
hastily; “I only wonder they did not, murder him
outright,” he added in German., And then he
went on speaking emphatically in that language.
By this time the reader has perceived that the
young man was the proprietor of Essmegghi, and,
therefore, entitled to urge his request for the imme-
diate remission of Mart's punishment. The peas-
ants were his dependants; the Disponent his ser-
vant. He had returned suddenly, and gone to the
nearest proprietor's abode, as is the custom in this
country of widely scattered population.
The Hakenrichter now took a slip of paper,
wrote upon it, read it, sanded it, shook it, and
finally handed it to Anno
When their own .
136
THE DISPONENT.
“Here, woman! Give this to the Disponent
from me, and tell your husband he may stop at
home this afternoon.”
Anno glanced at the paper, which was Greek to
her, and looked from the Hakenrichter to the baron
with a look of breathless inquiry.
“'Tis your husband's pardon,” said the Haken-
richter: “tell him that if”—he was going to add
some Hakenrichter-kind of advice for his future
better conduct, when his hands were seized and
kissed one after the other, and his sleeve was kiss-
ed, and the tail of his coat was kissed ; and then
Anno flew and performed the same operation upon
the stranger; said that Jummal would bless them,
and that she should love them, and then stood hold-
ing the paper with such a grateful glistening face
as none could possibly preach to. But still she
stood.
“You want something more,” said the young
man. “Come—what is it!”
Yes. Anno did want something more, and
could not be happy without it. She had not for-
gotten the poor Brautwerber, though she had been
tactitian enough not to bring his cause forward be-
fore. ... But now she told them simply and artlessly
how little the unoffending man had done to deserve
such punishment, and that her husband would not
be happy, though he was let off himself.
“And what is his punishment down for—for
stealing wood too !” said the baron. “You must
reverse this as well, Herr Hakenrichter, for all the
Gouvernement's Regierung may say.” That gen-
tleman replied nothing, but began writing again ;
and Anno saw that all was right.
Then the baron came up to her with a kind
voice and face, and told her that he was glad to
have such a good couple on his estate, for that he
was their own Erra, and was come to live among
them, and would take care of her and her husband,
and not let them be removed from their house.
And Anno did not know what to do for joy; she
exhausted all her forms of national acknowledg-
ment, and still had her heart as full as ever, and
said that Mart would thank him, and Mart would
serve him. And then the baron praised what she
had done, and called her a faithful little wife, and
she put down her head, and was her own bashful
Livonian self again.
“Here's the other paper,” said the baron. “I
don’t think you'll lose them, will you!”
“Ei, ei”—No, no, said Anno, blushing.
“Nor lose any time on the road. É. it is a
long way; you'll be tired.”
* Mitte niit”—not now, said Anno, smiling and
blushing ; and she left the room.
Who does not know the happiness of retracing
with a light and hopeful heart the same path over
which you have recently carried it heavy and anx-
ious ! The sense of release from pain added to
that of the presence of joy. Anno looked at every
roadside object with a sort of special exultation.
They had seen her pass sorrowing, now they saw
her return rejoicing, and she felt grateful to each
one in turn, for they seemed to remind her of past
sufferings only the more to enhance the fulness of
present bliss She did not know she was tired,
though her feet began involuntarily to slacken, or
if she did, there was a fresh sense of pleasure in
feeling that it was only the body that was weary.
Not a care nor an anxiety to give a false strength,
while that of the physical frame was being ex-
hausted, and to withdraw all support when that
was gone.
Anno saw by the sun that it was about the
second hour past noon. She was now on her ow."
ground *g. and fast approaching the Disponent's
house. She debated within herself whether she
should at once take the precious paper to him; but
the dread of meeting him, however his powers o
injury might be curtailed, as well as the secret
wish to show the paper herself first to Mart, made
her resolve in the negative. There would be time
enough for Mart to deliver it himself, and Anno
wished for no more independent doings. As she
drew near the house her resolution was confirmed ;
for two or three peasants stood at the door, and
she saw there was a bustle, as of many people
within.
This part of her road behind her, her whole
heart expanded with the excess of happiness she
was bringing. It was not only release from pres
ent disgrace, it was assurance of future protection,
security to continue in their home, freedom from
recruitage—a boundless vista –and as she crossed
her own threshold, so much emotion and fatigue
had nearly deprived her of utterance. º
Mart was sitting within ; the child upon his
knee; himself looking almost as broken-spirited as
the father it had just lost, yet with a placid ex:
pression which showed that his manly heart had
found comfort and strength even with the dreaded
trial full in view. Anno's hasty entrance and
ſlurried look made him start up with anxiety.
“Anno! what is it! Where have you been º'
Anno could not speak a word. Love and joy, and
bashful pride, and excessive weariness of body, all
overpowered her at once, and the little woman fell
all strengthless before him, and was soon seated
where little Juhann had just been, her head on his
shoulder, telling in broken accents all she had ven-
tured and all she had obtained.
“Mart do you forgive me!”
“My Anno—my Anno " And husband and
wife said but few words, but exchanged feelings
many a higher born couple might have envied.
“And Juhann too, poor fellow ! I did not ſorget
him,” said Anno, all smiles.
Mart’s face fell.
“You need not look so distressed, Mart. Sce
here, I have his pardon too !” and she held up the
Second paper.
“Anno he needs another pardon now,” said
Mart solemnly. “Man can no longer hurt. nor
help him.” And he told the sad tale.
#. Anno felt that unalloyed joy was not to be
our portion here below ; and thoughts visited her
young mind which had never found entrance there
before. All the selfishness of her happiness had
passed away.
She now took the child tenderly, and sat without
the door resting herself, while Mart went off to
show the token of that release she had purchased
for him.
CHAPTER XII.
MEAN while we must tell how it went with the
good pastor this day, for he too had taken an un-
looked-for share in its events. We have said that
the consciences of the poor degraded Livonian
peasantry are sensitive and tender. They may bo
as liable to crime as any other set of the human
race, but they can less bear its burthen on their
hearts. During the course of that morning the
pastor received a full confession of the attempt upon
the Disponent's life from two of the men principal-
ly concerned in it. And this without any ulterior
THE DISPONENT.
137
#. or object; for they knew how little their poor
i. could help them, and knew not that other
| was nigh.
Sole . pastor was inexpressibly shocked; he gave
Tee ". and befitting admonition, but the bruised
up a 9 could not break, and his whole spirit rose
cite Fº the tyranny which could thus have in-
Wen is pious and long-suffering people to take
ºl§. from Him to whom it belongs. He felt
C C ºther aggravation must be prevented, or that
..". not answer for the consequences, nor
SQu .. it in his heart to blame them; and he
ºf the Disponent, strong in the terrors of earth-
§. spiritual judgments. As we have seen, he
* succeed in finding him, though search was
j . yarious directions of the estate. Then
past the intelligence of poor Juhann's fate. The
º; Visited the body, and set off immediately for
ºkenrichter's, where he arrived shortly after
ºlo had left. f
ba." the unexpected meeting with the young
# .." he had known in earlier years, gave
tº.. pledge for the fulfilment of his object;
least eless the old man did not relinquish the
Capit ; of the duty he had undertaken. He re-
th." ated all that Anno had related, and told
j. though the shedding of blood had been
ife . illy prevented in this instance, yet that one
had . already been sacrificed to the tyranny that
to pl ºn permitted, and one soul was already gone
80le i. against it at the bar of Heaven. He then
Pres ºnly arraigned the Hakenrichter for all the op-
§on that had been practised beneath the shel-
th." his authority; reminded him that he sat in
in. of judgment to show mercy and execute
God $ºusness, and charged him as a minister of
the i. having abused his power to strengthen
of ands of wickedness and enlarge the sorrows
§§versity.
Il ea. Hakenrichter was a coward: he quailed be-
d the rebukes of the humble apostolic man he
dº ected to despise, and was at once ready to
encou and to punish the wretch his authority had
.."...ged. All idea of earthly retribution, how;
it i. far from the pastor's thoughts, even had
aim w Within the compass of the law. His only
Sion º to protect his people from further oppres-
the '. depriving the chief instrument of it of fur-
power.
yo...". cost him but little trouble to induce the
abode dron to accompany him, and take up his
.." at the Pastorat, when he would be close to
that : property, and able at once to commence
best . personal superintendence which could
ke." the past. They therefore left the Ha:
§etecti ºr along with his shame, if that sense of
is is . can be so called which such a mind as
iſ º. apable of feeling. As for real shame,
that it ly in the breast of the young proprietor
i. to be found. He had been carefully
Vored ºly educated in another and a more fa-
this i. ; and the misery and oppression which
im, ca ay of his return had thus opened upon
pro ach º sharpened to his heart with self re-
As the º the absence that had thus encouraged it.
no's º, ºye, along, he related to the pastor An-
whi. ºf the morning, and the interest with
past. tale and manner had inspired him. The
ãº.ºnfirmed the report of Mart with affection-
anger . but he knew not till now of the
table nat which he had stood; and even his chari-
CXXV "re felt impatient for the moment that
* LIVING AGE. vol. xi. 9
should confront the dishonest steward with his of.
fended master. -
They drove therefore at once to the Disponent's
house. As they drew near, many peasants were
standing at the door; and one instantly came for-
ward to meet them. ;
“What a fine young fellow,” exclaimed the
baron.
“The very man we were speaking of,” answered
the pastor. “Did you ever see a better physiog-
nomy?”
“Well, Mart! is the villain found?”
Mart helped the old man out of his vehicle with
a serious face and manner—then drew him aside,
and spoke for a few minutes. The pastor lifted up
his hands in horror and surprise—hastened into the
house, and stood by the bedside of a mangled and
a dying man.
his eventful day had yet brought forth another
and more awful tragedy. While the purposes of
man were pursuing the instrument of so much
evil, those of the Most High had overtaken him.
The reader will remember that from the moment
the Disponent left the distillery he has nowhere
appeared upon the scene. He left it with feelings
of rage and vengeance in his heart, and these he
wantonly poured out upon the animal that bore him
away. The poor horse was like the injured men
he had just quitted—it could bear much, but not
beyond a certain mark. His master continued to
beat it cruelly as it carried him swifter and swifter
along, till, in a lonely part, the galled animal lost
patience—plunged, reared, and threw him with
violence from its back. The wretched man fell on
his face with tremendous force : a sharp short
stake, sticking out of the ground, entered the eye-
ball and impaled him there; and his right arm was
broken by the fall. For a time he lay insensible;
and, being concealed among low bushes, was not
j by the few who passed that way. To-
wards night, however, sensibility returned; and he
lay in such agonies as even his most persecuted
victims, hungry and spiritless as they were on their
wretched beds, would have pitied. The horse
found its way back to the house during the night,
as Anno had seen; but as for its brutal master, in
spite of the search made for him, it was, nºt till
several hours later that his groans attracted the at-
tention of a passing peasant. He summoned oth-
ers; and they had just carried him to his home
when Anno passed it on her return. We forbear
to lift the curtain from the last hours of such, an
offender. He lingered for two days in unspººka-
ble agonies, and died in them; and the nºt Sun-
day saw both him and poor Juhann laid in the
ground.
The events of this day produced a great sensa-
tion in the parish, and brought forth many traits of
character among the want-stricken, and degraded
peasantry which it was grateful to observe. They
saw the finger of God in the Disponent's awful
end, and looked on with reſerence and fear.
while he lay on his bed of suffering, there were
many who returned him good for evil, by such lit-
tlo services as were in their power; and when he
was gone to his last account, there was no one who
triumphed. it.
Not that it was the immediate relief to their suf-
ferings and the assurance of future care and pro-
tection, in the presence of their young master,
which tempered their bitterness; on the contrary,
his benefits were received with little cordiality, and
138
The DispoNENT.
his presence viewed with indifference. Meanwhile
he did all that proprietor could do to repair the
past, and that immediately. Food was plentifully
distributed; seed-corn given for immediate tillage;
ground restored that had been alienated; inquiry
instituted; complaints listened to, and compensa-
tion made. But it required both the wisdom of
age and the ardor of youth for the young man not
to flag and draw back before the prospect which
opened itself to him. On the one hand, a set of
worn-down impoverished peasants, without any in-
terest or trust in him; on the other, such plausible
or vexatious laws, screening the wicked and entan-
gling the good, as took from him all trust in him-
self. The baron was by birth and family a native
of this country, but he had been, as we have said,
brought up far from Russian influence ; and the
mystery of her iniquity broke upon him, as it must
º upon every foreigner, only in his case more sud-
enlv. -
{ { This poor country seems to lie under a curse,”
said the baron, as he and the pastor paced up and
down the little Pastorat garden.
“Too true,” said the old man, sorrowfully;
“but it is a curse she has brought upon herself.”
“It seems,” continued the young man, “as if
honesty and singleness of purpose could not live in
it; wherever I turn, I find only lying, cheating,
and oppression, and these always successful—till
my courage fails me.”
“It must not,” said the pastor. “It is precise-
ly such men as you who should live here, and
spread order and confidence around you. Your
peasants show you no trust or cordiality. No
wonder'—a proprietor is with them only another
name for an oppressor. They are stupid enough,
poor things' but they would be stupider still if
they were to trust you all at once,” said the old
man, with a dry laugh. “But live among them—
cultivate them—show them that you have pleasure
in their well-doing, and interest in their trials, and
they'll reward you. They are my only reward,
that's all I know,” he added, mournfully.
Then continuing : “There 's more to be done
with these people than with the real Russians; and
yet I like those fellows too : but these are a more
moral and religious people. It is higher classes
only, both in these provinces and in Russia, who
bring all the sin and misery upon the country.”
“But the higher classes of these provinces are
Germans,” said the Baron : “I knew what Russia
was ; but here, I own, I expected a very different
state of affairs.”
“Ah! that's the thing. It is true they have
German titles and German tongues, but too many
are only a bad mixture. They are Germans with-
out Christianity, and Russians without superstition.
They have got infidelity from the one country, and
barbarity from the other; and are doubly unfit to
rule this people. For my poor peasants are equally
removed from either; a religious people may be
poor and silly, but they can't be barbarous. I look
forward sometimes with dread to the end of these
things,” said the old man with a sigh; “with a
ruler too at the head of this monstrous empire
who--. But don't let us talk of these matters:
enough for the day is the evil thereof. Only do
you not forsake us, Herr Baron. There are some
few good and humane nobles in the land; and you
and such have much in your own hands, as you
will find when you enter more into the affairs of
our little province. Meanwhile let us think of the
affairs of our little Essmeggi, for you have plenty
to do there. You want another man to supply that
wretched Disponent's place. There's one I have
to recommend, whom I know we shall think alike
about.”
“I was going to mention the same,” said the
Baron; and they continued their walk.
The next day Mart was summoned to the Past0°
rat. When he returned, his looks and manner borº
witness that his errand had been one of the mos'
agreeable kind; but his tongue told nothing. Anno,
however, could refrain hers, albeit as curious as
most other women—or men; but the concealment,
whatever it might be in import, was evidently of *
happy nature, and this she knew would do Mart
no harm to keep on his mind, though it might cos'
him some trouble. Good Mart, therefore, after the
first show of mystery, had no further questions pu%
to him, or we are by no means sure that he woul
have refrained from disclosing what, as it was, hº
had quite sufficient difficulty in keeping to himself.
Meanwhile he was very busy and much absent, go"
ing about the estate with the young Erra, who
seemed as if he could not be a day without him.
One afternoon at length he came rattling up tº
the door at Sellenkūll with his cart, jumped out,
and strode over his own threshold with more than
usual alacrity. Anno was sitting spinning wit
Juhann at her side.
“Well! Anno,” said he, “what say you to re-
moving to Uxnorm 4”
Anno looked up. She did not mind what he said
with such a happy face as that. And before sho
could answer, Mart had liſted up Juhann with one
hand, and the spinning-wheel with the other, an
had carried them out and put them into the cart.
Then he came back—bustled about Anno's little
valuables in the most extraordinary manner—stowe
them all away in the cart—threw in sheep-skins,
and woollen coats, and Anno's best caps, helter.
skelter, with very little ceremony—told her she wa”
of no use, as she stood looking on in amazement-
and finally liſted her into the spare corner of th:
vehicle with as much gallantry as if he had stil
been her bridegroom. Then he called Karria Pois;
who, like his mistress, seemed much as if he di
not care where he went, so long as Mart was of the
party, and set off walking by the horse's side.
hey took the road to Essmeggi—went past the
great house, now all whitewashing and putting tº
rights for the baron's residence, and soon came 1”
sight of the Disponent's cottage.
“A pretty house,” said Mart, with his eye”
sparkling.
“Vegga illos”—very pretty—said Anno.
In truth it looked prettier than ever; for the tree.
were so green, and the house had been fresh colorº
like the baron's own, and the garden seemed "
have been put in order, and all around was swep
clean. Mart drove right up to it.
“You said you'd let me drive you here, Ann"
do you remember?”
“Yes, Mart—when you were Disponent.” d
“I am, my Einokenne,” said her husband, an
kissed her as he lifted her out.
We must pass over Anno's surprise; for nº.
Mart's was suddenly excited : he knew that thſ,
house had been thoroughly cleaned and repaired.
his master's orders; but now he found that during
his few hours' absence it had been complete d
stocked with every household article that befitſ.
their present condition. There was good plº"
furniture, chairs and tables, and a little bed for :
hann, and provisions of all sorts, tubs full and bottle
THE DISPONENT.
139
*. º: all, there was, what is the highest
tickin . woman peasant's ambition, a tall, clock
Went à *ween the two windows, Anno and Mart
Ten ºut from one thing to another like two chil-
ered. º looking at what the other had discov-
i. bºth showing it to Juhann, who at length
wi. and clapped his hands like a real child;
W3 arria Pois knocked his great tail in a frenzy
§ging against every piece of furniture, and
§§onsiderably in the way.
ºldiº Were still in the first bewilderment of their
Tra ation, when steps were heard, and the young
Mart' *companied by the pastor, entered the house.
ſlot Set forward one of his new chairs, and Anno
...; and then they kissed their guests' hands;
...ther of them could say a word
have Well, Mart,” said the pastor, “I hope you
... given Anno a warm welcome.”
tes.”. have got all your furniture about you, I
: Said the baron.
h! the Erra is too good,” said Mart.
{ { º Brra is too good "murmured Anno,
his . Mart; it is all your own goodness,” said
"aster; “you took care of my affairs when I
dS aWa sº º
yours.” y, and now it is my turn to take care of
Wa
“They deserve all you can do for them,” said
...stor, seriously. “They are an excellent
Ple, and the blessing of God, as well as the
£ni will of man, is upon them. May they long
. both.” Then seeing that Anno's eyes were
§l, he added-
wel ut Anno' have you nothing to give us for a
i.e. Come, I think I know more about your
housekeeping than you do yourself;” and the
|
pastor opened a little cupboard they had not yet
observed, where stood a bottle of fine Schülken,
with some rolls of white bread, and a few plates
and glasses—things Anno had never possessed be-
fore. Then the two gentlemen drank to the health
of the new Disponent and his wife, and with a fur-
ther exchange of good wishes left them.
But the pleasure of this day was not yet over.
There was one yet to come, which went nearer to
Mart's heart than all the pastor and the Erra had
said and done—good as that had been. For a party
of his fellow-peasants came up, and with honest,
hearty words wished him joy; and told him that his
being made Disponent was a greater joy to the par-
ish even than the return of the Erra, for they did
not know what he might turn out, but Mart they
knew and could trust.
And then a few of the number took him aside,
and told him that others might thank him, and even
repay him for all the help and comfort he had af-
forded them that winter, but that they alone were
indebted to him for what nothing could repay; for
té him they owed the blessing of being able to look
their fellow-creatures in the face, without the sin
of murder upon their heads.
Then Mart went and opened one of his new
bottles, and Anno set bread and milk and fish be-
fore them, and they made them eat and drink, and
sent them away with gay hearts.
“This is like another wedding-day, Mart,” said
Anno, “only better.”
“Yes,” said her husband, “it is a happy day;
would that some who are now gone had lived to see
it! But God does all for the best.”
From Jerrold's Newspaper.
THE complaiNT OF A PICKPOCKET.
w;* Borton.—I am a pickpocket, and—seeing
a º: I see—am not ashamed to own it. I received
5...") fair education, which, possibly—for I'll not
jenables me to steal with an adroitness un-
TG " to the more illiterate. Sir, I have been
di . "nonths in the House of Correction, and was
is y *ged yesterday. Mr Chesterton's “nick”
º: fearfully visible among my hair, whence a
Steali paucity of nob-thatch. I was committed for
W.'ſ; a pocket-handkerchief; value, one shilling.
erei had offended the laws of my country, and
& 9te picked oakum, and did not grumble.
ha.” Şır, the Daily News has just fallen into my
i from which copy the following:—
High §. sitting of the court, before the Deputy
Court teward, Thomas Lightfoot, Esq., and a full
and tºne juries of St. Margaret's, St. Martin's,
for fat. ames', made the following presentments
gir. weights, measures, and scales:–St. Mar-
6 s, St. Martin's, 8; St. James', 4.
Pºlies were severally fined from 5s. to 40s.”
."ºther read that º
Frida * the Tower Hamlets Petty Sessions, on
to tº W, 34 tradesmen were severally fined from 5s.
the #. 9 using false weights and measures.—In
men olborn division, within a few days, 14 trades-
i.been fined from 10s. to £5 for similar
ma. . what I want to ask is this. In the
for the * sealing, are we to have two laws! One
behind $ºmfortable householder, who picks pockets
ble º own counter—and another for the hum-
in the º: #. having no shop, is compelled to rob
$ 3
© .
* ,
Why, I indignantly ask it—why was not I per-
mitted to pay a fine for the stolen handkerchief?
When shopkeeping robbers are let off with a money
penalty—why should the poor, unprotected. house-
less thief, be sent to the treadmill !
Is it my fault that I cannot employ false weights
and scales? Is it an extra crime that I am com-
pelled to steal with my naked fingers?
Again, indignantly I ask this, and remain,
ours, wronged,
John SHEPPARD (the Younger.)
LETTERs from Switzerland state that Mont Blanc
has doſſed his hat of snow to the ardent genius of
this fiery time—the first to whom he has paid that
homage for very many years. Few living men
have seen the “monarch of mountains” bareheaded.
The fine weather, it would seem, has been attract-
ing the tourists in that direction, and tempting
them to escape from the temperature of these lower
levels into its solitudes of snow. The perilous
ascent, which so lately as 1786 was an unaccom-
plished feat—and in the sixty years that have since
elapsed, has been achieved by thirty-one travellers
only, (fifteen of whom have been Englishmen)—
promises, like ballooning, to be an event of every
day. Among the names given as those of tourists
who purpose “going up,” are Professor Forbes—
who has been for some time engaged in scientific
researches in the neighborhood of Montauvert—
and Mr. Peel, a son of the late premier. It should
not be forgotten, that the summer brightness which
attracts the traveller to the hills, makes, at the
same time, the mountain paths more than com-
monly dangerous, from the melting snow and
loosened avalanche.—Spectator.
140
M. ARAGo.
From the Dublin University Magazine.
MI. ARAGO.
Of all scientific men now living, there is none
whose fame is so universally diffused, and whose
authority is so often invoked, as M. Arago. The
squatter on the banks of the Mississippi is as famil-
iar with his name as the dweller of the Quai Wol-
taire. His dicta are as often quoted in the Delta
of the Ganges, as in the city washed by the
Thames; and this reputation is not among the ſol-
lowers of science, or even its would-be votaries. It
is strictly popular. All who look forward to a
coming eclipse, or an approaching comet—all who
endeavor to prognosticate the vicissitudes of weather,
and look for the lunar phases—all who are exposed
to the visitations of the hurricane, or endeavor to
avert the falling, thunderbolt—all appeal to the
name of Arago; rightly or wrongly, they quote his
supposed or imputed predictions, and profess to pin
their faith on his oracular voice. In short, there is
no savant living whose name is at once so univers-
ally known, and whose authority is so universally
Pºlº as M. Arago. º
ut what says the august scientific conclave
itself to this? What is the verdict of academies,
and institutes, and learned societies where the
equals of M. Arago sit in judgment How does
their estimate of the perpetual secretary of the in-
stitute accord with this popular exaltation? In
general, the great public, little capable of gauging
the merits or measuring the authority of philoso-
phers, takes its cue from the community of science
itself, and the reputation of savans issues, ready
formed, from the halls of those societies, whose
members alone can be considered competent to
form a correct judgment of their high merits and at-
tainments. But the present case is a singular ex-
ception. Here the public has decided for itself, and
not only passed an independent sentence, but one
which is by no means in accordance with the opin-
ions of the sages of the College Mazarin or Somer-
set IIouse.” The popular supremacy of the direc-
tor of the Observatoire is not confirmed by the voice
of his colleagues. The incense offered at the
shrine of the genius of Arago by the profane crowd
of the uninitiated has had the effect of all praise
which is immeasurably in excess; it has provoked
opposition and reaction. The attempt to assign to
M. Arago a niche in the temple beside the high no-
tabilities, and to place him in juxta-position with
the Newtons, the Laplaces, the Lavoisiers, and the
Davys, is treated with contemptuous ridicule; and
among the inferior crowd of the professors, the
terms “charlatan” and “humbug” are not unfre-
quently heard in association with the name of this
popular scientific idol. § #
The cause of this singular discordance of judg-
ment will be found in a due examination of the
things which M. Arago has said, the things which
he has done, and the things which he has written;
for, unlike most savants, M. Arago has not been
merely a man of the closest—he has been eminently
a man of action. In the political changes which
have agitated his country, he has taken a prominent
part, and the Philosopher has often been forgotten
in the politician, the legislator, and even the citizen
soldier. If we would, then, form a just estimate
*The College Mazarin, on the Quai º
# s + tº i Gonti, was grant-
ed to the institute in 1806; the apartments of the Royal
§: are in the front of Somerset House facing the
trand.
of the character of this distinguished man, free
alike from the depreciating spirit of some of his ri-
vals, and the preposterously exaggerated eulogy of
some of his crowd of partizans, we must take a
glance at the circumstances of his life.
M., Arago is now in his sixtieth year, having
been born in 1786. His native place, Perpignan,
on the confines of Spain, and the shores of the
Mediterranean, raises the expectation of that ardor
of character and force of will which have been so
strikingly manifested in the career of this remarka-
ble person. . It has been said that his boyhood
offered a curious contrast with his subsequent dis-
tinction, inasmuch as he showed singular sluggish-
ness in his intellectual progress, having attained the
age of fourteen before he could read. This tale is,
however, destitute of truth. The father of M. Ara-
go held a situation under government, at Perpignan,
and devoted more than usual care to his advance-
ment, he being the eldest of the family, and the
person on whom must devolve many cares an
responsibilities. He made the usual progress, dur-
ing his boyhood, at the college of Perpignan, from
which, at a very early age, he was transferred to
Montpellier, to prosecute those higher studies ne-
cessary to qualify him for admission into the Poly-
technic school, an institution which had its origin in
the confusion of the revolution, and has since be-
come So justly celebrated. He was admitted, in
1804, into that establishment, where he passed two
years, during which he became one of its most dis-
tinguished students. His surviving contemporaries
remembered how well and how often, during his
pupilage, he fulfilled the duties of repetiteur. * in
such a manner as to make them forget for the mo-
ment that their teacher was their competitor.
Some time after completing his course of studies
at this institution, he was appointed by Napoleon
(then emperor) to the office of secretary to the
Board of Longitude. But about this time, the
grand operations which had been for some time pre-
viously in progress for measuring the arc of the me.
ridian between Dunkirk and Barcelona, required that
the course of observations should be carried across
the Pyrenees, and conducted through Spain. Arº
ago was selected as the assistant of Biot, to prose.
cute this investigation, which, independently of its
importance as a question of physical science, wº
regarded with much interest, as affording the basis
of the decimal system of weights and measures,
which was about to be adopted, and which has
since been actually adopted, and is now in gener”
use in France. As this appointment led to adven"
tures, in which the personal character of the philºs.
opher was developed, we shall offer no apology for
narrating them with some detail.
MM. Delambre and Mechain, profiting by the
admirable means of observation afforded by the ſº.
peating circle of Borda, had already carried the
chain of triangles from Dunkirk, through Francº:
to the Spanish frontiers. Although the origin”
design contemplated their termination at Barceloſ.”
on the shores of the Mediterranean, it was now
cided to continue them over that sea as far as tº
Balearic Isles, and it was more especially for tº:
object that the commission of MM. Biot and A.
was issued. The Spanish government nominatº
*In French colleges and schools, the lectures deº.
ered each day by the professors or chief teachers, are .
#. accompanied with developments, cºmples, º:
gtails, by inferior teachers, called repetiteurs, wh9 j
often selected from the most advanced and distinguis
students.
M. ARAGO.
141
tw * * ºr
jº. MM. Chaix and Rodriguez, to
sh vess. y the two French savans. A Span-
0. cºm. War was placed at the disposition of
enemy ..", to which, as science knows no
s' ºain granted a safe conduct.
ºf Spain * Proceeding was to connect the coast
the gro With the island of Yvice, the nearest of
sides º an extensive triangle, one of the
iles º ich, measured an hundred and twenty
nder. the base about an hundred miles. To
tion."...ations possible at such distances, sta-
Thºr...hiderable elevation were necessary.
Pose i. commissioners selected for this pur-
lear th Summit of one of the highest mountains
th °, toast of Catalonia, while M. Rodriguez,
Init . observer, placed his station on the sum-
thos.ºint Champney on the Island of Yvice. In
anjºuntainous and wild solitudes, MM. Biot
labs.” passed several months, pursuing their
stro. Tesearches with that ardor which has so
ter, º “haracterized the whole career of the lat-
ºration 10t has not failed, in his report of these
and º: do justice to his distinguished friend
[t *
º ſten; Says he, “when the furious storms of
tens ºpestuous regions have swept away our
Rigo **, overthrown our instruments, has M.
hbº. With indefatigable constancy and patience,
low. i. and replace them, and never al-
*ºple. º f to rest night or day until his task was
Il is
been ºil, 1807, the principal observations having
those . M. Biot departed for Paris, to make
Which *ulations upon the data thus obtained,
enj Recessary to attain the final result, viz.,
of the meridional arc. Arago remained for
F. 9 ...ºf prosecuting the observations neces-
i. iſ.” Inue the chain of triangles to Majorca.
ºrigh Purpose, he sailed in company with M.
statiº to that island, where they fixed their
Shahid'. ſount Galatzó, from which they were
* Yi."ºbserve the signals on Mount Champney
jºridi. i. thus to obtain means of measuring the
these . *rē between these two stations. While
jºgs were in progress, war broke out
hei. ºly between France and Spain, and while
... the ...ant was pursuing his peaceful labors
sºntainous wilds of the island, reports
*mong the rural population, that the
º Il which were exhibited nightly at the
ºntifi. ...int Galatzo, for the porposes of the
oth."ºvations, were in fact shown as sig-
Casa rench to invade the island. The in-
tai.ºy flew to arms, and rushed up the
*ago jºg “death to the foreigner.” M.
tº d only time to disguise himself in the
sistant. Pºsant, supplied to him by one of his
º i. cºllect the papers which contained the
º hºppi º of his observations. Thus disguised,
. he # lent in the Spanish patois of Catalo-
Gre i pu ngled fearlessly with the crowd who
§ Of th. ºf him, and escaped to Palma, the
ë "ch he **nd, where the vessel was moored, in
i.*tion of ...l. More solicitous for the pres-
8 ºbservat ° instruments which had been left at
Onal j ºn the mountain, than for his own
des : he induced the commander of the
in º ºh, a boat for them, by which the
* Maj. ... brought in safety to the vesseſ.
mi.vice, ºntº, who had been engaged in
sº faithful ºome attached to him, and, re-
W their mast: preserved religiously what they
ter had so highly prized.
Meanwhile the exasperated mob having discov-
ered that the object of their pursuit had taken ref.
uge on board the vessel, the captain did not dare
to defend him, and determined on shutting him up
in the fort of Belver, where, during a confinement
of several months, he occupied himself in the cal-
culations consequent on the observations made at
Galatzo. During this time the monks of a neigh-
boring convent, who entertained a feeling of rancor-
ous hostility against the French, omitted no effort
to corrupt the soldiers, and induce them to surren-
der their prisoner to the fury of the populace. To
the credit of the garrison of the little fort, these at-
tempts were without effect; and at length, by the
persevering solicitations of M. Rodriguez with the
governing Junta, Arago obtained his liberty, and
was permitted to depart in a fishing Smack manned
by a single seaman. In this he crossed to the Af-
rican coast, and landed with his baggage and as-
tronomical instruments at Algiers.
Here the philosopher was cordially received by
the French consul, who immediately procured for
him a passage on board an Algerine frigate, bound
for Marseilles. The vessel had already neared the
French coast, and was in sight of the heights at
Marseilles, when she encountered a Spanish corsair,
then cruising in these seas by which she was cap-
tured. Once more a prisoner, Arago was now con-
ducted to Fort Rosas, where he was subjected to the
harshest treatment, and given up to all the wretch-
edness of the rudest captivity. The Dey of Algiers,
however, was no sooner informed of the insult
offered to his flag, than he made the most energetic
remonstrances to the Spanish Junta, and finally
succeeded in obtaining the release of the captive
crew, and with them M. Arago. Once more at
sea, the frigate resumed her course to Marseilles,
but the misfortunes of the savant were not destined
so soon to terminate. A frightful tempest occurred
off the coast of Sardinia, with which state the Al-
gerines were then at war. To run ashore in this
extremity would have been once more to rush into
captivity. Meanwhile a new misfortune came : a
leak was declared, and the vessel was fast gaining
water. In this emergency it was decided to run
her again on the African coast, and, in a sinking
state, she succeeded in reaching Bougie, three days'
journey from Algiers.
On coming ashore, Arago had the mortification
to learn, that, in the interim, the dey, who had giv-
en him so kind a reception, had been assassinated
in an amcute, and was replaced by another. His
cases of instruments were seized by the Algerine
authorities at Bougie, under the persuasion that
they contained gold. After many fruitless remon-
strances, Arago was driven to the decision to un-
dertake the journey to Algiers, to invoke, the aid
and interference of the new dey. Disguising him-
self as a Bedouin, he accordingly set out on foot,
with a Marabout guide, and, crossing Mount Atlas,
reached Algiers. Here further misfortunes await-
ed him. In answer to his supplications the dey
ordered his name to be registered among the slaves,
and placed in the situation of interpreter in the A1.
gerine navy. *
After a time, however, by the intercession and
remonstrance of the French consul, Arago once
more recovered his liberty, and his instruments
were restored to him uninjured. He now embarked
for the third time for his native shores, on board a
vessel of war. On * off Marseilles, fate
again seemed adverse : an English frigate block-
|aded the harbor, and summoning the vesselbearing
º
142
ARAGO.
M.
our astronomer, ordered it to sail for Minorca.
Arago having little relish, as may be well imagined,
for a fourth captivity, persuaded the captain to
make a feint of obeying the injunctions of the
British commander, but profiting by a sudden and
favorable turn of the wind, to run at all hazards,
for the harbor of Marseilles, where fortunately they
arrived without further mishap or molestation.
It may be easily imagined that on arriving at
Paris, M.Arago met with a cordial reception from
his scientific colleagues. As a recompense for the
long sufferings and intrepid conduct of the young
Savant, the rules of the Academy of Sciences were
relaxed, and at twenty-three he was received into
the bosom of the institute, and was at the same
time appointed by the emperor professor in the
Polytechnic School, where he continued his courses
on analysis and geodesy until 1831. At the mo-
ment of the election of Arago, the institute was at
the meridian of its splendor. There sat the great
luminaries of the severe sciences'; the illustrious
author of the “Mecanique Celeste” and the not
less eminent writer of the “Mecanique Analytique.”
There also sat the Monges and the Berthollets, the
Biots, and the other eminent veterans of science;
and around them pressed names whose lustre was
then but in the dawn of its future splendor; the
Cuviers, the Poissons, the Ampères, and a crowd
of others. Among these, the enterprising youth
of Arago assumed its place full of hope and buoy-
ant with aspirations of a future not unworthy of
the glorious fraternity with which he became asso-
ciated.
It is said that Napoleon esteemed and loved
Arago, a sentiment which was not extinguished or
abated by the southern bluntness and republican
frankness of manner which no imperial splendor or
court ceremony could repress. When the emperor,
after his fall at Waterloo, designed a retirement to
the United States, intending to devote his leisure to
the cultivation of physical science, to which from
his boyhood he had been attached, he proposed to
invite Arago to accompany him.
From an early period of life Arago was an ardent
politician, and after the fall of Napoleon, never
disguised his republican principles. Under the
restoration, however, he took no active part in the
political arena, although he omitted no opportunity
of making his opinions known when their promul-
gation might have advanced the cause of constitu-
tional liberty. Publicly, however, he was onl
known as a savant and an active and distinguished
member of the institute, until the revolution of
1830 called him forth in another and very diſſerent
character. º
On the 26th of July, 1830, a meeting of the
institute was appointed, at which M., Arago was
expected to read his Eloge of Fresnel. He had
then acquired much of that popularity by his envi-
able faculty of rendering science familiar and
accessible to those who had not become profoundly
versed in its technicalities, which now constitutes
the most striking feature of his genius: A large
assemblage of all classes of well-informed and
enlightened persons were therefore collected to
hear the popular eulogist. On that afternoon, the
ordonnances which estroyed the liberty of the
press, annihilated the electoral rights, and annulled
the charter granted by Louis XVIII. at the resto-
ration, were published in the Moniteur. Arago
was standing in the ante-room, conversing with
Cuvier, who was then perpetual secretary, when
the Duke of Ragusa (Marshal Marmont) entered
accordingly, and passing through a showe. “a
with the Moniteur in his hand, and in a state of
great excitement, with fire in his eye and coſ’,
fusion in his looks. “”T is well,” exclaimed
Marmont, addressing Arago, “these infern”
ordonnances have appeared at last. I expected.”
much. The wretches to place me in this horribl;
position | No doubt, I shall now be commande
to draw the sword to sustain measures which i'
my heart I detest.”
The Moniteur was handed round, and the am"
nouncement it contained had such an overwhelm"
ing effect on the assembly, that Arago declared hº
would postpone the delivery of his eloge, assigning
as his reason the grave condition of the country:
M. Cuvier, however, who partook of little of th;
ardor of Arago's temperament, remonstratº
against any derangement of the business of th
academy, observing that the majesty of scien”
should not be compromised in what he called tº
struggles of party, and that Arago owed it equal
to the illustrious body of which he was a membé.
and to himself, not to give grounds for chargingi"
meetings with the manifestation of any factio"
political spirit. Upon this M. Villemain intº
vened, and some warm altercation took place bº.
tween him and Cuvier. Ultimately, howevº.
Arago decided on proceeding with the eloge, wº
which, however, he intermingled some burning
allusions to the events of the moment and the go"
ernment, which drew from the assembly unequivº.
cal marks of sympathy. This was the first ou"
break of public feeling produced by the ordo"
Ilan CES.
While the words of Arago elicited applause a;
the institute the funds declined at the Bours”.
Science and finance—the noblest and the vilest of
the instruments of human power, pronouncº
against the falling dynasty. º
During the next day, the public mind in Paº
was in a ferment. The tricolor flag was unfurlº.
The revolution declared itself; and on the sº
ceeding day, the 28th,) Marmont, as he antº
pated, was appointed military dictator by Chaº.
X., and ordered to quell the emeute. During º
day, the conflict between the troops and the peoP
continued; Marmont directing the movement º
the troops from the head quarters in the Plº.
Vendôme. Madame de Boignes, knowing the."
fluence which Arago had over the mind"of M*
mont, sent a note to the former, in the course".
the morning, entreating him to repair to the mº
shal, and persuade him to suspend the slaughteſ º
the people, and so save Paris from the terrº.
disaster which threatened it. Arago hesitate".
first, fearing the misconstruction which might li-
put upon such a step, taken by one whose repub d
can spirit was so well known. He determi.
however, to comply with the suggestion ".
urged upon him in the interests of humanity, iſſ!
that no sinister imputation should rest upon || s
he called his eldest son to accompany him, an
ſ
a witness of what should pass. They procee".
f
balls, arrived at the head quarters. Ther”
strange scene was presented to them.
through the billiard room, M. Laurentie was le3
ing on the table, writing an article for the ;
tidienne, one of the Carlist journals. Con .
reigned through the building. Aides-de-º. cd
passed and re-passed, pale, disordered, and co.
with sweat and dust. From the room of the "A
shal despatches issued from minute to minuſ. e151
tr
thousand rumors were brought from the s
M.
143
ARAGO.
#. increasing reports of fire arms were heard.
the wº. officers standing in the embrasures of
attenti ºws, witnessed the turns of the day with
"º ºr and changing features.
know. . Arago entered, presenting his well-
ardent . º figure, his commanding bust, and
IIlon i. , there was a movement of agitation
and º ° rºyalist officers. He was surrounded
§ men ºsed with expressions of fear by some,
French * by others. A Polish officer in the
at his ... M. Komierowski, placed himself
*gainst . and declared that if a hand were raised
bosom ". he would plunge his sabre in the
of a º him who should attempt such a violation
of it. so sacred Conducted to the presence
his º the marshal on seeing him, started on
... Make extending his arm to forbid his approach.
" which no overtures to me,” he exclaimed,
“Wh ºan tend to my dishonor as a soldier.”.
àtago ... I come to propose to you,” replied
h.” “will, on the contrary, redound to your
*gainst Ch Q not ask you to turn your sword
ºdious c arles X., but I tell you to decline this
to .mand, and leave instantly for St. Cloud,
..";ºnder your commission.”
18 c. !” returned Marmont, “shall I abandon
Shall Hºnº which the king has entrusted to me !
... soldier, yield to a band of insurgents?
"ill, Europé say to see our brave soldiers
efore a mob armed only with sticks and
mpossible !—impossible ! It cannot be.
ºw my opinions well. You know whether
i.e. ordonnances had my approval. No,
..", a horrible fatality weighs upon me. My
must be accomplished.”
Fºliº may successfully combat this fatality,”
from. Arago; “means are offered to you to efface
lectio", memory of your countrymen the recol-
wit.", the invasion of 1814. Depart—depart,
º: delay, for St. Cloud.”
Sejº referred to the long and bitterly-remem-
Surren . of Marmont, in being the means of
sion ...ing Paris to the enemy, on the first inva-
At thi. allies.
y an . moment their conference was interrupted
ship."...who rushed in with disordered looks,
ºund . of his coat, and wearing the common
Were . of a civilian. The attendants alarmed,
hrowi *t to seize him, when he exclaimed,
then "g off the hat, “You do not recognize me,
*ºnnas.” °hºld the aid-de-camp of General Quin-
ºf his e [e had cut off his moustachios, thrown
nake . and changed his hat, to enable him to
lac to t "*y in safety through the excited popu-
that tie. head quarters. He came to announce
had alr *ºops posted in the Market of Innocents
ment."y suffered much, and that a reinforce-
..", was necessary.
ºt have 11:
shed they not cannon?” thundered the
“Cann marshal.
how, [] * !” returned the aid-de-camp, “but
e diº"...ºur le Duc, can they point cannon in
Paving ...Yhat can cannon do against a torrent of
PQure. i *nes and household furniture which are
"º. On º heads of the soldiers from the
C TOO S 5 y
tº." had he uttered this, when a lancer
had been unhorsed in the Rue St.
a "his wretched soldier had his uniform
º with blood. His open jacket
...'...led breast, in which a handful of
Wh: }* was buried—the loading of a gun
*n fired upon him . By a singular
{ {
*stoni
retribution; the implements, the proper use of
which had been destroyed by the ordonnances,
were thus converted into offensive engines directed
against the agents employed to enforce these
ordonnances.
The marshal, paced the room with hasty and
agitated steps, his internal struggles being mani-
fest in his visage. “Reinforcements 1” said he,
with impatience, to the aid-de-camp—“I have no
reinforcements to send them. They must get out
of the scrape as best they can.”
The officer departed with despair in his looks.
Arago resumed his persuasions.
“Well, well,” said Marmont, “we shall see
—perhaps in the evening”
“In the evening !” rejoined Arago. “In the
evening it will be too . Think how many
mothers will be left childless, how many wives,
widows—how many thousand families will be
plunged in mourning before evening ! This even-
ing, depend on it, all will be over, and whatever be
the issue of the struggle, ruin, certain, inevitable
ruin awaits you. Wanquished, your destruction is
sure. A conqueror, who will pardon you for the blood
of your fellow-citizens which will have been shed "
Marmont was moved, and seemed to yield.
“Must I say more,” continued Arago—“must
I tell you all. As I passed through the streets, I
heard among the people your name repeated with
terrible references to past events—‘So they fire on
the people,’ they cried—“it is Marmont who is
paying his debts.’”
Arago's efforts were fruitless.
Not long after the revolution, science lost in
Cuvier one of its brightest ornaments. The chair
of perpetual secretary to the Institute was thus
vacated in 1832, and the choice of a successor to
the illustrious naturalist fell upon Arago.
We have hinted that the place which Arago
holds in the estimation of men of science is not so
elevated as that to which the popular voice has
raised him. It may perhaps, therefore, be asked,
how so high a situation, depending solely on the
votes of members of the Institute, should have
been conſerred upon him.
The office of perpetual secretary demands pecu-
liar qualifications. It is one for which a Laplace
or a Lagrange would have been ill suited, eminent
as these savans were. The perpetual secretary,
the organ of the Academy of Sciences, has daily
duties to discharge which demand great versatility,
a ready fluency of speech, a familiarity with lan-
guages ancient and modern—in a word, a certain
amount of literary acquirement, in addition to an
almost universal familiarity with the sciences.
Arago has been called the “most lettered of
savans.” If he had not assumed a place in the
Académie des Sciences, he would have held a dis-
tinguished one in the Académie Française." His
style of writing and speaking is remarkable for its
simplicity and clearness, as well as for great force
of language, great felicity of illustration, and a
most enviable power of rendering abstruse reason-
ings familiar to minds which are not versed in the
sciences. The promptitude and fluency of his ex-
temporaneous addresses is alsº a quality to which
he is indebted for much of his popularity. He
unites to the accomplishments of a classical scholar,
*The Institute consists of several academies, the first
of which is called the Académie Française, which is
charged with the preservation of the French language in
its purity, and is that to which men of literature are
more specially attached.
144 M.
ARAGO.
an intimate familiarity with modern literature, and
especially those of France and England.
It may well be imagined that such a combination
of qualifications rendered him eminently fitted to
discharge the duties of perpetual secretary to the
Institute. In seniority, and in the depth of his
physical knowledge, and the extent of his original
researches, Biot had higher claims; but in other
respects his qualifications did not bear comparison
with those of M. Arago.
The reputation of scientific men, so far as it
Tests upon the estimation of their colleagues, is
determined almost exclusively by their original re-
searches. The discovery of new laws or unob-
served phenomena of nature, is admitted as giving
them a claim to the highest grade in the corps of
science. IIad Newton only discovered the law of
gravitation, he would have left to posterity an im-
perishable name. The discovery of electro-mag-
netism placed Oersted in the highest rank. The
demonstration that the earths and alkalis are com-
pounds, having metallic bases, registered the name
of Davy in the category of those to whom mankind
is most deeply indebted for the knowledge of
nature.
Secondary to discovery, but still aſſording a high
claim to distinction, is the production of systematic
works, in which the body of natural laws and phe-
nomena, resulting from the original researches of
discoverers, are arranged, expounded, developed,
and pursued through their more immediate conse-
quences.
It is uncertain whether Euclid ever discovered a
geometrical truth. It is certain that the chief part
of the propositions which composed his “Elements”
were known to his immediate predecessors, and
that some of them were ancient, having been
brought from Egypt and the East, by Pythagoras
and others. No one, however, can deny the gen-
uineness of the fame which has surrounded the
name of the immortal author of the celebrated
“Elements.”
Had Laplace never brought to light any of the
great general laws of physics, which enter into the
composition of the “Mecanique Celeste,” yet that
work itself would have been a bequest to succeed-
ing generations, which would have registered the
name of its author in a high rank of philosophers.
As the printing-press and the steam-engine have,
by their combined power, tended to elevate the less
informed classes of every civilized people, by mul-
tiplying the means for the diffusion of knowledge,
and by giving immensely increased facility, cheap-
ness, and expedition to the interfusion of all classes,
thus imparting, by mere social contact, the eleva-
tion of the more enlightened to the less informed,
and without lowering the former, raising the latter,
new intellectual exigencies have arisen i.philoso-
hers have more varied calls on them. Their fel-
low-men ask them for the blessings of instruction
in such form and measure as the duty of their
avocations allow them to receive it. They knock
at the gates of the temple of science, and suppli-
cate that they may be thrown open to the world,
and that all be admitted to worship and fall down
in the “intima penetralia.”
In a word, the public within the last half cen-
tury, have called aloud for a system of adult in-
struction, mºre especially directed to the develop-
ment of the laws and phenomena of nature, and to
; most prominent applications to the uses of
II6.
But adult learners, engaged in the active busi-
ness of life, and often occupied in daily toil, cannot
sit down to familiarize their minds with the techni-
calities of Science ; nor can they approach its truths
by the severe paths marked out for the rigorously
disciplined students of academies and universities.
A new style of instruction, written as well as oral,
by printed books as well as by spoken lectures,
was, therefore, called into existence. Mechanics'
institutions took the lead in this intellectual revolu-
tiqn. At first those who lent themselves to the
innovation were regarded with a sinister look by
their learned colleagues. The great leaders of the
scientific corps stood aloof. The intrinsic utility
of the thing, and the irresistible character of the
public demand for it in every country holding any
degree of advancement, forced forward the im”
provement; and at length some of the most emi-
nent names were found amongst the laborers in this
new field of scientific distinction.
First and most honored stands the name of
Henry Brougham. In establishing the “Library
of Useful Knowledge,” and affording an example
and a pattern at once for the works which were to
compose it, in his beautiful “Discourse upon the
Objects and Pleasures of Science,” he gave the
first great impulse to the movement. This was
soon followed i. the publication of Dr. “Lardner's
Cabinet Cyclopédia,” the scientific section of which
was designed on a similar plan, but with somewhat
an higher aim. Among the volumes that were
#. in this miscellany, the work of Sir John
erschel, entitled “A Preliminary Discourse on
Natural Philosophy,” formed an era in this kin
of composition, and an event in the progress 0
scientific literature, which can never be forgotten ;
this work, which the venerated Mackintosh pro-
nounced the most remarkable philosophical treatise
which had appeared since the death of Bacon.
In examining the pretensions of M. Arago, and
arriving at a just decision on the question raised
between those whose idol he is, on the one hand,
and those who would reduce him to the lowes.
rank in the community of science, on the other, *
is necessary to keep in view these distinctions.
In original research, in observation and expeº"
ment, that highest field of scientific labor, M;
Arago, say his detractors, “ has done nothing.
This statement is easily confuted. We have dº.
ready related his early labors on the measureme"
of the meridional arc in conjunction with M. Bio":
It may be admitted that in this there was nothin;
more than a fair promise in a young savant, whº
was appropriately and sufficiently rewarded by th”
distinction immediately conferred upon him. . .
In the year 1829, however, the Royal Socie?
of London conferred upon him the Copley medal.”
annual mark of honor, which is granted by th”
society to persons who by their original research%
promote the advancement of physical science.
was conferred on M. Arago for his discoveries cº.
nected with the development of magnetism by rº.
tion; an inquiry in which he was immediately º
lowed by the labors of Babbage and Hersch.
His countrymen esteem this mark of distinctiº t
have brought with it more than usual honor.
the consideration that M. Arago had frequen'
rendered himself conspicuous by his efforts to wº
from British savans the merit claimed for them? 15
inventors and discoverers, an example of which
adduced in his researches into the early history.” {}
the steam-engine, in which he is regarded in Fº:
as having proved that that machine is of F.
invention. Those, however, who better know'
M. ARAGo.
145
. head
ºelings which animate the council of the Royal
º in the distribution of scientific honors, are
Ҽ how utterly groundless such ideas are.
conjº associated with Gay Lussac in
table º; the series of experiments by which the
-, 9xhibiting the relation between the pressure
. . . i. of steam was extended to the
Ҽes! Practicable degrees of tension. *
- foliº *...those we have just mentioned, may be
Scatter º flºw other instances of original research
a. through the proceedings of the Institute,
"Aºlentific periodicals.
fij to these all the credit that can be
ºrty aimed for them, when it is considered that
this .. have now elapsed since the labors of
nstit Yºntgommenced; that he is a member of the
* of thirty-seven years' standing; that at
"ºl of the Observatory, and in the laboratory
me .nets of the Polytechnic School, he had
ºn un 9f experimental inquiry and observation on
cº." large and liberal scale at his absolute
ºnythi hd; it cannot be, maintained that there is
Oun § in these labors and researches to form the
he j. for the widely-extended reputation which
work; lºgo is not the author of any systematic
* any branch of science. . . . .
are tº. two departments of scientific labor which
Statio sidered as giving a title to the highest rep-
... anº. M. Arago has therefore done nothing in
, ty wjº proportionate to the ſame and populari-
i.ºh surround his name. -
§ºse labors which are directed to popularize
man.ºe science—to bring it to the doors of the
is tºº, Arago stands forward prečminent. This
of his ºe of his popularity, and, the foundation
, ſº , , , ,, . . . . . . . . .
to . been the laudable practice of the Institute
Shem "memorate each of its most distinguished
“el, º, after their decease, by a public eulogy or
.# Fº which is read at one of its meetings, and
Šiog ed These eloges are
raphi in its transactions. i. º
haº. b *al sketches, in which the things which
scien. done or written for the advancement of
arrat. d'. the departed member, are explained and
º i. that encomium which such an occa-
º 9mposition of those eloges; Arago has
-- lap. CO ºgreat celebrity. . No one living, per-
suð...”imbines so many eminent qualifications for
- $, and accordingly these essays have been
ºthus...ºnd with the greatest manifestations of
sm, and have received marks of unqualified
intifi...º is usual to adapt such essays not to
ls, there *h only, but to the world in general. It
In wiji necessary, in explaining the works
* . ... he deceased member has derived dis.
§uage divest, the exposition of the technical
jºi...ºymbols of science, to exhibit them
ºn the . *y and clearness, and to clothe them
*ious ººge of eloquence and poetry... Con-
Pºrtuni, ‘. . wer, Arago eagerly seizes this op-
am; ºf lisplaying it, and executes his task
- º ºf the fo *ke the chisel of the sculptor, amor-
. ...elope; ...of beauty and grace which are
with ... under its edge, the pen of Arago dwells
.."8 composi delight on the sentences of those
iteratu *Pºsitions. All who are interested in
- ... ºf science, will recall the pleasure
**śsnel. "...the perusal of the eloges of Volta,
t Indi.P., and Watt.... . . . .
. . . . * eloquence, M. Arago has had few
• ,
' A *
many analogies sufficiently striking.
*he world—to adorn it with the graces of |
equals-no superior. In the scientific essays of
Lord Brougham there are many qualities unfolded
which exhibit the same character of genius. In-
deed, between these two illustrious men there are
r Both are
gifted with the same fluency, ease, simplicity, and
clearness. Both have the rare facility of render-
ing simple that which is complicated; of shedding
the light of their mind on that which is obscure;
of clearing to the uninitiated the thorny paths that
lead to the temple of science. Both have been
the ardent apostles of the diffusion of knowledge,
and have stimulated others in the prosecution of ,
that holy labor, by precept and example. Both
have combined the character apparently incompati-
ble, of the politician who rushes into the conflict
of the chambers and mounts the rostrum of the
popular assembly, with that of the grave instructor,
who unfolds the laws of the physical universe,
reads to his astonished auditors what has been
going on in the heavens for countlessages gone by,
and foretells what will happen there for countless
ages to come. . . . . . . .
As a Savant, we find many points of resemblance
between Arago and Sir John Herschel. The
celebrated discourse on Natural Philosophy ex-
hibits, in the felicity of its style of exposition and
illustration, those endowments which have contrib-
lº to raise Arago to so high a pitch of popu-
arity. r . . . .
As an oral teacher, Faraday exhibits, though in
an inferior degree, the qualities which annually
attract such crowds to the astronomical lectures
delivered at the observatoire. . . ... "
Though not deficient in some familiarity with the
pure mathematics, M. Arago has not acquired that.
profound knowledge of them which his scientfic
position is considered to demand. That he is not
ignorant, as some of his detractors have said, of
this branch of science, is proved by the chair he
filled for so many years in the Polytechnic School.
But that he has not, on the other hand, prosecuted
these studies so as to avail himself of them to any
considerable extent, is equally certain.
It has been objected, that nothing contributing
materially to the advancement of practical astrono-
my, has issued from the observatory under his
directorship ; that he is neither an observer him-
self, nor has he the power of turning the observa-
tions of his assistants to profitable account. ..
Notwithstanding that it cannot be. denied, that
such animadversions may he to some extent justi-
fied, the friends of M. Arago reply, that no savant
eyer displayed more activity and untiring industry.
“Ask,” say they, “his assistants and colleagues
in the observatory respecting his course of life.
They will relate to you, with unaffected, astonish-
ment, the incredible amount of mental labor which
he undergoes; that he esteems that man idle who
toils less than fourteen hours a day; that with
himself, days of this kind are days of comparative
rest; they will tell you of the pile of correspond-
ence, memorials, and petitions which daily load his
table, relating to politics, º: chemistry, me-
chanics, astronomy, natural history, and even phi-
losophy and literature | They will tell you of his
correspondence with every part of Europe; with
Asia, with America, north and south; they will
tell you of the uncounted committees on politics,
science, and the arts, of which he is an active
member; they will tell you of the plans which he
has daily to examine and report upon, of the me-
moirs he has to analyze, and of his weekly work,
146
Mſ. ARAGO.
as perpetual secretary and man of all work of the
Institute, and they will then ask you, is not that
enough to earn his reputation ?”
With all these calls on his attention, no one is
more accessible than M. Arago. The government,
the municipality, public and private establishments
connected with industry and the useful arts, find in
him an adviser always ready and disinterested.
Yet in the midst of duties so absorbing, and calls
SQ various, there is no one seen in the salons of
Paris who shares more freely, and enjoys more
intensely the pleasures of society.
Arago is ambitious. He shares, in a large
measure, that love of glory which is the peculiar
attribute of his countrymen. This passion fills his
Soul. Had he been a soldier, he would have been
a marshal of France, the victor of an hundred
fights. He seeks fame, but is not satisfied with
that remote fame which comes when the bones of
its owner crumble in the dust. He loves immedi-
ate honor, and thirsts for popularity. This he
courts in science, in letters, in politics;–in the
observatory, in his closet, in the senate, and at the
hustings.
Arago is of an impetuous temper. A violent
political partisan, he carries into science and letters
the spirit which animates him in the tribune, and
allows his estimates of the merits and claims of his
contemporaries to be biassed by the hostilities or the
partialities produced by their respective political
opinions. Filled with the aspiring ambition so pc-
culiar to his country, he claims for it the first and
highest place in everything which can elevate its
fame. . There is no invention in art, or discovery in
science, which he will not strain every sinew of his
mind to claim for France. If he notices the steam-
engine, he is sure to prove that admirable machine
to be of French origin; according to him, the Phil-
adelphian experiment of drawing lightning from the
clouds, which all the world believes to be due to
Franklin, is in reality due to a Frenchman.
If it could be assumed that France might have
existed before Paradise, M. Arago would demon-
strate, beyond the possibility of dispute, that Adam
and Eve were made, not as is commonly believed,
by God, but by a Frenchman.
In his capacity of astronomer royal, M. Arago
delivers cach season, at the observatory, a course
of lectures on astronomy. These are exquisite
models of popular didactic eloquence. Notwith-
standing the inconvenient locality of the observatory,
and the inconvenient hours at which they are given,
the theatre is filled with an audience of seven or
eight hundred persons of both sexes, and of every
class, who hang on the lips of tho lecturer with
inute and unrelaxing attention—the most grateful
homage to his genius. *:
As a member of the Board of º M.
Arago directs the publication of the “Annuaire,”
an almanac issued at a low price for general use,
by the French government. As an appendix to
this work, notices on scientific subjects, written in a
popular style, have for many years appeared. The
notices of . The Steam-Engine,” “Comets.
.#.W. “Thunder and Lightning,”
clipses... will be fresh in the memory of all
readers.' Thé form of its publication, the utility
of its contents and tables, and its extreme cheapness,
(it is sold in France at one franc, equal to ten-
pence,) have combined to give it an enormous cir-
culation throughout, every part of the world.
Nothing has so largely contributed to the universal
diffusion of M. Arago's name as this little annual
volume. The tact shown in the selection of the
topics for the “notices” is not less striking than th9
felicity of the style in which they are composed.
That a reputation has resulted from them, consider”
ing its extent and universality, altogether dispropoſ”
tionate to their claims as scientific compositions, is
undeniable; and that the reaction produced thus:
among the scientific community, should give rise tº
hostile strictures and depreciating animadversions
on the author is natural. The “notices” will nev,
ertheless be read, and the name of the writer echoeſ
in places where these strictures shall never be heard;
and at times when they shall be forgotten.
The convulsions which attended the Revolution
of July did not suddenly terminate. They were
followed from time to time by popular outbreaks in
Paris, in which the civil force and the militia of th9.
National Guard were called upon to act. The
government itself was unsettled, and the counsellors.
of the crown, with new functions and uncertain rē"
sponsibilities, were distracted and divided—the moſº
so, because, although the principle of the royal
irresponsibility was adopted in the constitution, th9.
personal character of Louis Philippe, not less than
the exigencies and well-being of the state, did no
ermit that monarch to assume the position of the L3).
figure, to which the sovereign is reduced in Eng"
land. In these emeutes, M. Arago was ofteſ.
called to appear either casually, or by his office as
a deputy, or as an officer of the National Guard.
In the events which resulted in the pillage and
destruction of the archbishop's palace in February,
1831, and which menaced the metropolitan church
of Notre Dame, he appeared as colonel of the
twelfth legion of the National Guard. During th9
night of the 14th, the populace in several quarter”
had committed violences, which presaged the pro.
ceedings of the morning. At the break of day,
groups had assembled in the streets around th”.
Palais Royale. These avenues, however, wer.
efficiently guarded, and mysterious leaders appeare".
among the people, who artfully directed their cour*.
towards the Pont Neuf, and thence to the precinº
of Notre Dame. On the alarm being given, tº
drums beat to arms, and the National Guards of tº
twelfth legion assembled, under the command of M.
Arago, in the quarter of the Pantheon, whence thºſ.
marchéd to the river, and crossed by the bridge nº
the cathedral. The adjutant of the battalion, t
Comte de Clonard, in passing the crowd, unintº".
tionally struck, and mortally wounded, one of tº
people. The bleeding man was carried on tº,
shoulders of the mob to the precincts of the church.
amid shouts of vengeance. Meanwhile the Coº
escaped. M. Arago, following the sufferer, hº
him brought to the hospital (Hotel Dieu) near th” .
bridge, and left him in proper medical care. ; 3.
had scarcely, however, reappeared at the gate 9.
the hospital when he was surrounded by the pop.
lace, who, accusing him of the murder, dragged hº
to the quay-wall, from which they were about.
fling him into the Seine. To his courage *
presence of mind, and perhaps also to his gener”.
popularity, he was indebted for his safety. d'
M. Arago, returning to the head of his troop, led.
them round the cathedral to the archbishop's pº acº.
adjacent to it. Here ascene presented itself whº
baffles description. The iron balustrades arou".
the palace had been torn down, and bent like W.
under human force. The rich apartments W. :
filled with the populace. Pvery window wº
thrown open, and the demon of destruction rº
within. Rich candelabras, paintings, costly marble” .
M. ARAGO. r 147
^,
ornamental
Splend
* Crucifixes,
id mi
ſº tables and chairs, carved wainscoting,
Trors, rare books, priceless manuscripts,
pontifical robes of cloth of gold,
Sł * º
i.ere showered from every window into the
rroun lū
bravos g Co
Hestro
ČS
ing
. Th
Tago
ex
church
and wa
nde
Of the re
e ninth
ith a force
:**ago
lrr
ºl §parabl
lnfur
ln t
&uish
the
Whs
loo
Perso
intº.
which
mob h
.
g t
Part
M * y
ruin
W.
1 and
and Tell
teement.
©Iſleuto
urt and streets, amidst a storm of
shouts of laughter, and cries of fury. The
*g angel seemed to ſly through the build-
legion of the Guard had arrived before
• *º had entered both the palace and the
hey were paralyzed by what they beheld,
d through the rooms passive spectators
§ºne, without order or discipline.
inadequate to quell the emcute, M.
Wils compelled to look on and behold losses,
9 to art and science, inflicted by a blind
late mob. He despatched one of his sub-
º * brother of M. Montalivet) to represent at
Feinſ, *tters what was going on, and to demand a
No reinforcement came, and Arago
that jºined of what he had previously suspected,
ſor sinis
was connived at by the government
ºr purposes. He was still more confirmed
e lºsion when he was told that distin-
cou. Persons were seen in the neighborhood dis-
gin
p § the National Guards from interfering with
This *Pºe. He was assured in particular that M.
then one of the under secretaries of State,
º walking round the ruins with a gratified
**nd a smile on his lips.
* “athedral itself was now menaced. Some
ion
ln th
e
of th
ad got upon the roof, apparently with the
* of knocking down the stone cross with
Was surmounted. Meanwhile a part of the
*Some round to the front gate, which they
the act of forcing, with the view of destroy-
99ntents of the church, and attacking a
the ninth legion which occupied it, under
$honen. M. Arago, seeing the impending
trembling for the precious objects of art
§ of antiquity within, left his troop, which
Stat; tº - º
the ...ºned in an adjacent street, and traversing
hea
:
Shak
an
fall º
Swe
Wive
hel.
r
*Kes ll
heig. al
owd, W
rushed
Ormo
13 WG
it in
e C his l
hom his tall form overtopped by the
.* amongst the foremost and pointing at
* exclaimed:—“Behold that cross which
"der the blows of the destroyers! Its
$9me makes it seem small. It is in reality
ln th US mass of stone. Would you await its
of you, bringing with it, as it will,
alustrade below it! Aw § away, or I
re
O -. -
S iſ. that to-night your chil
Of ; S
n and your
to weep your loss!” Saying this,
Hºldenly retreated, putting an appearance
ooks.
tested ºwd, infected with the fear they saw man-
; whos °he whose courage they did not doubt,
l
* knowledge they respected, precipitately
Yºry, direction. In a moment Arago led his
place they deserted, and occupied
ºch to the church.
in I.sion of the disturbances which took
*As on the 5th and 6th June, 1832, a
° members of the opposition was held
of Lafitte, at which it was resolved
Putation to the king at the Tuileries,
rdes". Presenting to him that the existing
ind the blood ºf the people, which then
§ streets of the capital, were the miser-
.*es of the policy adopted by the gov-
Ilt
Sup lica . Since the revolution of 1830, and to
*$o change his counsels. This depu-
‘toon";
Place
º g
t º
to : **esidence
Char. *
º §ed with
9Wed;
able . th
*nme eq
ta. *
- fi. $9nsisted
' [fefore th
of Arago, O'dillon Barrot, and in-
*ir arrival at the palace, the revolt
was in a great degree quelled. Admitted to the
cabinet of Louis Philippe he received them with his
usual frankness, and cordiality. They represented
that now that the victory was gained, the time for
the exercise of clemency approached; that the
occasion was favorable for the correction of past
errors; that the moment at which the law triumphed
over disorder was a fitting one for a change of sys-
tem, the necessity of which was generally admitted;
that the popularity of the crown had been compro-
mised, party hatreds excited, civil discord awakened;
all which were consequences of the system of win-
dictive rigor which had been pursued.
The answer of the king vindicated the policy of
his advisers, and threw on the factious, and on the
opposition themselves, the blame of the evils which
ensued. Arago replied in language not to be mis-
taken, that his resolution, was taken not to accept
any office under such a government. Odillon Bar-
rot was uttering a like declaration when the king,
interrupting him, and striking him, with a friendly
gesture, on the knee, said, “M. Barrot, I do not
accept your renunciation of office.”
On the departure of the deputation the king ob-
served to one of his intimate friends, who waited in
an adjoining room—“M. Barrot was sententious
and gentle; M. Lafitte, solemn; and M. Arago,
extremely petulant.”
M. Arago was elected for the first time to the
Chamber of Deputies, in 1831, by the electoral col-
lege of his native place, Perpignan. He immedi-
ately took his place among the party of the extreme
left, which represented opinions as republican as
was compatible with a seat in the chamber. When
this party, before the following general election,
issued the manifesto to the electors, since known by
the name of the “comte rendue,” which was ſol-
lowed by the dissolution of the party, Arago, who
had signed that document, ranked himself with his
friends, Dupont de l'Eure and Lafitte, in irreconcil-
able enmity with the government, to which he has
ever since offered the most persevering and untiring
opposition. Among his parliamentary speeches,
one of the most remarkable and successful was that
directed against the fortifications of Paris, and more
especially against those detached forts which have
been erected outside the fortifications, in such posi-
tions as to command every egress from the city.
In 1837, when a coalition was attempted between
different sections of the opposition in the Chamber
of Deputies, and an effort was prepared to resist the
corrupt influences of government at the elections,
Arago was, by common consent, associated with
Lafitte and Dupont de l'Eure to represent the de-
mocratic party. The combined weight of thºse three
names was relied on as a tower of strength. ...The
dynastic opposition was to be invited to a coalition.
If it should accede, a party would be formed against
which no ministry could stand. If not, no opposi-
tion could prevail which should be deprived of these
names. A committee was ultimately fºrmed to act
upon the elections through the press, of which Ar-
ago was a leading member; and although the
fusion of the two sections of the opposition was
found impracticable, much was done to augment the
Liberal party. Arago obtained a double return,
being § by two separate colleges.
The ultra-radical part which Arago has played
in the chamber, and the unrelaxing and virulent
spirit of his opposition to government have, in some
measure, impaired the benefits which the nation and
the government might have derived from cminent
talents. His speech on the establishment of rail-
148
M. ARAGO.
ways in France, and that against the undue weight
given to classical studies in the system of public
instruction, were each marked with a certain irri-
tating spirit, dogmatic, and offensively aggressive,
which, setting at defiance a large section of the
chamber, obstructed the influence of the lucid and
practical views which he advanced, and which, if
presented in a different spirit, could not have failed
to produce a profound impression.
Arago derives much power in the senate by his
renown as a savant. A certain prestige attaches to
his presence, which, when he rises to speak,
.represses every murmur. No noisy marks, whether
of assent or dissent, are heard. A respectful silence
is observed equally by friend and foe. Every coun-
tenance, leaning forward, is marked with an une-
quivocal expression of attentive curiosity. Every
ear inclines, greedy for his words. His lofty stat-
ure, his hair curled and flowing, his fine southern
head, command the audience. In the muscular play
of his noble front, in which the wrinkles appear and
disappear like the ripple on the ocean, there are
indications of habits of meditation and power of
will.
A mind so organized could not have resigned it-
sclf, in the actual condition of society in France, to
the tranquil labors of the observatory or the study.
Versatile in its endowments, it would yearn for ac-
tion after the quietude of study. The agitation of
human affairs would be sought after, as a contrast
to the solemnity and repose presented by the rolling
orbs of the firmament. The tempest of the forum
would be welcomed after the silent grandeur of
nature.
Although he derives as much of his power from
the intensity of passion as from the prestige of his
science, he cannot confront an adverse assembly
with that towering superiority which marks the
great orator. He cannot behold the tempestuous
movements of the assembled people, and the out-
bursts of opposition, with the scornful indifference
of Mirabeau. An unfavorable reception would chill
the fervor of his inspiration, and relax the vigor
of his soul. Happily, he is not exposed to such
trials. He is listened to, generally, by those who
love to hear and comprehend him.
It is related by one who knows him, that one
fine evening in spring, walking with his family in
the garden of the observatory, he alluded to the
subject on which he intended to speak the next day
in the chamber, and mentioned the observations he
intended to make. He rehearsed, in a manner, his
intended speech. - º
“The question to be discussed,” says a friend,
who was present on the occasion, “was the yindi-
cation of the people from the contempt, manifested
towards them by the aristocracy, by showing the
extent to which the people have been the means of
advancing the sciences, enumerating the great men
who have arisen among them. Carried away by
the enthusiasm with which the subject filled him,
Arago rose gradually from the familiar tone in
which he had begun, and became, more and more
animated and sublime. Ifancy still, when I behold
the elevated terrace of the garden which overlooks
Paris; that I see his tall figure, like an Arab chief;
with head uncovered and arm extended, his eye full
of fire, his hair agitated by the wind, his fine fore-
head lit by the red rays of the setting sun. No ;
never was aspect more majestic-nºver did man
clothe his thoughts in terms more noble and more
solemn. Yet, the next day I went to hear him in
the chamber deliver the intended speech, and coul
scarcely recognize the individual of the preceding,
evening, so sensible did he appear to the murmurs
with which his allusions to the people were receive
by the sprinkling of aristocrats in the chamber.”
It may be asked why, if Arago be a republican
in spirit, he should submit to the conditions which
a seat in the chamber under the monarchy of July
requires!
To say that Arago is a republican is not strictly
true. Like his late friend, Lafitte, and like Dupont
de l’Eure, and others of the samo section of the
chamber, it is not that he believes at this moment
possible a great European republican state, but he
thinks that republicanism is the centre, towards
which European states are gravitating, and into
which, in the fulness of time, they will successively .
fall, and that France will be the first. He regards
republicanism as the most exalted form of the most
advanced civilization. -
When we consider how prone men of science and
letters are, when they arrive at political station an
influence, to prostrate themselves at the steps 9
thrones, and exhibit subserviency to ministeria
power, and what complaisant apologists despotisſ'
everywhere finds in them, we cannot too much
admire the spirit of indépendence with which
Arago has rendered himself an exception to this .
formula, so derogatory to the dignity of mind.
And in his case the temptation was oven greate;
than it is wont to be, for his voice was all-powerfu
at a time when the sovereign, recently seated on
his new and unsteady throne, without the suppor
of an aristocracy of wealth or rank, stood in need
of the countenance of the aristocracy of intellect.
Arago, if compliant, might have obtained from th?.
royalty of the barricades everything which coul
gratify his ambition. He accepted nothing, but
preserved his dignity and independence.
Arago fills a considerable number of public fun"
tions, most of which are elective, and some unsal"
ried. He is Director of the Observatory, a Membº.
of the Board of Longitude, perpetual Secretary 0
the Academy of Sciences, Member of the Superiº
Council of the Polytechnic School, Member of th:
Council-General of the Seine, of the Committee 0
Public Health, Colonel in the National Guard,
Member of the Chamber of Deputies, and Comº.
mander in the Legion of Honor. He has be?”
elected also a corresponding member of most of tº
principal learned societies of Europe, and on
occasion of his visit to England, had the civic hº
ors conferred upon him by the corporations of Edi"
burgh and Glasgow. . .
+
A New moral atmosphere hangs, at length, ovº.
the Eternal City. Rome has suddenly come.9%
of her cloud, and anchored in the light of civiliº.
tion. The new pope has found out that a stºº
cannot make its way among the modern nations
the sole light from the Seven Candlesticks. Y
learn, now, that the enlightened and reformiº
pontiff has granted a privilege to an Italian-Angº.
company for the construction of railways in th9
Roman States—on condition of their realizing *
guaranteed fund of about seven millions sterling.
and that the members of the company are on t 10
way to England for the purpose of raising the *
quired capital. .''.
CHOLERA-GOVERNMENT OF CANADA.
149
J
CHOLERA,
4
LETTEns d . .
nd
tº the 18th.jj papers have arrived from Bombay
ºil. There y, in anticipation of the overland
The r °re is no political news.
been mo *Vºges of the cholera at Kurrachee had
O st disastrous. Between the 14th and the
off, ind. above 8,000 human beings were cut
fightin ing 895 Europeans; of whom 815 were
i. . Besides this, 595 Sepoys, and it is
inhabi. out 7,000 natives, camp-followers, and
9mmen º of the town, have died. The disease
14th : ". its destructive course on Sunday the
and op len the weather was unusually stagnant
§ { i.e. The Bombay Times says—
At rest; 9re midnight nine of the Eighty-sixth were
in suc and men began to be borne into hospital
ange numbers that it was difficult to make
night. ºnents for their reception. It was a fearful
Pºstilenc ith morning came the tidings that the
ln twº. WäS overspreading the town, and 50 had
Sixth ...ſº hours fallen victims. The Eighty-
$ºverest *...the earliest, and continued to be the
tieti...ºfferers. They and her majesty's Six-
othe,'"...or six months been in tents close to each
Were in. day after the disease appeared they
by the arched out for change of air, and encamped
"ext a ...hore near Clifton. The Rifles were
th ...; then the Fusiliers; the artillery
five fe "9 infantry began to suffer after this. For
host . ul, days did the destroyer lay his hand
than ".ily upon them; and in this time more
Pestile. 0 men were carried to their graves | The
wo.”, now began to abate—it had done its
than"."º seemed about to withdraw: within less
fighti fortnight, 900 Europeans, including 815
diers"; ºn, were carried away; 600 native sol-
º 7,000 of the camp followers and inhabi-
The CO he town, had been hurried into eternity.
's stat ºct of the governor [Sir Charles Napier)
for jº have been beyond all praise; anxiety
hand.º.º. conferring an alacrity on limbs that the
Cers i. might have stiffened. Only two offi-
died— aptain J. B. Seton, of the Bom-
Tºjº, and Lieutenant Dawson, of the
Del.iment of native infantry.”
fro º still more graphic are given in a letter
Publish. mp at Kurrachee, dated June 30th, and
“For º the same journal—
press ..."º days sorely did the destroying angel
Victim \ls regiment; 235, or thereabout, fell
§ffered this scourge. The Fusiliers and Rifles
About 85 .. ess extent; each regiment has buried
in the OS Şrqpeans. Who shall depict the scene
ºals ºls; I speak more of the Fusiliers,
delii. that I saw much : every cot was filled—
§In an ºre, death there—the fearful shrieks of
short ... Sºish. Men whom you had seen but a
*Very ..."efore hale and strong were rolling in at
$9 ful ". °rowding every space—countenances
liveiled a "...y.ey's sunken and glaring,
York . fiv d blackened cheeks. This, too, the
Was ** short minutes or less : So sudden
Cra * With some that they were seized,
Writtà"; "lapsed, dead, almost is fast as I have
Yere nº. Words. Previous health and strength
their tº...". men attending the burials of
ital, d es were attacked, borne to the hos-
*...were º themselves the next morning.
j ; j in the churchyard morning and
jº Yereja ...P. in heir bedding, coſinless,
• Publi side by side, one service read over
l g
*Works were suspended during the 15th
and 16th. Medicine seemed powerless; nothing
that medical science could suggest took effect—
they were, in fact, dealing with corpses. It was
not until the third day that medicine assumed any
sway; since it has done so, I should say two-
thirds of the cases have been saved.
“It was a goodly sight to see the grim old
warrior [Sir Charles Napier] passing up and down
the wards quietly from bedside to bedside, whisper-
ing gentle words of hope and comfort. He seemed
to take no rest.”
At the date of the latest accounts, the pestilence
had left Kurrachee, and was moving up the river.
It is said that Kurrachee is liable to triennial
attacks of cholera; but the mortality in 1839 and
1842 was trifling in comparison with the recent
visitation.—Spectator.
GOVERNMENT OF CANADA.
The state of Canada demands prompt and effec-
tive attention. There is a ministerial crisis: in-
deed there may be said to have been a ministerial
crisis ever since the liberal ministry broke up, in
the dispute with Sir Charles Metcalfe about respon-
sible government. The crisis in Canada is attend-
ed by the agitation of certain broad political ques-
tions that go to affect not only the internal peace
of that colony but the closeness of its adhesion to
the mother-country.
We may look for the causes of Sir Charles Met-
calfe's comparative failure in the antecedents of his
North American mission. In the East Indies he
was distinguished for the ability and benevolence
with which he wielded the arbitrary power reposed
by the Indian government in its official subordi-
nates. He was appointed to succeed the kind but
hotheaded anti-slavery governor, Sir Lionel Smith,
in Jamaica. The blacks expected to find the new
man a perfect contrast to their old friend : they
found him no such thing, but a man equally desir-
ous of benefiting his fellow-creatures with whatso-
ever tint of skin, and enforcing the law with a mild
Christian tone of address highly conciliatory to
their feelings. They respected his firmness, and
loved his kindness. On the other hand, the plant-
ers, instead of being disappointed at not finding in
Sir Charles a “slave-driver,” ſound him as firm
and dignified as they could desire, while he. Suc.
ceeded in touching their hearts. He established
peace in Jamaica.
In that mission, however, he encountered no
political question, properly so called. : Polities
were quite subordinate and incidental to the social
and commercial questions. When he went to
Canada, he found little astir in the way of com-
mercial questions, nothing in the Way, of social
questions; but all was politics... This, lay out of
the course of his experience. . He had proved an
excellent administrator, a kind arbitrator; but he
had displayed no peculiar ability or attainments as
a politician. He displayed none in Canada. His
official ability helped to make affairs go on more
smoothly than they might; his personal worth in-
duced the colonists to suffer a considerable sus-
pense in their own, political action ; his malady
powerfully excited their sympathies, and procured
for him, as a personal indulgence, a forbearance
extraordinary in a people denied the fruits of that
for which they had struggled even to the pitch of
civil war and rebellion. And when they saw the
kind old man leaving their shores “to die,” they
150
THE SALT MONOPOLY IN BRITISH INDIA.
could not restrain their pity, and they spoke to him
in terms of respect that almost seemed to imply ap-
proval of his rule. No such feeling, however, was
in their minds. Sir Charles Metcalfe, on succeed-
ing Sir Charles Bagot as governor-general, had
found the question of ministerial responsibility to
the representative chamber in a half-settled state :
he failed at once to master the subject himself and
to make the colonists understand his really honest
intentions; and he left the question more unsettled
than he found it, after having remained in abey-
ance throughout his governorship. Meanwhile,
many men, of more or less political honesty, more
or less desirous of promoting peace, consented to
take office without a settlement on that cardinal
point. M. Viger and some of the French party
braved obloquy in the attempt to bring about a bet-
ter state of matters by quiet and gentle means ;
Mr. Draper and others of the old Tory party con-
sented to take office merely as a matter of routine,
to work the government of the province as well as
they could. Such adventurers in that sea of
troubles could never muster men enough to make
up a complete cabinet; and in proportion to the
apparent completeness of their own corps rose the
waves of turbulent and threatening discontent in
the country. Lord Cathcart took the command on
military grounds; he has left the political question
untouched, while the political disorder, for want
of any real supervision, has greatly increased. The
cabinct has once more approached a nominal com-
pleteness; and the angry sounds revive at that
sign of official settling down without settlement of
the great political question.
The new governor to be appointed by the whigs
must take it up where Sir Charles Bagot left it,
and must really settle it without further delay.
Difficulties have grown up. The colonists, new
to the practice of responsible government, raised
untoward questions as to the degree of deference
which the representative of the sovereign ought to
show to the representative chamber in the distri-
bution of patronage; and by a want of thoroughly
comprehending the subject, and a mistrusting hesi-
tation, Lord Metcalfe suffered the dispute to become
a substantive cause of difference—an episode in the
question of responsible government demanding
prior solution. Some difficulty is anticipated in
defining the bounds of imperial and colonial prac-
tice, and in laying down a rule for the purpose.
None need be laid down. It will fully suffice if
the governor for the time being honestly fulfil the
condition laid down in Lord Durham's report—to
govern the colony in accordance with the well
understood wishes of the colonists as expressed by
their elected representatives. let him, in fact,
govern the colony through his local ministers; and
let them hold their places only so long as they pos-
sess the confidence of the majority in the represen-
tative chamber. It is true that, even then, all
sources of dissension may not be extinguished; the
colonists may not al ways choose ministers suitable
to the actual state of imperial affairs; the crown
Imay nºt always find the engines ready to work out |h
its will even in legitimate objects: but such differ:
ences will lie within the scope and influence of
official discretion; they will raise no broad popular
constitutional questions, but will merely for a time
oppose an obstacle to the progress of the particular
measure at issue. Such partial “ hitches” fre-
quently occur in this country, without bringing
Magna Charlº in issue, or threatening to excite
rebellion. We too get on well enough without
any defined rule as to the distribution of crown
patronage; which is not always made in accord-
ance with ministerial or parliamentary views.
The thing wanted in Canada is a governor who
understands the question and will honestly set the
principle of responsible government at work, with-
out any more Sct rules or declarations.
Lord Elgin is named as the future governor;
Tried only in the field of Jamaica, he may be sai
to be little tried for Canada; but he is highly
spoken of, as intelligent, earnest, young, active-
and may we hope bold?—Spectator, Sept. 5.
* * ******T*** *-*---------- ºr-----------------------, * = -- - - - -->
THE SALT MONOPOLY IN BRITISH INDIA.
For EMost among the manifold advantages ſlow-
ing from the more rapid communication between
Great Britain and India, we reckon the moral iſ:
fluence thereby brought to bear on the destinies 0
the latter country. The great empire rises upon
our mental vision in more distinct proportions *
the distance practically diminishes; its concertº
present themselves more frequently and mor"
familiarly to our notice ; and a continually incretº
ing body of the British public become interested iſ
the palpable realities of a land they had hithertº
known only as a gorgeous dream, too shadowy an
remote to fix their attention. We cannot have *.
better pledge of the security and prosperity of gº.
Indian dominions than this lively growth of publiº.
opinion at home. Its action, so far as it is wisel),
directed, or in other words, so far as it is founde
in knowledge, cannot fail to bind the two countrie
together in that closest and most durable of bonds,
the sense of benefits quickly and largely reciprº,
cated. How can we promote the welfare of Indiº
how can we best enable her to participate in th”
fruits of our civilization ? These are questions iſ.
peratively pressed upon us alike by our interº
and our duty; and their practical solution wil
advanced in exact proportion to the exte".
force, and soundness of public opinion applied "
them.
I'rom the large field for improvement ope
our view let us at present select one object,
consideration of which seems peculiarly fitted gº
the national mood at this day. The salt manuſ:
turers of England are exerting themselves to ob!".
from the East India Company the surrender of: Il
salt monopoly, and the opening of the India
markets, for the better, and cheaper commº.
which England can supply. There are three p. --
cipal parties whom the proposed measure wº".
affect, and to all of whom it would be a source .
great advantage. These are, first, the salt-own”.
themselves, and the shipping, manufacturing, .
commercial interests of Great Britain generº! s
Secondly, the company, whose resources wou cy
much larger under the free trade system than th .
nºw are ; and thirdly, the native consume, .
whom the monopoly presses most cruelly and º
iquitously. Ten years ago, a committee of ğ.
Hºuse of commons reported it as their op.
that the evils usually incident to a gover.".
monopoly in a great article of consumption ar. I in
Wanting in the working of the salt monº.
India; and they have not been convinced by CI)
evidence that the amount which has hithertº i. ed
derived from the monopoly might not be collº. d-
with equal security to the revenue, and grea; r 3
Vantage to the consumer and to commercC, *::: .
combined system of customs and excise.” :
the
SIR "Robert PEEL's PRINCIPLE OF TAxATION.
151
In * º i.
* tyro in finance must be astonished at the
jº. as well as injustice, of so taxing
food a spensable ingredient in a nation's daily
famil * to make its yearly cost to each peasant’s
º equivalent to the value of between one
it”; and one fourth of his year's labor. Yet so
º India. Salt is there one of the first
W ic arles of life; for without it the boiled rice
As the chief food of the natives, and which is
. extremely insipid, would neither be pala-
i. º, digestible. , Mr. Aylwin" calculates that
re Sºil price of salt in the interior of Bengal is
r Yif ever below the rate of eight rupees or 16s.
Yary º (82 pounds.) The laborer's wages
to il ºn three rupees a month, or 31. 12s, a year,
majºri.º.º.year, which is the rate in a large
jºy of districts. Now, supposing each family
cºm.ge five in number, (the usual European
gal jºu! decidedly below the mark in Ben:
to tº taking the consumption of each individual
Com : §. annually, as estimated by the
the lºy s Board of Salt, then it will follow, that
the ...paid laborers must work six weeks, and
find ... paid and most numerous three months, to
ha., families in salt alone. This calculation
lea : °rence only to Bengal; but the evil is felt at
ly. Severely by the poorer population of Bom-
sº. Madras. In the latter presidency, notwith-
$9tsu "g the great increase of population, &c.; the
1830 jº of salt fell off in the ten years from
i...ºlo from 93,687 tons to 88,603; ; by con-
jºgmentations of the duty the salt revenue
to ºbed up in the same interval from 228,5121.
the ..Q.: but so completely had it exhausted
land. ºns of the poor ryot or laborer, that the
º the other great revenue of India, de-
:000 Simultaneously 11 per cent., or about
ceed...ºf a sum nearly equal to the whole pro-
i...ºf the salt tax.
the epressingly must this tax operate on all
upon". Hies of the country . It is a prohibition
People."...mprovement in the condition of the
in p. ºd dooms them to sink deeper and deeper
were #ºrism as their numbers increase; whereas,
Steate ºnoved, they would be quickly enabled to
Ther
In e ...intain a lucrative trade with England.
other jºltivation of sugar India differs from every
*aised °ºry where that produce is extensively
“state tº he cane is not cultivated there on large
§own º the hands of rich proprietors, but is
the si. little patches by the poorest orders of
sue sº...'Pºlation, and manufactured in lots of
ei ** size, often not exceeding a few pounds
wh º * Until lately each family raised just
tion; b necessary for their domestic consump-
$ ...ºnly, under the temptation of a grea;
3. Sale °, a portion of this stock was abstracted
$9,000 ...d an extra supply, to the extent of
º, was suddenly in one season brought
Cº. a.i. But this happened only under
...t, ti."yºnditions of price. Suppose, hºw;
aho. whi § Portion of the two or three months’
On th º: °very ryot is now obliged to expend
in."” . of salt, were free to be employed
...tease.ºn of his sugar-canes, what a vast
jhere. |Pºuce would be permanently given to
§ ...is esti annual production of sugar in
º ton "lated at 300,000 tons a year; of which
the i. are exporteá. Suppose that one sixth
O the cultivators were set free by a
Ayığ Pamphl º
-- † #%. the Salt-trade of India, §: C.
London: Madden and Malcolm,
A'
reduction of the salt-duties, we should have at once
a further supply of 50,000 tons, or 125,000 tons in
all, for exportation. Again, suppose, as Mr.
Aylwin puts it, that “ out of the 140 millions of
inhabitants interested in the production of sugar,
but one third, or Say 46 millions, become con-
sumers of only clothing enough to cover their
loins; we should, estimating an annual average of
three feet for each individual, have an additional
market opened for the cotton and yarn manufac-
tures of this country of no less than 46 million
yards of cotton cloth.” sº
The salt monopoly is altogether indefensible on
the score of revenue. The company assume that
the average annual consumption will never exceed
12 pounds per head. This estimate is not to be
relied on, since it is founded on the result of sales
at monopoly prices: the probability is, that with
the help of the smuggler the actual consumption is
not less than 15 pounds per head. Now, in the
rudest districts subject to the salt monopoly, where
the population increased 50 per cent. between the
years 1814 and 1845, the company's sales of Salt
amounted in the former year to 113 pounds per
head, and fell continually to 9 pounds in the latter.
The net revenue from the same source declined in
that interval from 93d. to 64d. per head. All that
was thus lost by the government, and probably
more also, was gained by the smuggler. The
present duty on imported salt is three rupees per
maund. It admits of the clearest proof, that if the
duty were reduced two thirds, the company would
thereby immediately acquire a great accession of
revenue, besides that which would further accrue
to it from the general development of the resources
of its dominions.
From the Spectator.
SIR Robert PEEL's PRINCIPLE OF TAXATION.
From the Berlin journals the Morning Post
copies the following letter, addressed by Sir Rob-
ert Peel to the inhabitants of the town of Elbing,
in Prussia; who had sent him a letter of congratu-
lation on his financial measures.
“London, Aug. 6, 1846.
“Your address, in which you express your ap-
probation of the great measures of financial and
commercial reform which I have considered it my
duty to lay before parliament, I have received with
very great pleasure. The object of the income-tax
was not only to make good a deficit, but also to lay
the foundation of a more just system of taxation, by
putting an end to duties before levied on raw materi-
als, as well as those vexatious regulations of the ex-
cise, and the duties on many kinds of produce nec-
essary to the comfort of the working classes. The
bill having for its object the limitation of the paper
currency has in no way affected public or individu-
al interest, nor has the country been thereby de-
prived of the advantages of a paper circulation;
but, in placing the issue of this medium of ex-
change under certain reasonable restraints, the bill
has been the means of checking abuse in times of
great political importance to the commercial inter-
ests of the country, as well as of unusual specula-
tion. This bill has given to paper-money a settled
value in making it always exchangeable with spe-
cie. I learn with pleasure that the intent and ef-
fect of these measures have been properly appre-
ciated by distinguished politicians of other coun-
tries.
“That part of your address wherein you admit
152
CATALOGUE OF THE ROYAL PAVILION.—EPITAPH UPON A DOG.
the principle of commercial legislation, which, by
order of parliament, is now in force, has afforded
me above all things the most lively satisfaction.
The measures proposed for the diminution of cus-
tombouse-duties have been brought forward with-
out any similar concessions having been offered by
foreign countries; they have been proposed be-
cause the general interest of the country demanded
it. Their effects are sufficiently advantageous to
fully justify the steps we have taken; for it is con-
trary to the principles of political economy to pur-
chase at a dear rate articles of inferior value;
and the authors of this measure have thought,
without entering into negotiations and minute de-
tails, that the principles of their commercial legis-
lation would be adopted by other nations. Diſfi-
culties and obstacles may arise ; and financial em-
barrassment, which appears to be the strongest
argument in support of the protective system, will
in certain countries be advanced as a reason for
continuing it. Individuals who profit by high du-
ties are favorably listened to by the government;
in other cases they form the most numerous part
of the population, or at least a powerful party in
the legislative assemblies.
“Interests are thus represented en masse; but
this isolated interest cannot long offer resistance to
the arguments and manifest interest of the great
social body. The public finances labor, under a
double disadvantage; first, by the prejudice with
which they are regarded, and the consequent sup-
port offered to smuggling ; and secondly, by the
great expenses incurred in its suppression; so that
eventually it will be seen by those who are respon-
sible for the financial condition of their respective
countries, that it is prudent and politic to replace,
by such moderate duties as will permit the com-
merce and revenue of the country to increase, those
high duties which either diminish or altogether
prohibit the importation of foreign produce, and
sustain certain branches of trade at the expense of
the public finances.
“The social condition of that country which
maintains with the greatest rigor the protective sys-
tem will be opposed to the state of another which
has adopted liberal principles, and the conviction
of the value of such principles will not obtain un-
less by the encouragement of the freedom of ex-
change among all the nations of the world ; the
well-being of each individual, will be increased,
and the will of Providence will be fulfilled—that
Providence which has given to every country a
sun, a climate, and a soil, each differing one from
the other, not for the purpose of rendering them
severally independent of each other, but, on the
contrary, in order that they may feel their recipro-
cal dependence by the exchange of their respective
produce, thus causing them to enjoy in common
the blessings of Providence. It is thus that we find
in commerce the means of advancing civilization,
of appeasing jealousy and national prejudice, and
of bringing about a universal peace,
national interest or from Christian duty.
“I have the honor, &c.,
i “Robert PEEL.”
*-
==º
CATALOGUE of THE Roy AI, Pavilion.—We have
been favored with a peep at the catalogue which
has been prepared for the approaching sale of the
Chinese palace at Brighton. The following are
thought the most interesting articles of vertu :-
either from
The pattern, in brown paper, of George the
Fourth’s memorable white-kid pantaloons, cut out
by his majesty's own hand. ..ºr
The correspondence between George the Fourt;
and Beau Brummell relating to the mystery 0
starch, and a pension; together with several letters
from Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington
on the madness of allowing the Catholic Emancı"
pation Act to pass.
A pasteboard model of Buckingham palace, with
the original estimate and the actual outlay for build-
ing the same—very curious.
The copy of the Eraminer upon which Mr. Leigh
Hunt was prosecuted and imprisoned, for calling
his majesty “a fat Adonis.”
Several royal recipes for making snuff and fish"
Săll CBS.
The briefs delivered to counsel on the occasioſ:
of Queen Caroline's trial, enriched with margin."
notes in his majesty's own handwriting—mos'
precious articles of vertu.
Copy of the speech made by Sheridan in the
House of Commons, in 1783, for payment of the
Prince Regent's debts.
Notes of the memoranda which were sent to Mº"
Fox, authorizing him to contradict the Prince *
marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert.
Copy of the speech delivered by Alderman Newſ"
ham, in 1787, for payment of the Prince's debts.
The correspondence of the Prince Regent with
the Jockey Club, which led to his retirement, an
several letters to the manager of Drury Lane Thº.
atre, upon several matters in intimate connection
with the green-room and the national drama.
Beautiful model of Virginia Water, fitted up
a globe, with three live gold fish. -
Several designs for palaces in England, Scotland.
Ireland, and Wales.
A paid bond of the
curiosity.—Punch.
as
Duke of York—a very grea'
EPITAPH UPON A DOG.
An ear that caught my slightest tone,
In kindness or in anger spoken:
An eye that ever watched my own,
In vigils death alone has broken;
Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought
Aſſection to the last revealing;
Beaming almost with human thought,
And more than human feeling !
Can such in endless sleep be chilled,
And human pride disdain to sorrow,
Because the pulse that here was stilled
May wake to no eternal morrow?
Can faith, devotedness, and love,
That seem to humbler creatures given
To tell us what we owe above .
The types of what is due to Heaven—
Can these be with the things that were,
Things cherished—but no more returning;
And leave behind no trace of care, -
No shade that speaks a moment's mourning ! , 4.
Alas! my friend, of all of worth, :
That years have stolen or years yet leave
I’ve never known so much on earth, . .
But that the loss of thine must grieve ". 2. '
me: '.
10com
* Wag
ſºng to
$º
- * ess b
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.-No. 128.—24 OCTOBER, 1846.
From the Spectator.
*R. METHUEN’s wanderiNgs IN souTH
AFRICA
* real book of travels. The traveller does not,
. *d, like Mungo Park, explore unknown regions,
. to robbery, slavery, continual peril, and
"ºnent death; or, like some distinguished men
O *ience, traverse little-known countries, in order
enlarge the bounds of human knowledge. He
of fr *xposed to no greater peril than the accidents
dr °ntier and Kafir travel; he did not penetrate so
In . several other travellers have done towards the
. ºrious centre of Africa; and the scientific
¥ledge of himself and his companions was very
i. º, reaching no further than the elements of
*al history. Still, in comparison with a shoal
it."...in the other three quarters of the globe,
.*lethuen's sporting excursion into the wilder-
,9°yond the eastern frontier of the Cape col-
** a welcome volume. There is interest in the
9tion which depends upon your own good
9" and oxen, or the subsistence, which is ow-
There is
°ss and variety in the landscapes—now of
On
freshn ſlatural pasture, water and game.
..."tain wildness, now of desert waste and vast-
ani." of luxuriant vegetation; each scene, too,
Fatur *1 by its own animal denizens in a state of
Th § to see any one of which is a sight in Europe.
ti.".monest incidents of the journey are scarcely
.”hen the silence of the night is continually
by the roar of the lion, the laugh of the
2 or the howl of the jackal; and the greater
ºnces involve interviews with men and mon-
the hi Quite au naturel, or the chase of the giraffe,
to ſºpotamus, “the lion, and the unicorn,” not
clude º inferior creatures—which, however, in-
noblest * crocodile, the buffalo, and some of the
equi. . most beautiful animals of the deer and
fill...ºes. The traces of the elephant were
; but only a very young one rewarded the
Methuen or his friends; neither was a
and . secured, though, several were hit,
he º ly in the opinion of “followers.” .
§bjects * attraction of the book depends upon its
T. . their freshness. The composition of
Jæna
Occ
arc
the lS *en is, however, entitled to a share of
Crate : His style is clear, agreeable, and mod-
which "mated. He has not the artistical skill,
the mº, *PPing all that is common, and bringing
great. jiking objects closer together, produces
't unnaº than every-day Nature herself, with-
e of ºl exaggeration. At the same time,
} . greater incidents often occur in a well-
ºney." Yi, so that the description of the
§her, #." 9f the action are appropriate to each
It is . i the figures and landscape of a picture.
ittle ...e. merit that he has no verbosity,
all i. opinion in the guise of reflection;
ºpansi..."; is no book-making, or even undue
thé case f *.silent as to his voyages, save in
of the ºling incident, and says but little
lam? ºi. § of the Border district of which
C cani *
* . ºº Purpose. capital, though what he does
atter ºt, or experience; probably
xxvii. . Methuen has made several voy.
" ***ING AGF. vol. xi. 10
ages to the Cape, with a view to his health, which
improving there, failed him on his return. The
object of his last Yoyage was a permanent settle-
ment; but, after fixing his head-quarters at Gra-
ham's Town, and examining the district, he aban-
doned the plan of purchasing a farm. Before return-
ing to England, he and three other friends deter-
mined, in imitation of Major Harris, to make a
sporting tour beyond the frontier. The narrative
of their trip is contained in the present volume;
which contains little else, as the introductory matter
is very brief. And though the journey did not ex-
tend so far as that of Harris, or involve so much of
new tribes and wild exploit, we perhaps feel surer
of Mr. Methuen's narrative—he has less of the
writer about him. The trip occupied about eight
months—from May to December, 1844: the exact
distance to which the party penetrated we do not
know, for none of them could take an observation.
Their last camping-ground was near the juncture
of the Mariqua and Limpopo rivers; and Mr. Me-
thuen thinks that he and a friend rode so far towards
º north as to pass the 24th degree of south lat-
1tude.
The changes of every day in liſe upon the march,
in a new country, give much variety of subject to
the narrative; which can only be felt by a perusal.
Some of the larger topics may be exhibited by quo-
tations. * .
NATIVE HUNTING AND GAME TRAPs.
“We had ridden within a mile of the mountains.
which, clad in wood at their bases, and intersected
by dark ravines, formed with their rugged summits
a most striking object, when we encountered some
Bakatlas, armed with shields and assegais. They
talked very fast, and made many signs; from which
we concluded that they knew where game was, and
were desirous to . us to it. Parties of men,
however, shouting with stentorian lungs, issued
from the bushes on all sides: a giraffe was seen
striding rapidly away; presently a herd of quaggas,
Fº gnoos, and ostriches, showed themselves.
shot a pallah and a quagga, right and left; but
only obtained the horns of the former, the natives
having skinned the head. Fresh bodies of men.
running and halloing, burst in view, till we were
completely mystified on the subject. The quaggas
turned back, and I rode after them; and then, by
the hedges on each side of me, first discovered the
object of the natives, and that I had entered within
the limit of their game-traps. Two wattle hedges,
of perhaps a mile in width at the entrance, con-
tracted to a long narrow lane, about six feet in
breadth, at their termination, where were two cov-
ered pit-falls, with a number of loose poles placed
in parallel lines above each other, at cither extrem-
ity of the pits, to prevent any creature escaping or
pawing down the soil. Noises, thickened around
me, and men rushed past, their skin-cloaks stream-
ing in the wind; till, from their black naked figures
and wild gestures, it needed no Martin to imagine a
pandemonium. I pressed hard upon the flying ani-
mals, and, galloping down the lane, saw the pits
choke-full; while several of the quaggas, noticing
their danger, turned upon me, ears back and teeth
showing, compelling me to retreat with equal celer-

154 METHUENS WANDERING's IN souTH AFRICA. .
ity from them. Some natives standing in the lane
made the fugitives run the gantlet with their asse-
gais : as each quagga made a dash at them, they
pressed their backs into the hedge, and held their
broad ox-hide shields in his face, hurling their
spears into his sides as he passed onward. One
managed to burst through the hedge and escape;
the rest fell, pierced with assegais, like so many por-
cupines. Men are often killed on these hunts when
buffaloes turn back in a similar way. . It was some
little time before Bain and I could find a gap in the
hedge, and get round to the pits; but we at length
found one, and then a scene exhibited itself which
baffles description. So full were the pits, that
many animals had run over the bodies of their com-
rades, and got free. Never can I forget that bloody,
murderous spectacle ; a moving, wriggling mass of
quaggas, huddled and jammed together in the most
inextricable confusion: some were on their backs,
with their heels up and others lying across them;
some had taken a dive and only displayed their
tails; all lay interlocked like a bucket full of eels.
The savages, frantic with excitement, yelled round
them, thrusting their assegais with smiles of satis-
faction into the upper ones, and leaving them to
suffocate those beneath; evidently rejoicing in the
agony of their victims. Moseleli, their chief, was
there in person; and after the lapse of half an hour,
the poles at the entrance of the pits being removed,
the dead bodies, in all the contortions and stiffness
of death, were drawn out by hooked stakes secured
through the main sinew of the neck; a rude song,
with extemporary words, being chanted the while.
“Vultures hovered overhead in anxious expecta-
tion of a feast; and Moseleli, who received us civ-
illy and shook hands with us, sat in his leopard-skin
caross upon a dead quagga, receiving the congratu-
lations of his courtiers, for this flesh is a very favor-
ite food with them. His appearance was mild, but
undignified. We were in great luck to witness this
sight, smce it had been a royal hunt, such as the
Highlanders practised of yore for the amusement
of their chieftains. A large extent of country is
encircled by men on these occasions, who, narrowing
to a centre, drive all the game enclosed within their
ranks to the desired point. I counted twenty quag-
gas as they were being extracted from one pit, not
more than ten feet square and six feet deep.”
This is slaughter upon a large scale: yet the
hunting of Savages, however destructive, does not
seem to diminish the game or scare it from its
haunts, still less to extinguish races. The Euro-
can frontier settler never destroys upon this scale.
W. the axe, the plough, and the rifle, drive away
the herds of wild animals, or the race perishes when
its retreat is cut off. Is it merely the more deadly
arms which alarm as well as destroy! or is it that
the principle of wildness cannot coèxist with that of
civilization? . *
The following gives an idea of the sufferings of
animals in that parched country, from want of
water; and of men too, if they do not adopt the
Prººn of carrying it with them.
“Eight, hours' journeying through deep sand,
on a dead level, knocked up the oxen, without our fal
finding, water: they refused to eat, and only tired
themselves by wandering about; so we fastened
them up to the wagons, and of necessity waited
the night, Qn the next morning, crawling feebly
along with the wearied teams, we came to some
round deep holes, containing an immense quantity
of mud, but very little Water. These are situated
in a grassy hollow encircled by bush and formed the
site of a Bawangketsi village. * # #
“Numerous trees, cut down and hacked about,
and some old pit-falls, were the only vestiges of the
village except the wells.
“A trench was dug; the oxen and horses crowd-
ing about us from the smell of the water, which
they were so terribly in want of, but could not
reach; and, baling with some tin buckets, we gave
each enough to keep them alive; driving them up
two at a time. . Their eyes had a glazed look from
anguish ; and it was distressing to ration the poor
* though at the same time wholly indispen-
Sal)16}.
“Knowing that these wells must once have sup-
plied water to numbers of men and cattle, we set
all the Bechunas present to work with ropes, spades,
and buckets, to clear out the mud, promising them
a reward of beads; by which means an abundant
supply of pure water, very slightly impregnated
with sulphur, rose to a depth of four feet and up.
wards, a quantity more than adequate to satisfy all
our wants.”
THE WOUNDED BUFFALO.
“Trolic left us seated by the fire, and climbed the
hill-side; whence he espied a small herd of buf-
faloes in the thorns below him, and, quickly de-
scending, informed us of the fact. Under his guid:
ance, we proceeded cautiously to leeward, an
found about twenty buffaloes lazily eating towards
the water; their bodies were plastered with the
mud in which they had been rolling—some looking
half-red; others yellow, and others gray, according
to the different natures of the soil where their baths
had been. We were within eighty yards, but
having little shelter, were obliged to wait for better
ground. At last we fired a volley from the dry
banks of a periodical stream, and wounded our
game; but they dived into some bushes, and,
according to a maxim well known to sportsme:
here, never follow a wounded buffalo,” we leſ.
them, and pursued the main body from which they
had separated. There were no trees of any sº
which we could climb, excepting a few small wai”
a-bit thorn trees, which tore our clothes in shreds.
Balanced on the low boughs of one of these,
struck another bull; which ran towards the report,
his ears outstretched, his eyes moving in all dirº”.
tions, and his nose carried in a right iine with tº
head, evidently bent upon revenge: he passed wit".
in thirty yards of me, and was lost in the bus.
Descending from my frail perch, Frolic again dº.
covered this buffalo standing among some sm.”
thick bushes, which nearly hid him from view; hº
head was lowered, not a muscle of his body moyº. .
and he was, without doubt, listening intently. . Y.
crept noiselessly to a bush, and, some twigs in”:
vening between his shoulder and the line of airº.
fired through them, and again had the satisfactº
of hearing the ball tell. The huge brute ranº.
wards up the wind, fortunately not in our directº.
and stood still again. No good screen being ne.
and his nose facing our way, prudence bade us .
patiently for a change in the state of affairs. Pre f.
ently he lay gently down; and, knowing that '.
aloes are exceedingly cunning, and will adopt”.
plan merely to escape notice and entrap their P.
cutors, we drew near with great caution. I*. Iſl
fired through his shoulder; and, concluding fº
his not attempting to rise that he was helpless, ſl
walked close up to him, and never can the . n-
which followed be erased from my memory. T.
ing his ponderous head round, his eye caught .
figures: I fired the second barrel of my rifle bch is
his horns, but it did not reach the brain. . .
METHUEN’s WANDERINGS IN souTH AFRICA.
155
r *:
Yºlº gave him some difficulty in getting up;
. Just afforded Monypenny and myself time to
*once ourselves behind the slender shrubs that
ɺ round the spot, while Frolic unwisely took to
. heels. The buffalo saw him; and, uttering a
*ued unearthly noise, between a grunt and a
...Y. advanced at a pace at which these unwieldy
.*ures are rarely seen to run, unless stirred by
revenge.
wº 9rashing through the low bushes, as if they
* Stubble, he passed me, but charged quite over
- i.penny's lurking-place; who aimed at him as
Of . on, and lodged the ball in the rocky mass
at * above his head. The buffalo was so near
** time of his firing, that the horns struck the
... atrºls at the next instant; but, whether the
** and smoke confused the animal, or he was
...stunned by the bullet, he missed my friend,
**ontinued his pursuit of Frolic. It is impossible
tho CScribe what were our sensations at this time:
We ugh all the incidents here related occupied but a
ry little while, there was sufficient time to reflect
"...] realize the greatness of our danger. -
brut "rolic dodged the enraged and terrific-looking
jound the bushes; but through these slight
jº he dashed with ease, and gained ground
* º ly. Speechless we watched the chase; and
the awful moment, regardless of concealment,
- sº up, and saw the buffalo overtake his victim
fired knock him down. At this crisis, my friend
F his second barrel into the beast; which gave
Polic One or two blows with his fore-feet, and
sling his nose under endeavored to toss him: but
..ºttentot, aware of this, lay with much presence
"ºnd perfectly still.
is cºnypenny now shouted to me, ‘The buffalo
bleºng !’ and, in darting round a bush, I stum-
pro 9, my rifle, cutting my knee very badly. This
#. & false alarm, and directly after, the buffalo
Wa dead by Frolic; who then rose and limped to-
j us. He was much hurt, and a powder-flask
b ºh lay in his game-bag was stamped flat. The
.* was too weak to use his full strength upon
ne. *ing probably exhausted all his remaining
wº in the chase; otherwise the Hottentot
ºuld undoubtedly have been killed; since a man
- * even under the paws of a wounded lion than
* the head of an infuriated buffalo.”
A HOTTENTOT FIGHT.
. . ;
wº Éreat uproar, at the time when the oxen
rest, d °ing secured to the wagons for their night's
º and'd ºw us from the tent where we were seated;
gun. to our surprise, we beheld a furious en-
T. between the two drivers, Piet and Lewis.
jealous "d long, been a feeling of resentment and
in . Smouldering in their breasts, originating
slighti .g a sort of head-man, and receiving
lion .# \gher wages. This being a fair illustra-
Quent the Hottentot combats which not unfre-
* Y disgrace the streets of Graham's Town,
* Worth describing. Grasping hold of each
en 㺠shoulders, they butted with their heads,
$rown Of ng by superior quickness to . bing the
tickin ...the head against their antagonist's nose;
me.“ Yºlently, yelling, separating for a few mo-
yº." titillating each. other's pericrania with
on, i.j sticks, or anything they could lay hands
alon.ºing with redoubled ferocity, as if death
- º ould part them.
. and i. i. fell from their persons in strips,
*tunned . owed copiously. At length Piet was
* by a blow, and fell; when Lewis com-
+,
i
- ?
menced an oration over him. All this occupied
but a few minutes; and our efforts to stop the fight
at once were ineffectual; for, exasperated by mutual
reproaches, with passions that never knew restraint
and had now full scope given them, they were as
frantic as madmen, and, by every angry gesture
and word, testified their unmitigated hatred of each
other; their mouths foaming with rage. Piet, re-
covering from his stupor, rushed to the wagons,
and, taking a loaded gun, was going to settle the
question in a very summary way; upon which we
wrested it from his hands and discharged it in the
air : in the next place we lashed him and Lewis to
the wagon-wheels till their Senses returned, where
for half-an-hour they fought with abusive words.
Two days had barely elapsed before these men were
seemingly as good friends as they ever were.”
“THE Noble SAVAGE” AT HOME.
“The tent was soon crowded to suffocation, many
creeping under the wagons to get a peep at us.
They readily comprehended pictures, and talked
vehemently about them, especially one of a Mata-
bili warrior, in Major Harris' work: they were
also very eager and clamorous to see the portrait of
the redoubted Moselekatze, their dreaded foe. Many
of this tyrant's warriors, knowing that death await-
ed them on their return from an unsuccessful en-
gagement, have descrted their chief, and been en-
listed into other tribes: one of these men now acted
as our interpreter, speaking to us through Kiveit,
who was conversant with the Matabili language.
Sichele [the chief] overhauled all our guns, and,
Selecting Bain's monster of four to the pound, de-
sired to purchase it. In vain was he told that the
piece was on the percussion principle, while a flint
gun of the rudest construction was the only kind he
had ever before seen or used. He insisted on try-
ing it; and the gun was purposely over-loaded.
that he might relinquish his attempt to buy it.
Sitting down, he took a deliberate shot at an ant-
hill, and hit it; a token of skill which his tribe
greeted with loud acclamation. His shoulder had
received a severe blow ; but, imputing this to the
strength of the gun, he was the more eager to ob.
tain it, and departed very sulky at its being denied
him. tº # $ $ jº, * #:
“Another royal visit—at the termination of which
we were congratulating ourselves, when the whole
seraglio, consisting of five queens, entered our tent,
occupied every chair, and, with the most unbecom-
ing effrontery, began begging. We made, their
highnesses many presents, and received in exchange
from them some soiled bead bracelets. One of the
queens, the favorite, and therefore the most incom-
moded with bangles, beads, and finery, was a Man-
tatee, and probably stolen property: Another of
them was Sobiqua's the Bawangketsi chief’s queen,
and was forcibly abstracted by Sichele while she
was on a journey: she, however, looked very
happy; t
* Shirts, stockings, trousers, and coats, have been
given to Sichele, to rid ourselves of his importu-
nity; which he will wear merely from vanity, to
his own great discomfort, and to the detraction of
his really fine appearance in native costume.
“Bain and myself having been politely requested
to visit his majesty in his royal residence, we pro-
ceeded thither, and found him seated on the ground
in his cotla, or public court, with a queen reclining
near him on an ox-hide. Aware that we were not
accustomed to this mode of sitting, they with great
courtesy "handed to me an inverted bowl, and a
wooden pillow to Bain.
156
MONTE WIDEO AND BUENOS AYRES.
Many wood-cuts are inserted in the page—portraits
of game, with a few sketches of wild men; and if
these are the work of Mr. Methuen, they show that
he can handle the pencil as well as the pen, or bet-
ter. The horns and heads of the animals are full
of character: the two drunken Hottentots, at pp.
24–25, have life and action as well, especially the
black bacchante with her pipe.
From the Britannia.
MONTE WIDEO AND BUENOS AYRES.
As an attempt is now in progress to navigate
the River Parana, and to make a commercial set-
tlement at Corrientes, we are induced to publish
the subjoined narrative of a passage up the river,
with a description of its shores. The writer had
fair opportunities of observation. His letter will
increase the surprise felt that the war should be
suffered to linger on in such a miserable state.
England ought certainly to interfere decisively, if
she interferes at all, and either leave Buenos Ayres
and Monte Video to settle their affairs as they
please, or to assemble such a force as will make
her mediation respected. At present we are only
wasting the lives of our officers and men in a
wretched squabble with a cruel barbarian. We
commence the narrative with the writer's depart-
ure from Monte Video, where he is at present re-
siding :-
MonTE WIDEo, May 14, 1846.
On the 4th of February we left Monte Video for
Corrientes. The next day we passed Buenos
Ayres; a very fine town, I should think from what
could be seen of it. I counted no less, I think,
than seven handsome church towers; and the
houses, and general appearance of the country,
showed that it well deserved its name.
On the 7th we passed Martin Garcia, and en-
tered the Parana. The entrance is very narrow,
water deep, current running down strong, and the
banks low, marshy, and very luxuriant. This was
the general appearance of the river up to Obligado,
where the batteries were knocked on the head in
November last, in spite of the heroic resistance of
the Argentines (as the Buenos Ayrean newspapers
say) against the combined naval power of England
and France. Poor devils! they fought for their
lives, for they knew full well that if they did not
fight, their throats would be in certain jeopardy,
as was proved by the cavalry cutting the throats
of some two hundred who would not return to the
batteries.
, We arrived at Obligado on the 8th, and on the
11th reached the Basada of Santa Fé. The ap-
pearance of the banks of the river and the countr
in general improve very much indeed, after leay-
ing Qbligado. When Isay the banks, I mean only
the left bank, going up, because the river here
widens so much and becomes studded with so
many islands that it is impossible to see both sides
at once. On the one hand you have fine bold
heights, covered in some places, a short way in-
land, with luxuriant trees and flowers of every de-
scription; and on the other a low, marshy, luxuri-|fi
ant, little island, with trees so thick on it that you |f
cannot see above a few feet inland. Thousands of
birds, of various kinds, with a few country tigers,
are seen in these islands. In going up the Basada
you pass the enemy's batteries; when we went by
he had only a battery of four guns (18-pounders, I
think) at the Bocca de Tonelero, with which he
peppered us for half an hour, when we got out of
range.
The next day we passed the small town of Ro-
sario and the heights of San Lorenzo, where a
large body of cavalry came down and fired at us
with musketry—the passage of the river being so
narrow here that you pass within musket-shot.
We allowed them to come down, and then dis-
persed them with a few shell and congreve rock-
ets, the latter knocking them over wholesale.
Just before you arrive at the Basada, you pass the
most beautiful spot in the whole river, (as far as
Corrientes,) called the Tentagarda : the name, lit-
erally translated, I believe, means the “fat rich
point.” I ought here to mention that the passage
of the river from San Lorenzo leads you over by
degrees to the right-hand bank, (going up,) which
bank you keep up to Corrientes. The Tenta:
garda is therefore on the right bank, and a most
rich, luxuriant spot it is—very high bold cliffs run-
ning out to an abrupt point, forming in its way out
a ridge of hills covered literally with the most lux"
uriant dark green woods, while down the sides the
presented a most enchanting contrast. This is but
a poor description of this lovely spot; to feel all its
magnificent natural beauties, you must be passing
up the river some fine morning shortly after sun"
rise, or coming down at sunset, both of which have
fallen to my happy lot.
scenery is very pretty indeed, very rich, and, as
of the myriads upon myriads of them. As wº
neared the cloud, we found an under flight of them"
only a few feet off the bank of the river, which wº
low here; these rose and joined the others, aſ
immense number existed. The sky was perfect
darkened for more than a mile high, a mile broad,
slightest exaggeration, I assure you; it was . m
opinion of all on board; indeed, some said sº
fear of going out of bounds.
further. The scenery in some places was reº
ered as usual with most luxuriant woods and .
ers. We did not see a soul, save three Guac'''.
and a woman on horseback, (riding in the nº
San Lorenzo to the village of Goya, where wº
rived on the 17th of February. Here we sº
wretched village, some black people igh-
Guachos. The enemy's troops being in the nº.
borhood, we could not land. Before coming tº
we saw several times immense troops of wil
coming down to the edge of the cliffs to have
at us, toiling and puffing away against a current
a look
owl: the river abounds in wild fowl and
land abounds in game of every description, frº"
ostrich to a cock-sparrow, or from a tiger to *
ter-rat.
On the 19th we were hard and fast
bank, a little below the small town of Bella
aſ] .
bright colors of the beautiful wild flowers really
and som".
d horse?
- * ſº d -
we miles an hour. We saw also º: j *: •
W3°
*
* At the Basada you can
just see the town of Santa Fé over the hills. The
usual, most luxuriant. We saw an immense flight
of locusts about here : at first sight in the distance
we took it for the smoke of some great fire, or of 3
steamer; the cloud was very thick, and stretched
away for at least three miles. You have no ideº
really I could never have conceived that such aſ
and at least four miles in length. This is not the
miles long, but I have taken the smallest length ſo t
| Nothing of any note occurred on our passº.
grand—cliffs of about one hundred feet high, 9°.
fashion, which is the custom in this country ;
y|the women of the lower classes,) all the way ſº.
on a san". .
Vist3
º - * ... º. * º 65 -
in the Correntino territory, and about eighty"
**
MONTE WIDEO AND BUENOS AYRES.
157
Was
w Wished
did
Ver
by water from Corrientes. We remained stuck in
$ºmud here for three whole days and nights, and
*last, happy hour off the old ship came of her
.." accord, as if she despised all our puerile en-
*Wors to move her, and intended to show us that
*ºnly moved when she pleased.
While we were on shore, the commandant of
§lla Vista, a Senhor Salis, came on hoard to
º * us any assistance in his power, which was
. kind. He was a nice old fellow, but wanted
.."g terribly, and his face looked (as well as
°,faces of all his companions) as if it had not
S * the acquaintance of soap and water for
*time. But we overlooked all this in our ad-
ion of the old fellow's kindness, who gave
tºº most pressing invitation to come and see
li The despatches having been sent by one of our
*enants overland to Corrientes to Captain Ho-
ll * (who was living on shore there, waiting for
i. * Some up for him) we remained at anchor off
°lla Vista till his return on the 22d. Every one
}. ºn, shore on the 21st except myself, who,
...t * indigestion, remained on board. Old Salis
.*d, them very well, gave them horses and a
. dinner, and ended by offering one of our fel-
. (who had captivated the old gentleman, I
PPose) his daughter in marriage, with 5,000
*ad of cattle as a marriage portion. The offer
...th Pºlitely refused, the midshipman informing
... ºld gentleman that his views did not tend to:
$ºls the matrimonial state at that time. I had
, if it were possible, to have gone up to Cor-
-- !es, but it was not to be managed. One who
- vii. however, told me a little about the country
.ºh, he rode through. It is very woody and
ho Y luxuriant indeed, abounding in game, wild
*š and cattle, and almost every minor species
... *nimal that you can name. He saw no signs
.."ultivation whatever, though he passed some
jº Sountry houses. The war has put a stop to
i.iculture for the present, the people having
- §. country and gone to reside in the towns or
t . for safety. In one place he had to wade
up "gh a swamp for ten miles; one horse gave
$1 º! was left to die, the Guachos he had with
.ºching a fresh horse. Every ten miles or
* Guachos lassoed fresh horses, and on they
. . . . III , ! gallop. He accomplished the 120 miles
En ... ºn hours, which was good riding for an
r t # lshman. The Guachos ride 150 miles in twell-
it." hours, and on extraordinary occasions, when
Were haste is required, they do 200. The horses
tº.”y inferior indeed, nothing to be compared
of . ºwn in point of speed, mettle, or strength,
. . .” -“auty either.
- º: § evening of the 24th we anchored off a
3 : ffs iful spot just at sunset. The fine, dark, bold
gro ºth the wild, uncultivated woods and flowers
Stron º down over them to the water's edge,
§ J. minded me of Mount Edgecumbe. . .
from j day we arrived off Corrientes, which,
pl. "...we could see of it, seemed a pretty little
hers to he inhabitants turned out in great num-
fied. iºus come in, and I hope they were grati-
ºlumbe 9 Women came off to see the ship in great
then . after the second evening, and we showed
So . attention, which pleased them much;
Stowded so that every evening afterwards We Were
used to º the ladies of Corrientes. We then
. . . Wheir h * them on shore and go the rounds of
ble toº.”. They were very kind and hospita-
. . . . UlS. They are not pretty as a whole, though
Tien
Yent ful
their figures are very good. They wear no stays.
Robertson, in his work on Paraguay, speaks very
highly of the beauty of the ladies of Corrientesſ;
but certainly I was greatly disappointed, and so
was every one else. As to the town, I was very
much disappointed in that also. If you can imag-
ine some dozen streets of mud houses, with here
and there a brick dwelling—some few streets of
brick houses—three or four larger stone buildings.
with only the ground floor, (all the houses are the
same;) a large square with a cathedral in it, with
the body of the church on one side and the tower
on the other, (an odd way, by the bye, of building
a cathedral,) a large stone building, the prison, on
the third side, and a few mud huts enclosed in a
cutthroat-looking, long dead wall, taking up the
fourth—a few houses scattered just outside the
town as a suburb, a number of beautiful trees on
the right; roads that would break M'Adam's heart
to look at, composed of sand, and huge wheel ruts
rising in some places very suddenly, and in others
equalling the Falls of Niagara, for the abruptness
with which they depart from the level line—three
or four glass lamps to each street, each lamp con-
taining a solitary tallow candle—and a number of
uncomfortable-looking green fields in the midst of
the town ;-imagine all these things, and you have
Corrientes to a nicety.
I walked one day some seven miles out in the
country; it was very flat and unprofitable—no
scenery whatever. One thing I noticed : the wo-
men of the huts, and the men too, were far superior
in personal beauty to the richer classes. I have
since been told that it is the same here; the poorer
people, men and women, being far better looking
than the richer community. This is all I can say
of Corrientes. The manners of the people are very
free; it is the same at Monte Video and at Buenos
ČS.
†e been told one thing, relative to the river,
I have not yet mentioned. From the immense
quantity of Sarsaparilla which grows on the banks,
the waters below the Basada have become strongly
impregnated, so much so that invalids in time.
of peace come up to drink the waters for the
benefit of their health. This, I think, is a curious.
fact.
During our stay at Corrientes (of five days) sev-
eral of the convoy arrived, but others yet remained
some hundred miles down the river. I should im-
agine that this mercantile speculation will turn out a
regular failure. There is little or no money in the
country. The women do all the work that is re-
quired, both for themselves and the men; and the
men are too lazy by far to care about business; be-
sides, when poople come to consider the difficulties
attendant on a voyage up the Parana to Paraguay
or Corrientes, viz., that the current is always
against vessels going up at the rate of four miles an
hour, the intricate passages up the river winding
first one way and then another, so that the wind,
which is fair at San Lorenzo, for instance, becomes
dead foul two miles beyond it; the numerous sand-
banks, which are continually shifting their posi-
tions, from the great strength of the current, there-
by rendering what was a safe passage in January a
mass of sand in May. And then comes the difficul-
ty of disposing of cargoes. One vessel with a cargo
ofsalt, when we were there, finding it was impossible
to dispose of it, asked permission to throw it into the
river, which was refused, and she at last gotrid of
it by presenting it to the government. Some of
the vessels were at anchor for three weeks at a
158
MöNTE VIDEO AND BUENos AYREs.
time, waiting for a fair wind. When all this is
considered, I think the attempt at trade will be
given over. The difficulties could be overcome by
steam-tugs; but where are the coals to come from?
This is but a meagre description of the Parana and
Corrientes, but it may serve to amuse you.
MostE WIDEo, May 17.
The news from the Parana of late is bad. One
or two occurrences have taken place since I was up
there that are rather distressing, in more points
than one. General Paz, whom you know had com-
mand of the combined Corrientino and Paraguayan
army, has had some disagreement with the Cor-
rientino government. Pending the dispute, he sent
six hundred of his troops to support his party
against that of the government, while the govern-
ment party managed, without his knowledge, to
get an equal number or so to desert him, and to
come to Corrientes to help them, which they did.
I cannot give you the particulars of the affair, as I
have seen no papers of Buenos Ayres on the sub-
ject; at all events, affairs are in such confusion
that Captain Hotham, the senior officer in the Pa-
rena, has gone up to Corrientes again, to see if he
can manage affairs. It is very much to be hoped
that he will succeed, for Paz is the only man out
here ſit to command an army. It is reported, like-
wise, that the Paraguayan government intends to
withdraw its army, and to make peace with Rosas.
I am afraid that that cut-throat villain will carry all
before him yet, as far as armies and fighting on
shore goes. -
The next piece of intelligence that I shall give
you is rather worse than the last. Lieutenant
Charles Fegan, in command of the captured
schooner Obligado, tender to the Gorgon was com-
ing down the river from the Basada with despatches
for the admiral at Monte Video, under orders from
Captain Hotham to navigate only at night, until he
had passed the batteries and considered himself out
of danger. It is astonishing how very unfortunate
some affairs turn out. He got safe down to the
enemy's position at San Lorenzo by the morning
of the 18th of April, intending to pass the batteries
that night. When the night came on he got under
way, and had just arrived opposite the extreme left
of the enemy's position, when the vessel ran hard
and fast on a sandbank. Here was a pleasant sit-
uation : Every endeavor was made that was pos-
sible to get the vessel off, but all to no purpose, and
the daybreak of the 19th found her in this most un-
fortunate position. The enemy immediately brought.
a field-piece down, and commenced firing at her:
the second shot told, going right through her, as
did every succeeding one. Lieutenant, Fegan,
under these distressing circumstances, being per-
fectly unable to return the fire, and seeing the con-
sequent destruction of the vessel and crew if he re-
mained in her, decided upon deserting her, which
he immediately did, taking with him the most im-
portant despatches. He escaped with the crew up
the river again in an open boat. . Nothing has since
been heard of him: report says he was dangerous-
ly wounded, but nothing official is yet known. He
left behind him in the É. several private let-
ters, a letter on service, and the mail-bags of the
Gorgon and Firebrand. The enemy have made a
very loud crow about this affair; the British Packet
has published some of the captured private letters,
&c., &c. One cannot yet hazard an opinion on the
' conduct of Lieutenant Fegan, as only the enemy's
side of the question is known, which of course is not
to be depended on.
I now come to the most distressin
Parana intelligence. Mr. William Wardlaw, mate
of her majesty's brig Racer, has been most barbar-
ously and inhumanly murdered while under the
protection of a flag of truce, a protection that by
every civilized government existing is always re-
cognized. The particulars of the case are these : .
—Mr. Wardlaw was proceeding along the coast
near a place called the Atalaya, not very dis-
tant from Buénos Ayres, (for the Racer is one of
the blockading vessels,) in charge of the pinnace,
on particular, service, when the boat suddenly ran
on a sandbank which ran out from the mainland.
From going at a great speed the boat ran very far
up on the bank, and being a heavy boat it was found
impossible to move her. Several people in the
mean time came down on the beach, and told Ward-
law (who spoke Spanish) that if he did not imme-
diately get off they would fire at him. Wardlaw
had a flag of truce up, and asked permission to .
come on shore, which they granted. He then took
the flag of truce with him, went on shore, ex-
plained that he was on a peaceable mission, and got
leave for half an hour to get his boat off. He then
returned to the boat, and took the requisite means
for getting her afloat. In the mean time the people
had consulted together, and cried out to Wardlaw.
“that they wished to speak to him.” The boat by .
this time being nearly afloat, and a large whaleboat
of the enemy having been perceived pulling up as
hard as they could towards the pinnace, the boat's,.
part of the
crew all begged Mr. Wardlaw not to go; but
Wardlaw was obstinate, and went, naturally.
enough confiding in the safety of the flag of truce
which he took with him. He had hardly left the
boat when she got clear of the sandbank. Ward- .
law, however, continued his course to the shore.
Immediately he set his foot among the people the
boat's crew saw them forcibly take the flag of truce.
out of his hand, and break the staffin pieces. Poor
Wardlaw at that moment turned round, and sung out
to the boat's crew, “Give way on board for your
lives, for I am lost 1” The last they saw of him was .
that he was secured, and carried off as a prisoner.
He was never seen again. During all this the whale::
boat had got up within range of the pinnace; and
the pinnace, now giving way as hard as they could
to get safe on board, finding it impossible to get rid
of the whaleboat, which was fast coming up with
her, fired the boat's gun, containing two bags of
musketballs, which killed eight men in the whale-
boat. The boat, however, still, continuing the
chase, got another dose, which killed three or four
more ; and then she turned back for the shore.
Wardlaw had been taken up to a house, prison-
er; and when the news came up that the whale- .
boat's attempt to capture the pinnace had been de-
feated, with the loss of ten or twelve men, they cut
his throat then and there, without any trial or form
of law whatsoever, which was directly contrary
to the decree of Rosas, that ordained “that all
territory were to be tried as pirates.”
ritish or French officers or men captured in his
. Since the above distressing occurrence, that cut
throat villain, Rosas, has issued a second decree,
justifying and ordering the people to treat all Brit-
ish or French officers, or men, taken prisoners in
his territory, summarily, as pirates and robbers-
&
not to try them in any way whatever, but to in .
flict any punishment or torture they please. In
y
*
* -
tº º >
*. . . .
DRUIDICAL
I59
TEMPLEs. . . .
* . Oner.
º Words, to cut the throats of every officer or
* Wh9 is unfortunate enough to become a pris-
ºf after this decree anyone is taken prisoner,
“Pend upon it, whatever his rank may be, the de-
Cree
.*Will be acted on to the very letter. Rosas hopes
§."ºse means to force us to make peace; but it
lS to be hoped that poor Wardlaw's inhuman mur-
M.
The Druidical Temples of the
. . .
' '. ' ... }
i
j
|
is
ºf Will only be the cause of more powerful means
*g sent out to coerce this brutal tyrant.
*–
From the Britannia.
County of Wilts.
y the Rev. E. Duke, M. A. Smith, Compton
w a
i Street.
h Duke undertakes to settle a question that
*... for ages perplexed the learned, and defied
h,
.*
". jºins in Wiltshire, which undoubtedly symbol-
“the faith of the ancient inhabitants of this island,
rational
º "d a key to the secret of those vast Druidical
explanation. He conceives that he has
l
*gh no satisfactory solution of their mysteries
* yet been discovered. It would require greater
"ºwledge of the subject than we can pretend to, to
it
•
he e
" . . . . " t
. . oth
. .adoration; and, as their revolving motion was
. . their
"Xpres
. . . . " {{ l
‘. . . who were set apart as the interpreters of mys-
i .* beyond the apprehension of sense, a convic-
ºion
"...pla
* ... ha
*
"Instances.
ence.
§ºne a decided opinion on the merits of Mr.
Juke's theory, but it certainly exhibits great sagac-
supported by a number of favorable cir-
y, and is
ur. he worship of the heavenly bodies appears nat-
*! to the mind of man. The sun first commands
}S homage, as the parent of the highest blessings
"Joys—life, light, warmth, and fertility. Wor-
§ºf the sun have been found in all parts of
eart
ºll as in the great empires of the old world. The
9.heavenly bodies have commanded, their share
...tched by the speculative eyes of those thoughtful
was attained that the sun, the moon, the
ºts, and the earth formed one vast universe,
*g some mutual connection and mutual influ-
..The wanderers of the desert, the navigators
Ocean, and the shepherds of the plains, be-
g the unclouded heavens spread above them
mu imagnificent chart, traced by the hand of Deity,
* have felt, from the first dawn of thought in
minds, some of those vague dreamings so finely
sed in the verse of Byron:— l
oldin
. . . *stars, which are the poetry of heaven,
# * * *
1 < .
ºn u
, 4
| A
!
offin your bright leaves we would read the fate
*ºn and empires, ’tis to be forgiven
, shat; in our aspirations to be great,
A. destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
* Claim a kindred with you; for ye are
: beauty and a mystery, and create
* Such love and reverence from afar,
4 * r
*
+ T
* * *
h' '
* * *
. . ** fortune, fame, power, life, have called them-
. . . . . . . selves a star.” . : *
.*
1
'•
*
e have av, * * • - i-
yat. express testimony that the Druids culti
* knowledge of astronomy with great zeal.
on ºntence in Cesar's Commentaries is decisive
rate
effect
f
- .”
d * .
. . . qui ;D
r w
| | w | *
k ' .
- r
- - # º
'" ; ,
. . . ºosque sai
.." Point:-" Multa practercade sideriºus, atque
... molu, de mundiac terrarum magnitudine de
..., de deorum immortalium vi ac potes-
ºt, et juventuti tradant.”
*...* Quotes Pomponius Mela to the same
...T. Habent tamen et facundiam suam magis-
pientia: Druidas. Hi terrae mundique
hºm ct formam motus cali ac siderum ac
y * -
* ,
* *
* +
ºnagnitudi
* velint scire profitentur.”
f
+ ºw l - -
th; in the extreme west and in the extreme ||
3. in the kingdoms of Mexico and in Peru, as |
It was natural that as the worship of the
heavenly bodies became established as a form of
belief, and as their motions became better known,
an attempt, should be made by vast monuments to
rear and perpetuate an image of the planetary sys-
tem on the earth. This Mr. Duke conceives was
the object of all the Druidical temples in Wiltshire.
He imagines that they were constructed to present
a likeness of the sun, the moon, and the planets in
their courses, and of the earth as thé centre of the
system. Each luminary had its temple for wor-
ship, Silbury-hill being the representative of the
earth. - . . . . . . . . . .
This is the leading idea of Mr. Duke's work.
The conception is in itself grand, and fills the mind
with fine sentiments concerning the earliest inhabi-
tants of this island. It is in the highest degree
irrational to suppose that those immense structures,
the remains of which yet move our wonder, were
planned without an object. The supposition is one
of those that negatives itself. Great labors wrought
by the free will of a whole people must have in
them some idea to stimulate their enthusiasm, and
excite them to continuous exertion. And nothing
can be conceived more capable of rousing and main-
taining their energy than the thought that they
were establishing a visible and mighty representa-
tion of the system of the universe, and were erect-
ing “houses of heaven” on the earth, for the wor-
ship of the powers of the sky. . . . .
Mr. Duke, early in his volume, clearly reveals.
his ingenious and original " . . .
THEORY OF THE DRUIDICAL TEMPLEs.
“My hypothesis then is as follows—that our
ingenious ancestors portrayed on the Wiltshire
Downs a planetarium of stationary orrery, if this
anachronism may be allowed me, located on a'me-
ridional line, extending north and south the length
of sixteen miles; that the planetary temples thus
located, seven in number, will, if put into motion,
be supposed to revolve around Silbury-hill as the
centre of this grand astronomical scheme; that thus:
Saturn, the extreme planet to the south, would in:
his orbit describe a circle with a diameter of thirty-
two miles; that four of these planetary temples.
were constructed of stone, those of Venus, the Sun,
the Moon, and Saturn; and the remaining three of
earth, those of Mercury, Mars, and Jupiter, resem-
bling the ‘hill altars' of Holy Scripture;.. that the
Moon is represented as the satellite of the Šun, and,
passing round him in an epicycle, is this suppºsed
to make her monthly revolution, while the Sun.
himself pursues his annual course in the first and
nearest concentric orbit, and is thus successively .
surrounded by those also of the Planets Venus,
Mercury, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn; that these.
planetary temples were all located at due distances.
from each other; that the relative proportions of
those distances correspond with those of the present,
received system; and that, in three instances, the
sites of these temples bearin their names at this day.
plain and indubitable record of their primitive dedi. r
cation. Now, further, as to the four temples con-
structed of stone, I shall be able to show that they:
consisted of a certain definite number of stones, and
by an analysis of their details I shall show that
these details are resolvable into every known astro-
nomical cycle of antiquity, whilst the other append-
ages attached to; but not forming component parts.
of, three of such temples, are resolvable only into
numerical cycles; and that these planetary temples
"I taken synthetically, and as a whole, were intended
160 - …
M'KENNEy's MEMOIRs.
to represent the magnus annus, the great year of
Plato, the cycle of cycles, (well known before the
days of Plato, but he, being esteemed the Solomon
of his age, this most celebrated of all cycles took its
name from him,) when the planets, some revolving
faster, some slower in their several courses, would
all simultaneously arrive at the several points from
whence, they originally started, and that then the
old world would end, and a new world spring into
being.
“Such was, in my humble opinion, the grand
astronomical scheme that was originally portrayed
on the face of this most interesting of all counties,
the county of Wilts, to develop which at large is
the task I have set myself, and now propose to en-
ter on.” |
It is not within our scope to trace, step by step,
the various proofs collected and urged by Mr. Duke,
in support of his theory. Their value must be
judged by an attentive examination of the locality;
they seem to us reasonable, and are certainly wor-
thy of attentive examination. IHis notice of the
distances of the several temples is remarkable, as
establishing a connection between
THE DRUIDICAL REMAINS AND THE PLANETARY
* * - SYSTEM.
“I now record the relative distances of the va-
rious temples, representing the orbs of the planets,
from the earth as the centre of the universe. The
temples of the sun and moon the temples of Mer-
cury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, are located
respectively at the distances of 1, 3, 4, 6, 9, 16
miles from the earth. The diameter of their re-
spective orbits (were the members of this vast
planetarium not stationary, but capable of rotatary
motion) would be, therefore, 2, 6, 8, 12, 18, 32
miles. The temples are all placed on a right line,
due north and south. As, therefore, the orbit of
Saturn in this magnificent planetarium will have a
diameter of 32 miles, this is the length of that
"meridional line, on which the temples are located,
the space within which this wonderful work of the
hand of man has been performed.”. . "
Mr. Duke's belief in the theory he has propound-
ed is absolute and complete. At the conclusion of
his work he speaks with confidence of
THE PRoofs of HIS SYSTEM.
“When I first undertook to develop this theory
of the origin of Stonehenge, and the other, ancient
religious temples of Wilts, I saw those detached
and existing facts throughout its scope which
might justify its submission to public attention; but
was not aware of that very full and successive
chain of evidences which has, as it were been link
by link drawn forth. I can truly say that in my
progress new facts and arguments arose up in cor-
roboration of its proof on every side, at the same
time that no adverse or discouraging argument oc-|J
curred to impart doubt as to its correctness. And
now, having closed at length my attempted develop-
ment of this wonderful and magnificent scheme, I
must leave to the judgment of my readers and the
literary world the decision it shall please them to
make concerning the result of my labors: to them
I leave it to determine whether any portion of the
mists which have so long enshrouded these venera-
ble monuments has been dispersed, and whether
any light, more copious than hitherto, has been let
in, to fall on the dim history of these primeval re-
mains, and to bring forth to view, in our latter days,
the objects with which they were originally raised,
and the scientific rules according to which they
were constructed ; and (to speak the whole at once)
to them I leave it to determine whether or no they
may be considered now to stand forth in revealed "
light as an astronomical planetarium—a stationary.
orrery—devised by the ancient astronomers of the . .
land as a system of planetary worship ; and to em-
body in stone a collection of cycles, from the cycle
of the days of the week to that cycle of cycles—the
cycle of the years of the world.” f
He seems both an observant and sagacious man.
Yet it is to be noted that the fancy is never morg
active than when it is engaged in supplying evi-
dences to support a favorite motion.
trifling circumstances are magnified into convincing
proofs, and the most
tion. While one set of faculties is called into a .
State of unnatural excitement, another set is lulled
into absolute repose. Something like that process
takes place in the mind which we experience during
sleep. Imagination runs riot while judgment is .
subdued.
case with Mr. Duke is probable. He may have
colored some facts and distorted others to suit his
views. Yet, on the whole, we view his theory o
the Druidical remains as the only rational one ever .
published, and as having a very high degree of .
probability, both from its own nature, and from the
broad features of the locality and temples it is in
tended to illustrate. . . . . . . . . . .
:
“. .
* * From the spectator. - .
M'KENNEY's MEMOIRs on THE RED INDIANs
AND INDIAN AFFAIRS.
UNDER the elder, and it would seem by all ac.
counts the better age of the American government,
the trade with the Indians was a state affair, in
which private persons were not forbidden to engage,
but in which they encountered numerous obstacles.
The object of the government was doubtless politiº.
cal, and aimed at establishing relations with the
different tribes, so as by the influence and powe,
of a central authority to check border raids and . .
Indian wars, as well as to arrange them when they
did occur. The plan appears to have been carrie! .
out with a considerate liberality. The supply 9,
goods at the different stations was large and well.
adapted to the Indian wants; no profit was sough
for in the transaction, and the sale of spirits was .
strictly forbidden. This government trade appear”.
to have been abolished lately by the rampant dº. .
mocracy, under the plea of monopoly; but in ſº
vigor, Mr. M'Kenney was appointed superintenº.
ent, (in 1816,) and subsequently (in 1824) he roº
to be chief of the Indian bureau. This post hº
held till 1830; when he was dismissed by Gener”
ackson, on the new principle of making a clº”
sweep in the offices, by which he signalized hº
advent to the presidentship. Mr. M'Kenney h".
since that time been lecturing on the origin º.
history of the Red Indians, (about which subjeº:
nobody can know much,) and on the injustice Wi"
which they have ever been treated by the whitº
especially since the accession of the extreme demº
cratical party to power under Jackson. - -
The second part of the two-volumed book be. º
us contains a report of these lectures: the ſº
part consists of Mr. M'Kenney's official exp;|
ences; and, done upon an unselected chronologiº
basis, it is rather of a miscellaneous cast: the “
At such times
laring discrepancies and op-
posing facts are passed over as beneath considera- "
hat this may, in some degree, be the
M’KENNey's MEMOIRs.
161
3. º
º: *The state in which he found
is i. e office—his own good management—
hdians *Journeyings and adventures among the
SOn ºw. of his own treatment by the Jack-
Various º accompanied by an exposé, of
and the Jºnd an account of the frauds by which,
pelled ... lies with which, the Indians were ex-
yieldin º their lands, by the general government,
.." the influences of the States. -
cani. as it may seem, one of the last things
etails i º the mind is the power of generalizing
re, an 0 ºl whole, seeing things as they really
*edium so describing them—using words as a
°m as to accurately reflect ideas, but holding
§enerali nothing in themselves. º The power of
Harely º belongs to education: the vulgar
ing to i. it—as any one may ascertain by listen-
Stories *g, endless and useless details of their
ara e other faculty of seeing things as they
nd naturally describing them, is connected
* Power of generalization, but is rarer. It
i. the last acquirement of the classic in lit-
tained º the gentleman in life, and is never at-
Čn º, either without much practice or experi-
the ial • far as we have had means of judging,
*ge o º American mind has not yet reached this
bred tº ultivation. Among the best of the home-
Pleiº. 1S something unreal; a want of com-
9r turn; i. and character in the ideas, and a verbosity
in."ºdity of style, which in the mass degenerates
Pom ..". dilution of details and a straining
*y is . Words. From these defects Mr. M'Ken-
poin. altogether free; but he has less of the
*cess. an of the details, save where he thinks it
poli. to be fine. Considered as a memoir, a
tures, . *xposé, or a series of sketches and adven-
sense','º' book is of slender value in a literary
fully...it is not useless. It draws, not very
betw. * clearly enough as far as it goes, a contrast
š. ‘" the old American system and the new,
ibi
jº with the particularity of an eye-witness,
Washi, shameful jobs amongst the patriots of
Ten #. exceedingly after the fashion of War.
'ºnduct *gs: it also displays the unprincipled
Šians i. the government towards the Red In-
by §."gh this was perhaps enforced upon them
ind t : influence rather than the Federal wish :
Red i. are many anecdotes and stories of the
The . *ns, that have interest if not novelty.
The ...es are much inferior to the memoirs.
§red a "f interest, indeed, arises from their scat-
lives i ºlotes, and their proposal to preserve the
"d set inds of the tribes now forcibly removed
their ...] west of the Mississippi, by erecting
* Stat Strict into a territory, with power to become
"the same terms as other States.
m. ºwo volumes are bound in one, we shall
{ the Works whence the extracts are taken ;
Cy will chiefly come from the memoirs.
* Story of the effect of a burning-glass
M. ndians; to which the Honorable
in ...' ºy is probably indebted for a similar
"anaged * Prairie Bird—though the fact is better
“An . the reality than in the fiction. *
Pouc º Indian seated near me took out of his
§an to i. of punk, and flint and steel, and he-
tºp.º.º. to light his pipe. I directed the
|-th. "...º. tell him he need not be at that trouble
light i.". bring down fire from the Sun, and
While d Pº with that. . He looked at me a
No. nd shook his head, as much as to say,
Sense ( ) +- -
Se 1.” and went to him, drawing
re, d
With t
ls in fa
Ot
"ch in favor of the former : it certainly ex-
l
from my pocket a sun-glass, and carefully conceal-
ing it from his view, drew through it the focal
rays, and told him to smoke. He did so ; when
the tobacco being ignited, and the smoke from it
filling his mouth, he first looked at me, then at the
sun, then at his pipe, with eyes that danced in their
sockets with amazement and awe.”
We have met the earlier part of this anecdote
of the celebrated Randolph of Virginia before;
but the latter part is new, and a singular example
of the influence of honors upon republicanism.
“I was present in the hall of the House of Rep-
resentatives at Washington during an exciting
debate, on the one side of which was Mr. Randolph,
and on the other Mr. Jackson of Virginia. Mr.
Randolph had spoken, when Mr. Jackson rose in
reply. He had not proceeded far, when, having
occasion to refer to some part of Mr. Randolph's
speech, he addressed him as ‘my friend from Vir-
ginia.’ He had scarcely given utterance to the
word ‘friend,” when Mr. Randolph sprang to his
feet, and, throwing his lustrous eyes first on Mr.
Jackson and then on the Speaker, keeping his arm
extended meantime, and his long, bony finger
pointing at Mr. Jackson, said, in that peculiar
voice of his—‘Mr. Spcaker, I am not that gentle-
man's friend, sir; I have never been his friend,
sir; nor do I ever mean to be his friend, sir!’—
when he took his seat.
“Mr. Jackson, meantime, keeping his position
on the floor, looking first upon Mr. Randolph and
then at the Speaker, replied—‘Mr. Speaker, I am
at a loss to know by what title to address the hon-
orable member from Virginia;' then pausing
awhile, with his finger beside his nose, he said—
* I have it, sir—I have it—it shall be’—looking
Mr. Randolph full in the face—‘the right honora-
ble descendant of her Majesty Queen Pocahon-
tas 1”
“The entire countenance of Mr. Randolph
changed instantly ; and from a look of mingled
aversion and contempt to a smile the most complai-
sant and gracious. The storm-cloud was dissipat-
ed, and the rainbow seemed to reflect all its hues
upon his countenance, in one glow of heart-felt
reconciliation; when he bowed most courteously,
giving evidence, that of all the honors he had ever
coveted, that of having descended from that Heaven-
inspired woman was the one he most highly
rized.” - +
Mr. M'Kenney was not dismissed from the In-
dian bureau at once, on account of the remonstrances
of the secretary of war, who could not do with-
out him; but he was in constant danger. The
following scene of place-hunting at the Capitol
occurred soon after he had been to the President to
free himself from some ridiculous party charges;
and General Jackson had expressed himself satis-
fied. The “Kickapoo Ambassador” was a sobri-
quet given to our author by General Duff Green
of the Telegraph. “. . - -
“The next morning, I believe it was, or, if not
the next, some morning not far off, a Mr. R-b-s—n,
a very worthy gentlemānly fellow, and well known
to me, came into my office. “You are busy,
colonel?” he said, as he entered. ‘No, sir, not
very,” I replied; “come in ; I have learned to write
and to talk too at the same time. Come in ; sit
down; I am glad to see you.'. Looking round the
office, the entire walls of which I had covered with
portraits of Indians, he asked, pointing to the one
that hung over my desk, ‘Who is that ' ' Red
Jacket,” I answered. “And that?’ ‘Shin-guab-
162
THE KAFIR WAR,
O'Wassin,” I replied. And so he continued, till,
ausing a mgment, he asked, “And which is the
Kickapoo Ambassador?’ ‘Oh, sir,” I answered,
rising, “he has the honor of standing before you
in propria persona.’ “Come, come, Mac,' said
he, a little put out; ‘ and have you really no In-
dian here called the Kickapoo Ambassador?”
“None, I assure you, except myself; and that is
the title by which I have been honored, and which,
believe me, I cherish with becoming pride and a
corresponding pleasure.” “Excuse me, colonel; I
really was honest in supposing that a chief was
among your collecton of paintings, so called.' He
then asked, ‘Who wrote the treaties with the In-
dians, and gave instructions to commissions, and in
general carried on the correspondence of the office!”
* These are within the circle of my duties, the
whole being under a general supervision of the
secretary of war,’. I answered. “Well, then,'
after a pause, he said, ‘the office will not suit me.”
* What office!” I asked. “This,” he replied:
* General Jackson told ine, this morning, it was at
my service; but, before seeing the secretary of
war, I thought I would come and have a little chat
with you first.”
“I rose from my chair, saying, ‘Take it, my
dear sir, take it. The sword of Damocles has
been hanging over my head long enough.” “No,
said he, it is not the sort of place for me. I
prefer an auditor's office, where forms are estab-
lished.’” -
These confessions of a rain-maker, whom Mr.
M'Kenney bribed to unfold his secret, indicate a
readiness that a European mountebank might envy :
had he really possessed a meteor stone, he might
have been thought a dupe to his art.
“He stood up again, and looked, and listened;
and then seating himself, began. “Long time ago,
I was lying in the shade of a tree, on the side of
a valley. There had been no rain for a long time;
the tongues of the horses, and cattle, and dogs, all
being out of their mouths, and they panted for
some water. I was thirsty ; everybody was dry.
The leaves were all parched up, and the sun was
hot. I was sorry; when, looking up, the Great
Spirit snapped his eyes, and fire flew out of them
in streams all over the heavens. He spoke, and
the earth shook. Just as the fire streamed from
the eyes of the Great Spirit, I saw a pine-tree, that
stood on the other side of the valley, torn all to
pieces by the fire. The bark and limbs flew all
round, when all was still, Then the Great Spirit
spoke to me, and said, Go to that Pine tree, and
dig down to the root where the earth is stirred up,
and you will find what split the tree. Take it,
wrap it carefully up, and wear it next your. body;
and when the earth shall become dry again, and
the horses and cattle suffer for water, go out on
some hill-top, and ask me, and I will make it rain.
I have obeyed the Great Spirit; and ever since,
when I ask him, he makes it rain.'
“I asked to see this thunderbolt that had shiv-
ered the pine-tree. He rose upon his feet again,
and, looking well around him, sat down, and draw:
ing from his bosom a roll which was fastened
round his neck by a bit of deer-skin, began to un-
wrap the folds. These were of every sort of
thing; a piece of old blanket, then one of calico,
another ºf cotton; laying each piece as he removed
it carefully on his knee. At last, and after taking
off as many folds as were once employed to encase
an Egyptian mummy, he came to one that was
made of deer-skin, which, being unwound, he took
out the thunderbolt, and holding it with great caré
between his finger and thumb, said, ‘This is it!"
I took it, and examined it with an expression o
great interest, telling him it certainly was a won:
derful revelation and a great sight; then handing it
back to him, he carefully wrapped it up again with
the same wrappers, and put it back in his bosom.
“The reader is no doubt curious to know what
this talismanic charm, this thunderbolt, was. Well,
it was nothing, more nor less that that part of *
glass stopper that fills the mouth of a decanter, the
upper or flat part having been broken off.”
From the Britannia.
THE KAFIR WAR.
Hostilities continue with undiminished activi"
ty, and the Kafirshave shown themselves unusually
aring in an attack on Fort Peddie. They assem-
bled in battle array to the number of 5,000, or 28
some say, 10,000 fighting men. They were re.
Fº with considerable loss, but not before *
ad captured all the cattle of the Fingoes.
Wesleyan preacher, the Rev. F. Green, describe;
the fray with much animation. A skirmish took
place with the advance of the Rafir army preparº"
tory to their grand attack:—
{ * * * “Tuesday, May 27.
‘A Fingo brings information that a large body
of the Kaſirs are approaching from the neighbor
hood of Stock's country. Å. English lad soº!'
confirms this. Dragoons sent out, under Sir H.
Darell, to attack them, also a six-pounder. Shep.
stone soon returns with information that the Kafirº
are coming on from all sides in great force.
body of infantry despatched to support Sir Harry.
Continued firing heard. The gun sent back, on*
of the horses having been shot dead; the horº
was a wheeler. Troop Sergeant-Major Moffat, 7
Dragoon Guards, shot in the arm. Three-pound”
sent to the assistance of the men. A little beſ”
sunset all returned. There was no other casual"
on our side. The Kafirs had fought with grº.
bravery, and some had even come so near the g;
as to give the officer in command an opportunity.
giving them two rounds of canister shot, whº
ſevelled not a few of them. At last the dragº.
had also an opportunity of charging, as the Kai.
had come out upon the flat, and this appear.
have been the close of the battle. They fied befor
the dragoons, but many of them were cut uſ.
One got about ten inches of Sir Harry's sword; 9
was bent in extracting it from the body of .
Kafir ; Mr. Gore's sword was broken over the hº
of another; most of the dragoons' sword:..
roof that they had been in contact with the Kºi.
t is said that 100 were killed. A party of Fing.
were engaged also. We now expected that a 9.
eral attack would be made that night on the ſº
The night, however, passed away, quietly...
hands, as well as the females, sleep in some d;
sible place. Some Kafirs from the main º
came down in the dusk of the evening below' .
post, and fired several Fingo huts...A few...”.
were fired at them by Lieutenant King with *
skill, and it is supposed with good effect.” bled
. On the following Thursday the Kafirs assº lent
in great force, and were very daring and in.”.
in their demeanor. Preparations were made ide
their attack, by placing women and children in.
the fort. The enemy assembled to the nº.
f
of 6,000 or 7,000 strong, and made a magnific”
MY MOTHER.
163
arr;
... The attack took place shortly before
{ { I dIn
attack its
Soncerne
*ſaid I can give you no description of the
elf. Were it not that life and death were
eautif i. in it, I should have pronounced it a most
u. sight. As I did not go into any of the
but no . till all was over, I saw the whoſe of it,
memo oubt many circumstances will escape my
is ºf The Kafir commanders sent their aides-
wo. "...ºn ºne party tº anºther, just, as you
troops **, it done on a field day with European
increas º main bodies were being continually
after . by both horse and footmen, and soon
*rgest . the array was truly terrific. The
nd ody of all was said to be to the westward,
kºly consisted of Umhala's, and Rili's
th.*...they saw their scheme of drawing out
beg.”.” did not succeed, small parties of them
and th to advance in beautiful skirmishing order,
mov. the two divisions of Pato and the Gaikas
ti. "Wards each other, advancing at the same
g . if intending a combined attack on some
give º: The artillery was in readiness to
Within *m a salute the moment they should come
ato's lange. , The gun was pointed towards
within People, but a body of the Gaikas coming
as so range a little sooner than the others, a shot
Sever "t into the midst of them. It seemed that
* Were knocked over by this shot, but that
fi. jul, consequence in comparison to what
ºn. This single shot appears to have dis-
throw, “d their plan, and they appeared to be
and *". confusion. Rapid discharges of shot
thems º followed. The Kafirs had now extended
lin. Yes all round, and there was a continuous
ady .* six miles in length. Think of these
Wall.g. at the same moment, and so filling the
Ock that it appeared one mass of moving Kafirs.
ble . and shells were fired as rapidly as possi-
from . ºnly a tremendous fire of musketry
us, i. afirs was poured, not upon us, but over
not º balls whistling over our heads. They did
pla: ºr, come near enough for the infantry to
few s Pºn them, and they consequently fired but
A bo . excepting from the infantry barracks.
wº of them got to Webb's store, and rifled it,
bein th as Abernethy’s, but, a few large shells
º, town among them from the short howitzer,
their º Cedily fled. We saw them running with
after ..y, blankets, &c., and a rocket was sent
hal','ºm, which caused them to drop what they
the . un. Webb's slaughter sheep were near
ing ... and one fellow rode up and was driv-
him º off, when a few shots from the fort caused
Onl W. fall from his horse. He WaS, however,
the sºunded, and managed to get away, leaving
force . *P, I expected they were coming in full
prised . the fort itself, and was not a little sur-
had bo o find that they kept clear of that, as they
dust".ed that they would trample this place to
wever ºy got away with most of the cattle,
enth. (about 4,000 head.) They would have
the Fin ° whole but for the determined bravery of
e'. They retook a considerable number.
the F. al fighting, you will observe, was with
fort ..". as every soldier was inside either the
gone §. Indeed, they could not have
\lmin * exposing the fort to danger, that is,
ºttack it 5, as we certainly did, that they would
ther...ºnd, if they had moved to any point,
ºu..” ºlasses to pour in upon us from all
“d could n." dragoons were sent out rather late,
not overtake any. A party of Pato's
men still remained on the hill, (Graham's-town-
road,) and Sir H. Darrell galloped after them,
but they fled at his approach. The brave Fingoes
continued the fight until late, and pursued the º
firs almost as far as the Gwanga. Twelve Fin-
goes were killed, including a woman and child;
and sixty-two, Kafirs, were killed by them, inde-
pendently of those killed by the troops. Several
were killed by the rockets and shells.
“The Kafirs are still about in numbers, and we
are expecting a night attack. They have got the
cattle, and may now come and set fire to the
thatched buildings, if they can take us by sur-
prise.” §
Another letter bears similar testimony to the
strength of the Kafir force :—
“Various estimates are given of the force which
attacked this post, ranging from 5,000 to 10,000.
I think 5,000 too low an estimate. I never saw
anything more magnificent than their appearance,
and there were certainly enough of them to have
eaten (literally) Fort Peddie and all it con-
tained, and yet all the mischief they did was taking
away the Fingoes' cattle. Sixty-two Kafirs were
killed by the Fingoes, who lost twelve men.
think Divine Providence, and not man, saved us in
this affair. Such an assemblage of Kafirs was
never made with the mere object of getting cattle
away. They no doubt intended to take the fort
by main force, and destroy it and all it contained ;
and, if their courage had been equal to their
vaunts, nothing could have withstood them.”
The colonists considered the repulse of the Ka-
firs, notwithstanding the loss of the cattle, as a
victory, and people of all ranks were hastening to-
wards the frontier, to take part in the war and
drive the Kafirs back.
From Sacred and Miscellaneous Poems; by W. B. Tappan.
MIY MOTHER.
TIIIs Book, my Mother was designed for thee;—
Of ſair exterior; type, distinct and free ;
That, gratefully, thine aged eyes might dwell
On themes that pleased thy absent child so well.
Time, in his flight, beholds my labor done,
And thine, too, ended—thy glad rest begun.
Another volume is to thee unrolled ;
By angel hands is oped the page of gold
Whose characters are stars of living light,
Which thou wilt read with ever new delight;
For never tires the poetry above,
Whose theme, exhaustless, is Exhaustless Love.
I’ve lost a want when asking at the throne ;
Blest are the wants that daily God supplies
When from the heart petitions daily rise!—
In all my suit thy constant name was known,
With some fond thought, that virtue, pure as thine,
Had power with Him for follies great as mine;
If wrong, forgive me, Heaven –I’ve lost thy
prayers;
In all my joys and ever present cares
The dear belief still gave my heart repose
That for its peace thy supplications rose.
Such prayers are treasures of a mother's love,
Enjoyed on earth, yet safely stored above;
And, like her influence, silent, deep and wide,
Still flowing onward in perpetual tide.
To such rich streams are not the children heirs,
When parents pass to where the Fountain flows!
From such bequests, laid up for me in Heaven,
Shall not, oh mother, yet supplies be given 4
164
LEGALIZING THE SLAVE TRADE.
LEGALIZING THE SLAVE TRADE. ,
[The following article is copied into the Living Age
from the New York Albion, (a most intelligent paper,
conducted by an Englishman,) as proof of the change of
policy, of which we have before noted signs, in England.
It is true that the writer of the communication professes
to be a descendant of the New England pilgrims—but
that is consistent with the supposition that he himself
may be an Englishman.
Whatever England may do in this matter, it is very
certain that the United States will never allow our citi-
zens to engage again in the importation of slaves. And
we recommend the consideration of this consolation, the
certainty of which is one of the incalculable advantages
of the Union, to the zealous opponents of slavery, who
are so impatient as to be willing to deprive the northern
states of all influence on this subject by dissolving this
IJnion.
We would propose to the British philanthropists, who
have endeavored to involve all Americans in the odium
of slave-holding, this compromise: that they shall not
legalize the importation of slaves from Africa, until they
shall first have bought all of ours. Perhaps Delaware,
Maryland, Virginia, Kentucky and Missouri might now
be willing to abolish slavery, if a moderate compensation
could be made to the owners. On our part we might
agree not to re-print the British articles against slavery,
until we were entirely free from it.
But seriously—nay, sadly—would it not do for the Eng-
lish colonists to be permitted to buy slaves from the Uni-
ted States, with their own consent, on condition that the
slaves have one day in the week as their own, with such
securities that they might, by and bye, purchase another
day—and so gradually free themselves 7 All their chil-
dren hereafter born to be free at twenty-one, and with
efficient guards against ill treatment; which would in-
deed he less likely to occur in the midst of the present
free black population of the West Indies.]
WE have given insertion to a letter from a cor-
respondent, who is, in plain terms, an advocate for
legalizing the slave trade, first, because it is found
impossible to suppress it; secondly, because, in at-
tempting to suppress it, the misery of the negroes
during the passage, is immeasurably increased ;
and thirdly, hecause if suppressed altogether, and
if slaves cannot be sold, the African princes would
probably return to their former practices of killing
or devouring all the prisoners taken in war.
We beg to let our correspondent's arguments
fight their own battle, merely observing, that we
agree with him in thinking it impossible to sup-
press the slave trade, unless all the civilized pow-
ers of the world combine for the purpose. Mr.
wilberforce was nearly convinced of the same fact.
The reference made by the writer to the articles in
the London Times and Globe is significant, as these
journals avow ultra free-trade principles. We
have thought we perceived, for some time past,
the forming of a party favorable to putting slave
trade on some legalized footing, and we shall not
be surprised to see it, ere long, boldly avowed. In
fact, Lord John Russell's sugar bill for admitting
the sugars of Cuba and Brazil, is a direct encour-
agement of slavery and the slave trade; and it has
been asked in seriousness, if it be Lord John's ob-
ject to have a cheap and abundant supply of sugar,
why he does not withdraw the British squadron
from the coast of Africa, and allow the free exit of
negroes, in order that labor, and consequently
sugar, may be obtained at the lowest mercantile
figure ;
No one now, we suppose, believes in the possi-
bility of free labor successfully competing wit
slave labor in the article of sugar. Then for what
has England sacrificed her once magnificent West
India colonies?
THE SLAVE TRADE.
To the Editor of the Allion.
SIR-I do not know if it will suit your rules or
your space, to bring before the British and American
public the subject of slavery ; and especially the
capital articles in the London Globe and Times,
showing the utter uselessness of all the efforts
made by civilized nations, at an immense expense
of life and treasure, to suppress the African slave
trade. So few persons in the United States see
those papers that, perhaps, more interesting artir
cles could not be laid before them. The conclusion
to be deduced from the facts laid down in these an
other documents placed before the British public,
is, that the African slave trade cannot be abolishe
so long as the profit is more than commensurate to
the risk.
* I shall avail of the circulation of your paper on
both sides of the Atlantic, if agreeable to you, to pu
forward a very startling proposition—the legaliza.
tion and regulation of the slave trade by the unite
civilized nations: in other words, the merciful man.
agement of an evil impossible to be suppressed.
need not call to your recollection the vain attempts
in France and other countries, to suppress gambling
and other vices which human nature will indulge
in at any cost and risk; and that after all trials it
became apparent, that certain human passions may
be regulated to the general safety of society, and 3
modified enjoyment to the individual. This medi-
um course is, doubtless, all things considered, the
part of wisdom; and I see no reason why it may
not be properly applied to the slave trade. Thº
horrors of this trade, as so feelingly illustrated by
Wilberforce and others, and which, in due time,
caused a sympathetic feeling and consequent ºf
tion throughout the civilized world, were threefold:
The intertribal wars in Africa for the purpose 0
obtaining prisoners to be sold as slaves; the hoſ.
rors of the transatlantic passage; and the usc 0
the whip in the colony whither the slaves were
transported. The first and last of these, however,
were less relied upon as facts by the ultra advº.
cates of abolition, because it had been in a degrº
proved that wars had always existed among the A'.
rican tribes, and did so exist without the range 0
possible influence of the foreign slave trade. Nay!
it was said that this very trade arose from a prey".
lent custom of sacrificing, and frequently eating tº
prisoners taken in war; a custom which, to a co".
siderable extent, became abolished when prisonº
could be sold instead of eaten. The use of thº
whip and other ill-treatment in the several tradiº
marine colonies to which slaves were conveye"
seems never to have been proved to have been u".
versal, though atrocious instances from time
time were brought to light; but whether these
were strong cases, sought for and made the most
of by the anti-servile philanthropists of the day, Oſ
were but the few out of the mass, the unceas"
routine of oppression and injury, will, perh.
never distinctly appear. It was admitted tº
many colonists, as a whole, kindly treated the
slaves, whose chief objection was that they were
compelled to labor steadily; a strong contraš.
the easy, idle, wandering kind of life they had le
in Africa.
COMMERCIAL MOVEMENTS IN THE FAR EAST.
165
in º the greatest stress was laid upon the suffer-
j . the negroes on board the slave ships, and it
. º safely affirmed that these were not much
e ºed. Hence anti-servile philanthropy kept
vº. the world continually the horrors of these
. *; But it has been clearly shown that these
j, have not been diminished, if they have not
Sion #y increased, since the universal expres-
#. indignation and sympathy compelled Great
llce ...to, herself, attempt to enſorce, and to in-
d ºthers to aid, the total abolition of the slave
º, Smaller, sharper, and faster sailing vessels
and ºn employed, more negroes put on board,
*9t a few thrown overboard when the slaver
Crea ºn pursued by a man-of-war. And this in:
Ult : suffering does not apply to a diminished
i. ºubly or trebly increased aggregate export
ut the commencement of the present century.
i.jppºsing all these vast efforts, expense, and
ºf life on the part of civilized nations, proved
* . The horrors of a transatlantic voyage
and indeed, be put an end to ; but how would
Othe the relations of the African nations with each
pri ... Would they return to the sacrifice of
ºrs and the condition of anthropophagi?
whi º what would be the condition of the colonies
l a. ºve continued to receive a supply of servile
e ** Of course there would be an advance in
Ul "alue of such labor and the price of slaves;
i...ºld these people be more valued and better
e T ed; or would a yet greater amount of labor
juired at their hands, and their condition the
. of improved? In view, therefore, of the
i.'s conflicting views in relation to this subject,
th."ºd to suggest the bold scheme of legalizing
and frican slave trade; but under such safeguards
E. gulations as shall make it rather a passen-
or. than a slave business. My first step would be
julate the number of negroes to each ton of
PPing, as also the quantity of water, provisions,
j #. that any deviation therefrom should work
the ºute of the vessel or severe punishment of
V.
hº probable, that when it came to be known on
COO ſº coast, that negroes, instead of being
. up in bulk, a mass of seething human flesh,
be b comfortably transported abroad, there would
ers a small disinclination on the part of prison-
Yºlº 9 might otherwise be burned alive or eaten,
all ey *rily to expatriate themselves as slaves. ...At
...ºts, as the attempt to prevent the forcible
ſº has failed, this plan is worth the trial. . .
8 *ay be, and would undoubtedly be difficult in
ri lºuntries whither the negroes would be car;
treat * provide for any system of proper and kind
i. A guaranty of the respective govern-
º of those countries, in consideration of the
tha ision (under due regulations) to import them;
lo º ey should be well treated, might be useful
8 *ain extent, but after all, cannot have a very
. effect among thousands of widely-scat-
for ...Weholders. We cannot, however, provide
imp." portion of an evil: if we can somewhat
ise *... its present condition, by introducing a
gai º, Principle of action, so much has been
ned. *
.. Person who has thus boldly, perhaps rash-
jºested this plan for your columns, is no
he i. slaveholder, but a descendant of one of
jºins of New England, who, with numerous
We of th ad some narrow views, the errors of which
fined . Present day perceive. Of an equally con-
*racter appears the determination to exter-
minate the incurable evil of slavery rather than to
regulate it—and to this also it is desirable that un-
prejudiced wisdom direct her attention. W.
New York, September 15, 1846.
COMMERCIAL MOVEMENTS IN THE FAR EAST.
THE leisure now offered to the public mind can-
not be better employed than in reverting to the
many topics of great intrinsic interest which have
been partially overlooked of late during the excite-
ment of a singularly memorable session of parlia-
ment. In this category we place the state and
prospects of our commercial relations in all the
teeming seas eastward of the Malay peninsula.
The vast regions in and around them, the shores of
which are but scantily known to us, whilst their
interiors are yet unexplored by Europeans, present
a boundless field for the peaceful and beneficent
conquests of trade; and towards these some initia-
tory steps have been taken and secured, while
others, we believe, are in immediate contemplation.
China, it is true, has not yet fulfilled the sanguine
expectations of our merchants and manufacturers;
it has not proved to be a commercial El Dorado; but,
on the other hand, we have no reason to regard our
prospects there with despondency. Time will be
necessary to familiarize the inhabitants with our
productions, and to remove the complicated imped-
iments which local or general causes still cast in the
way of our traffic. Meanwhile, we are in a posi-
tion to avail ourselves of whatever favorable circum-
stances may arise, to watch narrowly over our own
interests, and keep up a prompt and continuous action
on their behalf. And even should the terms of our
treaty with China continue, as now, to be evaded,
either through the bad faith of the imperial govern-
ment or its inability to control its disorderly subjects,
we shall not be left without an indemnity. Chu-
san, which was to have been surrendered in Decem-
ber last, still remains in our possession; and it is
not likely that we shall part with it so long as the
nominal opening of the five ports is but a disguise for
a continued system of exclusion. s
The recent establishment of a British settlement
on the little island of Labuan is an event of great
importance to navigation. Abounding in coal, and
aſſording a safe and convenient anchorage midway
between Hong-kong and Singapore, it will yield
inestimable advantages to our shipping in those
seas; and it will especially facilitate our inter-
course with the magnificent island of Kalamantan,
(improperly called Borneo,) which has been recently
laid open to us by the surprising fortunes of our
good and gallant countryman, James Brooke, now
hereditary rajah of Sarawak. The next mail will
probably bring us interesting intelligence from that
quarter. Admiral Sir Thomas Cochrane had sailed
from Singapore, at the date of the last despatches,
with a large force to chastise the piratical Sultan of
Bruni, and to crush the Malay rovers, who, forget-
ting the lessons inflicted on them two years ago,
have lately resumed their murderous courses with
extraordinary audacity.
Measures are in progress for the establishment of
a steam navigation from Singapore to Sydney.
This would be connected on the one hand with the
line from England via Ceylon, and on the other it
would link together in one continuous chain all the
British ports and settlements from Chusan to New
aland.
While we are thus actively engaged in extending
our commercial resources, we are also deriving ben-
166
INDICATIONS OF VEGETABLE INSTINCT.
efit from the more liberal policy which our own ex-
ample has commended to the adoption of our neigh-
bors in those regions. Struck by the rapidly grow-
ing prosperity of our free port of Singapore, the
Dutch, have begun to abandon their jealous system
of exclusion. They have already declared Sambas
and Pontrana, on the island of Kalamantan, and
Rhio; on Battam, to be free ports; and it is rumor-
ed, that they are about forthwith to remove the
interdict against foreign vessels touching at the Mo-
luccas. These are good auguries, and encourage
us to look for the spread of the same enlightened
views in other quarters. If the Dutch have learned
wisdom from experience, so too may the Japanese,
their close allies, and hitherto their partners in
error. A commercial mission from this country to
the court of Japan begins to be talked of as not an
improbable event; nor do we believe that the pro-
ject, if strongly backed by the commercial classes,
would meet with much objection on the part of the
administration. Its final success would richly com-
pensate us for the disappointments we have incurred
in China ; and that success would mainly depend
on our own prudence in planning and carrying out
the mission. The opportunity is peculiarly favor-
able: the Dutch would probably find that their
intercst lay rather in coöperating with us than in
opposing our eſſorts; the Japanese people of every
grade appear earnestly to desire the proposed
change; whilst the government, which is by no
means deficient in intelligence, in all likelihood pur-
sues its old routine rather in obedience to its sense
of decorum than to its abstract convictions, and
would willingly accept a sufficient pretext for aban-
doning an irksome system, no longer justified by
such circumstances as those under which it was
established.—Spectator, 5 Sept.
From Chambers’ Journal.
INDICATIONS OF VEGETABLE INSTINCT.*
IN a previous paper, we gave some account of
those singular motions which have been noticed in
the organs of certain plants, remarking that it is
apparently a mistake to believe spontaneity of mo-
tion to be the peculiar attribute of animal organi-
zations. Our attempt, in the present instance, will
be to exhibit another aspect of the subject, and to
give a few indications which seem to point to the
conclusion, that the vegetable world is also in the
possession of a species and degree of instinct or
sensation. - º -
Until of late, it has been the universal opinion
that both these endowments must be denied to veg-
ctables; but with the progressive discovery of the
motions alluded to, and of the several facts about
to be related, this belief is giving way to what
seems a perfectly allowable deduction from these
facts—an opinion of precisely the opposite charac-
ter, however startling it may appear to many who
have hitherto regarded plants as only a grade above
the inorganic kingdom. A short consideration of
the subject, in the following manner, may prepare
the .# for the admission; and we believe few
who will calmly discuss the question, will leave it
*To prevent misapprehension, it seems necessary for
us to state that this and a previous paper are the compo-
sition of a naturalist who has forwarded them for our
insertion. . Believing that the subjects of which they
treat are full of novelty and interest, we give them a
place, without vouching in any respect for the accuracy
of the writer's hypotheses or conclusions.—Ep.
with a doubt upon the mind. If the evidence can
scarcely be considered as conclusive, it is at a
events of such a remarkable, plain-speaking char-
acter, as to call for a certain amount of credence
and attention.
It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader,
that at what may be called the confines of the
zoological kingdom, there exist certain simple
forms of animalcules, in which no nerves aro, by
OURT º instruments, to be discerned ; but we
can hardly conceive these creatures to be destitute
of them, when we find that they execute move-
ments of a character bearing the most precise anal-
ºgy to those of higher orders of created beings.
Thus they chase their prey through the water; in
turn they themselves flee from their enemies; they
possess the liveliest powers of locomotion, at the
complete control of the creature; are endowe
with the power of digestion, and of the perception
and discrimination of their appropriate nutriment;
which are all functions in nobler creations, depend-
ent upon the existence, if not of centres of sensa-
tion, at any rate of nervous fibres. It is easy,
therefore, to believe that in their case nerves, and
a stimulable tissue not necessarily identical with
ordinary nerves and muscles, do exist, but are im:
perceptible, owing to our defective and limited .
powers of investigation. But when these analogi-
cal inferences are developed to a point yet further,
when they are made to embrace conſervie, the hum-
blest of vegetable forms, a difficulty arises in the
admission of the existence of nerves or muscles,
for which no other cause can be adduced than that,
in the more complex structures of the same king-
dom, such an apparatus is not to be found; physi-
ologists hesitating to admit the existence of other
excitable tissues than animal muscle, and of other
stimulus-conveying fibres than animal nerves. An
assumption like this is not absolutely necessary. It
is impossible to say that certain vegetable organs
and tissues only discharge one function ; it is per
fectly conceivable that they may be endowed with
two or more, abstractedly. Who, for example,
could witness an oscillatorial filament wriggle itsel
out of a plate, and move towards the light with an
invincible pertinacity, and could feel a doubt that it
possessed the instinct that light was good for it; in
obedience to which impulse, it was using every
effort in its power to reach it? Place by its side 3
humble animalcule, which, with movements o
equal vivacity, dances hither and thither in its na"
tive element, and let science put her finger upon
the point where sensation ceases on the one side,
and some new faculty commences on the other.
Taking a hurried survey of the striking move"
ments enumerated in a former paper. Here arº
plants ſolding close their delicate organs from the
cold evening air, expanding them again to the
genial sunbeam ; here are plants shrinking from
the drenching rain, or opening to welcome the rº
freshing shower, as their different constitutions may
suggest ; here are some casting forcibly off every
intruder to the honey cell ; here are others, on th9
contrary, spreading their leafy traps for the capturº
of such offenders; here are a few abashed an
shrinking from the touch; and finally, were St.
Vitus' Dance a vegetable malady too, here is on?
—the Desmodium gyrens—which is decidedly *
Victim to it. -
Leaving, however, the discussion to another and
more befitting arena, we would proceed to indi-
cate that, putting aside the question of the amouſ
of sensation involved in the motions referred tº
INDICATIONS OF WEGETABLE INSTINCT.
167
ºre are other
O and even more remarkable points
޺w from which to contemplate the subject.
°re is a class of poisons which may be shown
°rate purely upon the sensation of animals,
"g no chemical or physical disorganization of
TuS ºueture; these are opium, belladonna,
º .. acid, nux vomica, tobacco, &c. If, now,
tion. shown that these agents act in a delete-
evide manner upon plants, we have the presumptive
of v nce of strong analogy in support of the idea
.*.* sensation. M. Marcet has set the
een º at rest. From his experiments, it has
ois ºund that, even in minute quantities, the
}: *S specified are destructive to vegetable life.
"leaf of the sensitive plant is cut off, and placed
º water, it curls up its leaflets, but in a short
Qr S ey again expand, and retain their irritability
the ...! days, expanding and shrinking up as on
Wit Plant itself, when touched with the finger or
p needle; but if another leaf is cut off, and
i. upon water, to which a solution of bella-
sº. has been added, the leaflets collapse, and
juently expand; but after this it seems par-
i. -its life is extinct, and even if it is then put
i." water, it no longer can be made to con-
Srsen Electricity, extreme cold, mineral poisons,
$ve º, &c., are productive of similar consequences.
the § one is familiar with that simple experiment,
wi.iº. of a rose-tree, to destroy the insects
actio infest it. It affords us an instance of the
sº." of a narcotic poison not only upon the in-
Creat. but also upon the plant itself. The little
th ºtes tumble from the branches, stupified with
*acco fumes. And at the same time it may
...served that the leaves of the rose droop, some
youngest and tenderest branches hanging
purer' and only recovering, after exposure to a
*Spe atmosphere, their former position and healthy
ica * The effect of these poisons obviously in-
*s that all plants possess an occult principle,
al."...certain analogy to sensation. It is found,
tion a at when certain chemical substances in solu-
isº. P. to their roots, the foreign matter
but º into the circulating system of the plant,
jº invariably, if it is unsuitable for its
ti..'... or for the formation of its secretions, car-
Even 9Wh again, and thrown off by the roots.
ic.' ºn the selection of its proper food by the del-
80me ºgiºlº of the root, it would seem as if
which º of discerning faculty were in operation;
"stinct. any rate may be compared to animal
º: ºle which plants growing in a cellar or
Small i rºom make towards the light, however
and th he glimmer which may pierce the darkness;
uni Sedulous manner in which the radicle and
the sa * of the germ respectively avoid and seek
gia." influence, seem to speak in similar lan-
ºf tie.ºe who has watched the growth
ing-pla °ndril of the vine, or the stem of the creep-
any i. must have observed that neither make
object ...until they come into contact with some
d .. which they can twine; so that, up
yº.ºint, the stem of the most invetºe.
but at lng plant remains as straight as possible;
Volution * point of contact with another body, a
Ward it immediately commences, and thencefor-
§bject lº in a spiral direction around the
*lony, si i. its embrace. In the case of the
ciº...ºntact with the object is not suff-
thi. Wising of the stem. To prove
certain 9:Pºriment of tying it with a string at a
Pºint has been made; but the plant made no
O op
Causi
their
attempt to twist at that point. A small weight
was then attached to the string, and the tendril im-
mediately began to shorten itself by making several
spiral turns. This seems to indicate that the ten-
dril of the briony, naturally, will twist only when
it has the weight of the stem to support. The wri-
ter who records this experiment, and whose striking
phraseology is almost indicative of his name, adds,
“it is a hand seeking in the dark, and grasping
what it has felt by the action of muscles remote
from the sensible point.” .
The remarkable manner in which plants search
for their food, within certain limits comparable to
that of animals, appears to imply the existence of
some higher impulse than mere fortuity. The
strawberry plant will thrust its “runners” com-
pletely across a garden walk, on to a bed of soil
on the opposite side, where it will for the first
time, as it were, perceiving its object to be gained,
push out roots, and form a new plant. It is not
uncommon to find travellers relating the most sin-
gular freaks played by trees and plants in quest of
nutriment. Trees are sometimes found which
have taken root on one side of a deep ravine, and
having exhausted the sterile soil on that side, have
pushed forth roots completely across the abyss,
which have gained its opposite side, and there
struck deep into more fertile ground. Plants are
often to be found which have rooted in old walls;
but soon experiencing the want of soil, extend long
roots in the direction of the ground, which they
penetrate, and then form radicles. If the roots of
a plant are accidentally denuded, and there happens
to be some moist substance, as wet moss, in their
neighborhood, they direct themselves towards it,
and eventually succeed in reaching it.
A modern and eminent writer narrates, that
“among the noble collection of palm-trees culti-
vated by the Messrs. Loddige of Hackney, near
London, was one furnished with hooks near the
extremity of the frond, evidently designed for at-
taching it to the branches of trees for support,
when growing in its native forest. The ends of
the fronds were all pendent but one, which, being
nearest to the raſters of the conservatory, lifted its
end several feet to fasten to the rafter ; none of the
other fronds altered their position, as they could
not have reached the rafter had they attempted to
do so.” What a striking recognition in the tree,
of an evidently fortuitous circumstance . . What
but instinct could have directed that vegetable hand
to the roof for its support 1 and what but that keep
pendent the branches which would have sought it
in vain? We may conceive a similar impulse to
direct the branches of the great banyan-tree, when
they can no longer support the ponderous vegeta-
tion, to send down roots which shall form at once
a support and a source of fresh nutriment to it,
extending the giant tree in every direction around
the parent trunk. º
The pandanus, or screw-pine, so called from the
cork-screw-like arrangement of its leaves, com-
monly found in Madagascar, the isle of France,
and the Indian Archipelago, affords us a most
curious example of a self-preservative instinct.
The tree has somewhat the appearance as if the
earth had been removed from its roots, leaving
them dangling in the air. This arises from its
sending down long aerial roots for some distance
above the ground. These roots are protected at
their extremities by a loose cup-like investment of
cellular membrane, which defends the delicate tis-
sue of the tip from any injury until it reaches the
168
PROPER NAMIES IN POETRY.
soil, where its use is at an end, and the roots then
bury themselves in the earth. The trunk of the
tree is supported at some distance from the ground
by a number of such roots, and as it year by year
increases in size and weight, there would be a risk
of the downfall of the whole structure, were it not
that, to compensate for the increasing ponderosity
of the trunk, fresh roots are thrown out, which,
reaching the ground, form fresh props to the super-
structure, acting also as buttresses against the too
great bending of the tree before the wind. But
it is worthy of remark, that if the tree leans to one
side, endangering its safety during the next storm,
it puts out roots, at some distance above all the
rest, on the inclining side, which reach the earth,
and form supports to the trunk perfectly analogous
in their intention and use to the shores and timber-
work used by human architects to prop up a build-
inº danger of falling.
lants, in a few instances, would appear as if
endowed with a care for their offspring. Not to
enumerate the mechanical contrivances for this end,
which do not belong to our subject, the mangrove,
for example, retains its berries until they are firmly
rooted by its side, when the parental connexion is
at an end. This is true also of other plants; while
some, whose drooping flowers would drop the rip-
ened seed at the period of its maturation, erect
their stems, as if to prevent the secds falling out.
Vegetable instinct seems also to find an illustra-
tion in the adaptability of plants to different climates.
It is well known that plants brought from tropical
countries, after a little time inure themselves to the
altered circumstances of the soil and temperature of
temperate latitudes: the most familiar instances are
the potato and the dahlia, both natives of tropical
climates. Kalm, one of the disciples of Linnaeus,
relates that apple-trees sent from this country to
New England blossomed for a few years too early
for that climate, and bore no fruit, but after that
learnt to accommodate themselves to their new situ-
ation. It is a fact, that seeds and roots brought
from southern latitudes germinate in our country
sooner than others brought from more northern ones
—although exposed to equal conditions of tempera-
ture—owing to their acquired habits; but these in
time fall in with the new conditions.
To take a concluding glance at the subject. It
is manifestly impossible in this place, as indeed it
would also be inappropriate, to do more than collect
a few scattered instances of phenomena of daily oc-
currence in the vegetable world which seem to point
to the possession of a certain amount of sensation by
them. In an inquiring spirit we may ask the nature
and the cause of these, while it would be presump-
tuous to pronounce a decided opinion upon the ques-
tion. It is reserved for modern science to link
these phenomena together, and refer them to their
proper cause ; ours is the more humble attempt to
awaken an interest, which may stimulate further
and deeper research. º tº
But while the present state of our information for-
bids all dogmatizing upon the subject, we are by no
means precluded from the formation of a strong and
not unreasonable supposition that some such faculty
as sensation, in a low, and often in an obscure de-
gree, appears to exhibit itself in some, if not actu-
ally in all the examples detailed. Until the con-
trary is proved, let us be content with this, which,
at all events, is an ennobling and exalting belief; it
is one which elevates our conceptions of the great
Creator's benevolence in all his operations; and
whether we agree or not with Wordsworth—
“And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes”—
there can be no question that the subject demands
considerably more attention and consideration than
it has hitherto received. º
Were we to indulge in the dreams of poetic
imaginings, we might expand our views, and coir
ceive—probably not altogether without truth, even
where no more prominent indications of vegetable
instinct and sensation exist than are to be found in
the fresh luxuriance of a thriving vegetation—that
there is a world of sentient creatures delighting in
the balmy rain, gladly welcoming the returning sun.
and silently resting during the shades of night; re-
joicing in a measure of happiness, which, if not
strictly comparable with that of higher beings, yet
is all good of its kind, and adds its humble voice to
the hourly anthem offered by creation to creative
love.
In bringing the subject to a close we may borrow
the words of an author before cited, and, while un-
willing to express a decided opinion upon the sub-
ject, we may still confess our own strong inclination
to his belief:—“If the daisy, the germ struggling
for the surface, the tendril searching for support,
the root seeking water, the mimosa, and the hedy:
sarum, are without metaphysical powers, without
sensations of consciousness, whence should the
sponge and the alcyonium (recognized members o
the zoological family) possess them?”
From Chambers’ Journal.
PROPER NAMES IN POETRY.
WHILE perusing the works of the best poets, we
often find—apart from all that strictly belongs to
the subject—a charm in the proper names and the
manner in which they are introduced. The very
sound of these names is felt to be beautiful. Beal.
tifully do they blend with the liquid measure; still
more beautiful are the associations which they
awaken. Word after word meets our eye as w8
read, recalling the tasks of our schoolboy days, th9
well-thumbed volume over which we pored weari"
ly, little anticipating the pleasures we were storing
up for a future day. Here a name, long burie
beneath the accumulating mass of diurnal care:
and duties, starts out in relief, and reminds us 0
our early lessons, when for us all history was triº,
and our sympathies were all on the side of the
world-conquering legions of Rome. We remem."
ber many feats of heroic bravery and inflexible vº.
tue, and feel glad when, in after-life, we meet the
names of the actors perpetuated in poetry. Somº.
times with the recollection of the studies comes thº
memory of many of the happiest of our youthfu
days—of visits and journeys in sunshiny weather,
interwoven with achievements of the ancient time.
Some of the names we not unfrequently read arº
connected in our minds with whatever is great aſ
glorious. The orator quotes them when fanning
with his eloquence the slumbering fire of patrio'.
ism; the statesman and philosopher cite them *
noble and enduring specimens of human geniuš.
and the historian records them as examples worthy
of our admiration and imitation— º
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
The names of places which have been the sceſ:
of great events, of objects linking the present with
the past, of countries where thought has shap:
itself into matchless forms and immortal deed”
PROPER NAMIES
IN POETRY. 169
W. the same charm as the names of persons.
r **brilliant page of history opens before us on
*ding Byron's lines:-
“The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
dreamed that Greece might yet he free;
or, standing on the Persian's grave,
could not deem myself a slave.”
*nd further on—
“Of the three hundred grant but three,
o make a new Thermopylae ſ”
*es us by the ease with which the accent lends
º to the rhyme, while we recollect the thrill
!!! which we first read of the little devoted band
Pºrtans contending, in the narrow defile, against
i. ºverwhelming hosts of Xerxes. And what a
od of associations, so to speak, rushes upon us
Wi - p -
. the lines in the splendid apostrophe to the
ºn 1–
$4 #
"hy shores are empires, changed in all save
thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are
they tº
We are carried back to the infancy of society and
.." re; to our biblical lessons; to the Punic
in § annibal, Regulus, Marius; to the beautiful
ń. the sublime in philosophy, and wondrous in
fe In another place we feel the almost magical ef-
* of the introduction of the names of persons—
{ {
9h for one hour of blind old Dandolo!
he octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering
foe :”
.king from the past the deadly struggle between
§. aughty Venetian and indomitable Turk.
c. do the names lose any of their charm when
...ted with the more peaceful and humanizing
suit of literature and science. In one place the
º Speaks of the “starry Galileo,” and presently
° read—
{{ The friend of Petrarch—hope of Italy—
tenzi ! last of Romans !”
And elsewhere—
“Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's layo
And Livy's pictured page!”
Fºn's writings, among which “ Alexander's
i. may be instanced, contain numerous exam-
tlild l the happy introduction of proper, names;
e he vast and exuberant mind of Milton has
*ped them together in his immortal poems,
it. ºvery word is a picture. How much of
i." history lies in these lines from Paradise
& 4
Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast
*lestine, in Gath, and Ascalon,
#!" Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds,
Him fºllowed Rimmon, whose delightful seat
f". fair Damascus, on the fertile banks
Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.”
A. ſº † - -
à." classic memories in stray gleanings from
jº Regained, where “Athens” is de-
* “the eye of Greece, mother of arts:”—
{ {
#. there the olive grove of Academe,
** retirement, where the Attic bird
C
XXVIII. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI, 11
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long :
There flowery hill Hymettus, with the sound
Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites
To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls
His whispering stream.”
Among our earlier poets, Spenser abounds in
beautiful examples of the truth we are attempting
to illustrate. It is scarcely possible to turn over
the leaves of the Faery,9ueen without confessing
the art displayed in the introduction of proper
names. But there is one portion of this musical
poem which more particularly applies to our pres-
ent purpose: we refer to the marriage of the Med-
way and the Thames, where the bard, contemplat-
ing his task of enumerating the principal rivers of
the world, says—
“Oh, what an endless work have I in hand,
To count the sea's abundant progeny '''
IIow well he performs his work, let the following
passage testify —
“Great Ganges, and immortal Euphrates;
Deep Indus, and Maeander intricate;
Slow Peneus, and tempestuous Phasides;
Swift Rhene, and Alpheus still immaculate;
Araxes, feared for great Cyrus' fate ;
Tybris, renowned for the Romans' fame;
Rich Oranochy, though but knowen late ;
And the huge river which doth bear the name
Of warlike Amazons, which do possess the
same.”
In this verse we are carried into each of the four
quarters of the world in succession, ending with
the then recently-discovered Orinoco and Amazon,
whose names are associated with Columbus and
the daring adventurers of Spain. But the poet
comes back to his own island, and sings—
“Next there came Tyne, along whose stony bank
That Roman monarch built a brazen wall,
Which mote the feebled Britons strongly flank
Against the Picts, that swarmed over all,
Which yet thereof Gauls ever they do call;
And Tweed, the limit betwixt Logris' land
And Albana; and Eden, though but small,
Yet often stained with blood of many a band , .
Of Scots and English both, that tined" on his
strand.”
Many portions of Drayton's Polyolbion are of a
similar character: the stately metre is well adapt-
ed for the display of the famous names which he
introduces while chanting the praises of the
Trent—
“She takes into her train rich Dove, and Darwin
Drº font and fall are both in Derby-
And *i. thirty floods that wait the Trent
Doº without compare, the very paragon.”
And further on, in a comparison with other streams,
he says—
“What reck It let great Thames, since by its for-
tune he
Is sovereign of us all that here in Britain be,
From Isis and old Tame his pedigree derive;
And for the second place, proud Severn that doth
strive,
* Were killed.
170
PROPER NAMES IN POETRY.
Fetch her descent from Wales, from that proud
mountain sprung, ſ
Plinillimon, ., whose praise is frequent them
among.”
Not less spirited is one of the same writer's son-
nets, in which he trips lightly from flood to flood,
combining within the compass of a few lines, a
thousand historical and poetical associations—the
haunts of Robin Hood and his merry men, the in-
vasions of the old sea-kings in their swift-rowing
galleys, feuds and forays on the borders ere men
had learned that life offered higher duties and pleas-
ures than fighting:—
“Our flood's queen, Thames, for ships and swans
is crowned ;
And stately. Severn for her shore is praised:
The crystal Trent, for fords and fish renowned;
And Avon's fame to Albion's cliffs is raised.
Carlegian Chester vaunts her holy Dee;
York many wonders of her Ouse can tell;
The Peak, her Dove, whose banks so fertile be;
And Kent will say her Medway doth excel.
Cotswold commends her Isis to the Thame;
Our º borders boast of Tweed's fair
Ood ;
Our western parts extol their Willy's fame;
And the old Lea brags of the Danish blood.”
Of a different character are the Castle of Indolence
of Thomson, and Falconer's Shipwreck; yet they
afford many rare instances of the power of verbal
association. Nor are the writings of Miss Barrett
and Alfred Tennyson devoid of similar beauties;
they show us a marvellous plasticity in the appar-
ently most unmetrical words and phrases. Camp-
bell's stirring poem on the battle of Hohenlinden,
Collins' Ode to the Passions, and some of Gray's
productions, present other varieties of effect, which
may be extended through the whole range of po-
etry. Rogers has some pleasing combinations in
the Pleasures of Memory, verifying one of his
own poetic truths, that “kindred objects kindred
thoughts inspire,” in a few graceful lines—
“And hence the charm historic scenes impart;
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale
Glance ºugh the gloom, and whisper in the
aIC :
In wi Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell,
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.”
Burns, again, Scotland's peasant bard, was a mas-
ter of the vernacular of proper names, which, in
his alternating mood, he strung together without
any apparent regard to symmetry. Yet how great
is their charm, whether found in some of his ener-
getic sarcasms or glowing aspirations ! How the
effect of his patriotic songs is heightened by the
introduction of proper names, let thºse tell who
have sung them on the heath-clad hills of his na-
tive country. With what truth does he sing of
three brother poets in Coila's address!—
“Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ;
Or wake the bosom-melting throe,
With Shenstone's art;
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
arm on the heart.”
The writings of Scott abound in picturesque ex-
amples of the magic of association; a whole histo-
ry, the memory of a life, are often conveyed in a
single word. We are told that a great portion of
Marmion was composed while the author was gal-
loping up and down on the sea-shore at Mussel:
burgh; and, judging from the lively and musical
“cadency” of the poem, we may believe that it
was written with but little of what Butler calls
“the drudgery of brains.” We who live in the
south, well remember the delight with which we
read the lines—
“And now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland.”
The latter word brought the whole border county
before us, as we had often longed to see it : its
rocky shores and ruined castles, broad ſells and
lofty hills, bright and tortuous streams, Chevy-
Chase and the Cheviots, all flashed at once on out
mental eye. The same effect would not have been
produced in reading prose. It seems that measure
and harmony are needed for the effectual working
of the spell. We have since walked through the
county in its length and breadth, and felt that all
the glorious associations connected with the roman:
tic scenery were heightened by having been turne
into poetry.
But to return to Scott. His description of the
scene viewed by Marmion from the top of Black-
ford hill, affords numerous instances of the beauti-
ful and suggestive effect of names; and again, in
reply to the “royal vaunt,” when the haughty lord
declares—
“But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.
On Derby Hills the paths are steep;
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;”
we feel that the true characteristics are preserved,
and that, were the names changed or transposed,
the whole of the charm would be lost. The same
spirit runs through the succeeding cantos. The
camp, Lady Heron's song, the “awful summons'
from the cross at Edinburgh, the fatal battle of
Flodden, acquire new life from the distinctive ap-
pellations scattered through them. Neither are
the introductions to the cantos deficient in exam-
ples of a different character. Who has not felt a
genial glow while reading the lines—
“On Christmas eve the bells were rung,
On Christmas eve the mass was sung !”
The finest portions of Scotland's magnificent scene-
ry are enshrined by name in the poems of this
writer. It would be easy to multiply instances,
were it not better that readers should have the
pleasure of discovering them for themselves. His
ballad poetry, too, is singularly effective, and part
takes much of the simple beauty of the old Eng:
lish writers, whose productions were the result Q
the poetical genius and temperament of a people
yet untrammelled by scientific theories and matters
of fact. When the bards and skalds of the early
ages were the only historians, the names and ex:
ploits of their heroes were associated in songs o
vivid and eloquent poetry, heightened by the figu.
rative language of a race innocent of all philosophy
save the right of might. Some portion of their
Spirit has, however, come down to our own times.
In the Lays of Ancient Rome, by Mr. Macaulay,
the metrical romances are revived—the ballad p?"
ets of the seven-hilled city reappear to chant their
measured histories. The sonorous Latin name.”
tell with surprising effect, and adapt themselvº
THE NORTH POLE.
171
beautifully to the flow of the verse. We select a
tºge from the defence of the bridge by Hora-
* Cocles and his two brave companions against
*...three Tuscan chiefs, advancing from the in-
*ding ranks of Porsena –
“Then Ocnus of Falerii
Rushed on the Roman three;
And Lausulus of Urgo,
The rover of the sea;
And Aruns of Volsinium,
Who slew the great wild boar,
The great wild boar that had his den
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
Along Albinia's shore.”
hºlly effective is the prayer of Horatius, as he
P'unges into the river after the fall of the bridge —
“Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!”
In the War of the League, by the same author,
ºy fine effects occur; but perhaps the most inter-
§ng is his noble poem on the arrival of the Span-
Armada off the shores of England, recalling
*ny glorious associations; while the native Saxon
*nes fall into the metre not less appropriately than
d * majestic Latin. The poem opens with the
ºl of a merchant ship at Plymouth, the crew
which had seen the Spanish fleet at sunrise off
*Pe La IIogue, sailing up the channel with
{{ * º -
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts
of Spain.”
Active measures for defence, keeping a look-out
‘... the enemy, and to despatch the news inland, are
ºnediately taken. “The stout old sheriff” comes
his guard, and plants the royal standard as
{{ Mºr.
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the
purple sea—
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er
again shall be.”
The Tºlow
of einents conséquent on the rapid diſſilsion
!he intelligence by means of beacon fires are
ºnely dej. y
{{
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn
Thai º" Milford bay,
at time of slumber was as bright and busy as
the day;
ift to east, and swift to west, the warning
Hi radiance spread;
'gh on St. Michael's Mount it shone—it shone
* on Beachy Head.
* *
For SW
iſ: #
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glit-
Th tering waves,
° rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's
O” Sunless caves.
* Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks,
the fiery herald flew ;
ed the shepherds of Stonehenge, the ran-
gers of Beaulieu.”
The Tiews
Xithout a
© rapid
$ºncluding
°ounty com
It TOUIS
reaches London, from whence it speeds
Pause to every quarter of the island.
succession of proper names renders the
Portion peculiarly effective: county after
es before the mental vision as we read—
“And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the
warlike errand went,
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant
squires of Kent.
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those
bright couriers forth;
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they
started for the north ;
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they
bounded still ;
All night from tower to tower they sprang—they
sprang from hill to hill,
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Dar-
win's rocky dales—
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills
of Wales—
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Mal-
vern's lovely height—
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wre-
kin's crest of light—
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's
stately fane,
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the
boundless plain—
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln
sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide
vale of Trent—
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's
embattled pile,
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burgh-
ers of Carlisle.”
The beauty and effect of these lines are perfect, and
bring the great historical event in full reality before
us. Each name, as it occurs, embodies a host of
associations, and as the eloquent author, in another
place, truly observes—“Its effect is produced not
so much by what it expresses, as by what it sug-
gests; not so much by the ideas which it directly
conveys, as by other ideas which are connected with
them.”
From Chambers' Journal.
THE NORTH POLE.
The possibility of reaching the north pole is an
idea which has long occupied the minds of enter-
prising and scientific navigators. Several attempts
have been made, and though unsuccessful, the ob-
ject appears not yet to be given up. Sir W.
arry, in a recent letter to Sir John Barrow, pro-
poses that the intended exploring expedition should
winter in Spitzbergen, and then, in, the month of
April, set out from Hakluyt's Headland, which is
six hundred geographical miles from the pole, and
endeavor to reach this point by travelling over the
yet unbroken-up ice, and, after a short stay, re-
turning again by the end of May, ere yet the sum-
mer sun had melted and broken up the ice. Sir
John Barrow proposes another plan, founded on
the supposition that the polar region is open sea,
and free of ice during the summer. He suggests
that two small vessels, similar to those sent to the
southern or antarctic seas, should be sent to Spitz-
bergen in early spring, so as to take the opportunity
of the polar sea being open, and about the middle of
August sail direct for the pole. A month's sailing,
at the rate even of twenty miles in the twenty-four
hours, would thus be sufficient to reach the point
of destination ; while a month's stay there, and
another month to return, might all be accomplished
172
THE NORTH POLE.
before the commencement of next winter's frost.
That enterprising sailor, Captain Weddel, in a
pamphlet published, several years ago, demon-
strated pretty clearly the probability of an open
sea around both the north and south poles, and
more recent observations all tend to encourage this
idea. The continued presence of the sun above
the horizon for six months would aſſord sufficient
heat to melt the accumulated ice of the previous
long winter; and if no high land exists in the re-
gions north of Spitzbergen, the probability is, that
not more than one season's snow and ice re-
main or accumulate.
But many may be disposed to ask, What would
be the use of such an exploration ? To these a
reply may be made in the words of an old naviga-
tor:—“The north pole is the only thing in the
world about which we know nothing, and that want
of all knowledge ought to operate as a spur to
adopt the means of wiping away that stain of igno-
rance from this enlightened age.” It would be an
achievement, certainly, to put one's foot on the
very point of the axis around which this mighty
globe turns—to look around a horizon above which
the summer sun appears to move round and round
in its daily circle without ever ascending or descend-
ing, where there is uninterrupted day, and twelve
o'clock at midnight is exactly the same in all re-
spects as twelve at noon. At first view, a very
erroneous idea might suggest itself—that at this
point or pivot the earth's motion would be more
perceptibly rapid than at any other point of its sur-
face; that we should, in fact, see the earth spinning
round like a wheel or a top. Now the fact is ex-
actly the reverse.
earth's axis is shorter than in any other point of its
circumference, and consequently the apparent mo-
tion is slower. If you look at the axis of the
hour-hand of a watch, no motion is perceptible ;
but by watching for some time the extremity of the
same index, you may observe a perceptible portion
of space travelled over in the course of a few
minutes.
Perhaps, on reaching the pole, not an inch of
land would be found on which to rest. This would
increase the difficulties of the visit. For were it
all sea, and probably a deep sea, there would be no
place of anchorage, and no means of remaining
steadily at rest till observations could be made.
Besides, by the moving about of the vessel, the
reckoning would be unavoidably lost; for the sun,
pursuing a uniform line along the horizon, there
would be no meridian, and consequently no means
of calculating the course in which to steer for home.
From this circumstance, it is evident also that the
time of day, or rather of the twenty-four hours,
would no longer be ascertained by the rising, the
moon-day altitude, or setting of the sun 5 for to an it;
observer at the pole no such changes would take
place, except to the small amount of the daily
change of declination. Thus not only to the eye,
but also for the practical purpose of obtaining the
time by astronomical observation, the Sun, would
appear throughout the twenty-four hours neither to
rise nor fall, but to describe a circle round the
heavens parallel to the horizon. This common
method of obtaining the time would entirely fail.
Indeed, however startling the fact may seem, it
may be asserted with truth that there would be no
longer any such thing, strictly speaking, as appa-
rent time in the heavens at alſ. This will be evi-
dent, by reflecting that what is called apparent
The space passed over at the
time refers only to the particular line or meridian
on which an observer is placed, and is marked by
the approach to, and recession of, the sun from that
meridian. An observer at the pole being on n°
one meridian, but at the point where all meridians
meet, apparent time would have to him no longer
existence or meaning. In ascertaining any partić.
ular position, the compass, it is true, might still be
of use. . From the discovery of Captain James
Ross, it is known that the magnetic pole does not
coincide with the true pole of the earth, but that
the situation of the former lies in a lower latitude.
Now, as it is highly probable that at the pole even
the compass would still act freely, the # of the
needle not being so complete as to prevent the
horizontal motion still to take place, the pointing
of the north pole of the needle to the magneti"
pole would be a means of ascertaining the home"
ward course. The chronometer, too, under a cer
tain modification, would enable the voyagers to
ascertain a given meridian. . A common watch. Q.
chronometer would be useless, because the dial-
plate being marked with only twelve hours, when
the hour-hand pointed to twelve o'clock, , ther?
would be no knowing whether it was twelve at
noon or twelve at midnight that was indicated, the
sun being equally visible at both. To obviatº
this, chronometers have been constructed with dial:
plates of twenty-four hours, and the hour-han
making only one revolution in that period. Thus,
whenever such chronometers indicated apparent
noon at Greenwich, the sun would be exactly over
the meridian of that place, and so of any other
place of known longitude ; as, for instance, the har-
bor where the voyagers had left their ship, and to
which they desired to return.
As scientific objects of pursuit, Sir J. Barrow
suggests, among others, the measurement of a dº
gree of the meridian, commencing at the polº
itself, in order to decide the actual degree of flat-
tening of the spherical form of the globe whic
takes place at the poles. Observations on the
tides, too, as far as practicable, the winds, ocean.
currents, magnetism, the aurora borealis, would all
be interesting to science; and, indeed, it is not p05"
sible to say what matters of interest or of practiº
cal use might not present themselves to observº.
tion on visiting a part of the globe on which the
foot of man has never yet trodden.
In the event of finding land, however small the
portion, around the pole, all these observation;
would of course be greatly facilitated. It may be
presumed that any such land will not be mountain.
ous, as no icebergs are ever sent down from thº'
quarter; these masses having been ascertained to
be the production of glaciers on the sides and Yaº
leys of high mountains, such as those in Spitzbe.
ën and Greenland. On such land the pendulum.
could be swung, and the rise, fall, and direction 9
the tides observed—the land itself could be exam."
ined, and the nature of the soil-its organic prº.
ductions, either of a past or present era, ascertainº
—and thus a polar flora and fauna be presented *
the scientific world.
|
A Letter from St. Petersburg states that the
Countess Samoilow, a widow who had contracted *
second marriage with a foreigner at Trieste, has bee.
condemned to lose her property, which win be pº
up to public auction within the space of six month”
The countess has large estates in Russia. .
THE TCHINGEL GLACIER.
173
From Chambers' Journal,
THE TCHINGEL GLACIER.
nº writºr of this º introduces it in the following
jºr I observed, in your number for January, an
dertak º very difficult ascent of the Wetterhorn, un-
sii.º. Speer. As a narrative of a somewhat
§ ... edition across one of the most unfrequented
O . ºwitzerland may not be uninteresting to some
the . ºders, I send youthe following abridgment from
mer * made immediately after passing it in the sum-
*1844.” He then proceeds–
*: excursion was one that is rarely undertaken,
- has, I believe, never before been described.
Of . °ircumstance, together with the peculiarities
wi. ºute, may make the sketch of it bear some-
Coun the appearance of novelty, albeit it is laid in a
. so thoroughly explored and described as
...land. The head of the valley of Lautern-
Swi * is closed in by a part of the giant chain of
Wi º Alps, whose summits are crowned eternally
**how, and whose sides are clad with ice. Á
; of great height leads from the valley at right
s.ºit, and descends upon the villa e of Kauder-
vali through the CEschinen Thal. Higher up the
tho *W, and leading on from its extremity, but
"sands of feet above it, lies the great Tchingel
it *r. To visit this, and, if possible, to cross
’ \'ºs our present object.
tio Walk of a few hours brought us to our destina-
"fºr the evening; itied us past the fall of the
jºh, its waters swept away, as they fell, by
ch ice and the wind, and also past that of the
...libach, whose situation makes it the more
..ºne of the two. A rude path at first, and
feet ºfter none at all, led us more than a thousand
and ºl ove the valley; sometimes among fir-trees,
*metimes through little streams, that trickled
i." to add their mite to the lake of Thun. At
châl eight, on an open piece of turf, a single
€W. * is erected, to enable a herdsman to tend a
bra $ows while they are at the pastures. Here the
high "Y_Swiss, who was to be our host for the
obli braves the weather i. until the snow
Sey º him to descend, although he numbers sixty-
for º years. A hay-loft above the cows served us
wjºping apartment, till the dawn of morning
B * us that it was time to depart.
''' alas! the morning proved most unfavorable
We . ºeursion. A fog had set in, so thick that
Waitº see but a few paces in advance of us. We
would some hours, in hopes that the weather
Inist clear: and this hope failing, we set off in the
preci ſad we at that time been able fully to ap-
€ci º the danger of the route, we should have
"ed otherwise ; but as the chamois-hunters,
. *ed as our guides on this occasion, declared
. willing to proceed, we set off. For
Part º tance our way lay along the side of a steep
tipi. the mountain of the Steinberg, but the pre-
sºil. principally hid by the mist. Crossing
-ness of streams, which, in consequence of the steep-
Of e. the ground, tumbled almost in the manner
ram.s. we arrived at a quantity of snow, the
V8 . of an avalanche of considerable size. This
* qua . and then climbed, for the space of
rº. : of an hour, a hill formed of the debris
ar. down by the waters from above. We now
°overed at the lower part of the glacier. It was
80ntly i ...” measure with snow, and formed a
2s of *: ined plano. At the side were some tra-
glacier jºine—as the mass of stones which the
it... Prºgress, brings down from the sum-
* mountains is called. The last occasion
on which the glacier had been crossed was early in
the year. . A considerable change had, in the mean
while, taken place. . The sloping nature of the
ground beneath it had had its usual effect upon the
ice. In its advance it had cracked, by reason of
its own weight, and large impassable chasms had
formed. Small streams, of water were running
through some of them. By keeeping, however, the
line of our route, and following the chinks to their
head, we evaded those of greatest size. All this
time the fog had been closing in, thicker and
thicker, and we now held a council to decide on our
future plan. There were two ways of reaching the
summit of the glacier; the one, by following its
course, and passing under the Gletcher mountain,
would have taken us by a sweep into the great
plain of snow at the top; the other, by climbing
the crags which skirt it, and cutting off the angle,
would lead us to the same spot. The density of
the fog, and the delay we had made at starting,
seemed to require us to hasten our expedition.
Having, therefore, sent on one of our party to re-
connoitre, and finding that there were no streams,
it was finally determined to proceed by this, the
more rapid, but more dangerous way, and to climb
the precipice, called by the chamois-hunters “the
º of the Tchingel.” -
eaving the glacier, for some time we mounted
an acclivity formed by a downfall of shale and mud.
It was so steep, that we were obliged to continue
the ascent without ceasing, in order to prevent our-
selves from sliding backwards. By this, we ar-
rived at a place where Hannibal's expedient of
destroying the rock with vinegar seemed necessary
to be put into execution. The Tchingel Schrit,
which now lay before us, was apparently as im-
passable as any rock that reality or fiction could
conjure up. It is a precipice altogether perpendicu-
lar; and along the top of it runs a narrow ledge, in
face of the upper precipice, where there is bare
room for the footing of one person at a time. Be-
low lay the precipitous hill of shale, on which we
could only stand with the assistance of our alpen-
stocks. To attempt to descend it again, would
have been to court a difficulty much greater than
we had already found in its ascent, on account of
the softness of the material, which gave no hold to
the footing. We saw, therefore, that our only
way lay over the rock before us, there being no
room for hesitation, had we for a moment doubted.
Our position was, in fact, one of considerable dan-
ger. The hill on which we stood had gradually
grown narrower in the ascent, after the form of a
pyramid, till, at the top, it was only a few yards
wide. Thus if, in climbing the precipice before us,
we should slip, our fall would not be immediately
upon the hill, but into the depth below, which con-
tinued one immense chasm of many hundred feet.
From the face of the rock, here and there pieces of
stone jutted out; of these, some were only a few
inches in size, affording a very precarious footing.
One or two were of more considerable dimensions.
In stepping upon one of the latter; the youngest
guide, perceiving that it trembled under him, struck
it a few times with his foot. It shook, cracked,
and gave way. It fell into the abyss below, rat.
tling and echoing whenever it struck against the
side of the rock, till the noise it made was lost in
distance long before it reached the bottom. We.
looked in each other's faces, I believe, for an in-.
stant, and read in every countenance the expression,
of our own feelings. If another stone gave way,
or if we missed our footing on the ledges, now,
174
THE TCHINGEL GLACIER.
rendered slippery by the moisture, or should the ap-
prehension of the dizzy height unman us for an in-
stant, we had already had evidence of the road we
must follow; But the Rubicon was passed, and
we had no choice but to proceed, without incurring
a danger, similar to that before us. However, the
ascent did not seem so terrible at the moment.
When l recall the nature of the precipice, and the
attending difficulties, they appear far greater than
they did at the time. }. too much occupied
with attention to my footsteps; indecd, the necessi-
ty of abstracting the mind from the more disagree-
able view of it, acted as a very sufficient sedative.
But when some of us were arrived at the top, and
we were unable to see the rest in their perilous
course, every moment beyond the time which was
sufficient for their reappearance seemed to announce
a fatal termination to the expedition.
Had it not been for what we had now passed,
the farther ascent of the precipice above would have
appeared sufficiently difficult. But if retreat had
been in a manner dangerous before, it was now
nearly cut off. We therefore proceeded with great
care, but more alacrity, and soon after gained a
greensward. A few sprigs of “forget-me-not” had
found their way to this spot, and were growing in
spite of the cold and their proximity to heaven.
We gathered some of the flowers, as we had a
sort of right to them. They seemed hardly born
to bloom for any one else, and were wasting their
fragrance on the desert air. We did not long ex-
perience the easy travelling aſſorded by the turf. It
soon ceased ; and, after climbing over alternate
beds of shale and rough rocks, we found ourselves
on the snowy remains of another avalanche. It
was steep and slippery, so that we had the utter-
most difficulty in keeping our footing. Indeed, one
of my friends and myself fell; but, with the never-
failing assistance of the alpenstock, we stayed our
downward slide after we had receded about ten
yards. For about half an hour we continued this
ascent, till on a sudden we turned into a plain of
snow, one dazzling sheet of white. We now
found that, had the fog continued, we should not
have been able to cross this immense tract; and
that, however dangerous our return might be, we
should only have had the alternative of attempting
it, or of losing our way in boundless wastes of
snow, more than nine thousand feet above the liv-
ing world. But the fog had nearly disappeared.
The prospect was one of the greatest sublimity. In
front of us lay an apparently immeasurable tract of
snow, on which, as yet, there was the print of no
footstep. On the right, the huge aiguilles of the
Blumlis Alp rose with baro crags, too steep to re-
tain any snow on their sides; on the left, the more
sloping parts of the same mountain were clad entire-
ly in white. Behind were the height of the Gletch-
er, and summit of the Jungfrau; below were the
clouds. º
As we stood for a few seconds, impressed with a
feeling of the loneliness of the place, where we
seemed to have reached the extremity of the earth,
and were cut off from existence by the mists which
lay between us and the world, we were reminded
that even here the Creator has prepared an inhabi-
tant to enjoy the work of his hands. Startled by
the unwonted trespass on their haunts, a herd of
chamois, fourteen in number, darted up from a hol-
low close to us, and began to ascend the black ai-
guilles of the Blumlis, with an agility which we at
present envied. As soon as they had reached a
sufficient height to set rifle at defiance, they turned
round, and stood to look at us, as if in mockery of
our want of ability to follow them; then, having
satisfied their own and our curiosity, they darted?
again, and were quickly lost amid impenetrablº
fastnesses.
And now began the real labors of the day. Th"
snow lay many yards thick, covering the glacier.
We sank into it ankle-deep, as we dragged our ſee
through it in silence. The cold was beginning tº
be felt severely, in spite of the exercise. We had
stopped a few minutes to take some bread an
kirsch-wasser, but the cold warned us to proceed,
and our repast was finished in motion. othing
could be more laborious than our travel through the
yielding snow. The more we exerted ourselves,
the more we were retarded by the half-hard crisp.
ness, which gave way as soon as we trod heavily
upon it. In this manner we continued forcing ou"
way for an hour, and yet the summit of the it"
clined plane was apparently as far oſſ as ever.
The difference between our immediate view 0
the Swiss Alps, and the appearance they bore *
various distances, recurred to my mind, and made
the present feel a yet more cutting frost. But "
was not in imagination only that we felt the diffeº
ence. My legs ached, and my feet were benumbed,
so that I scarcely knew where I placed them. The
higher we ascended the slopes, the more the snow
increased in softness, and from ankle became nearl;
knee-deep. , Our sufferings now became intense:
Some of us began to feel the effect of the rarity o
the atmosphere, occasioned by the great elevation tº
which we were arrived. Circulation had deserte
my feet, and, aided by the nature of the air, the
blood rushed to my head. My face became purple,
I was deaf, my sight in a great measure failed me,
and I plodded on mechanically, scarcely knowing
or caring whither I went. As we descended of
the other side, these sensations disappeared with
all of us about the same place. At the summit,
the hail fell with some violence for a while, and iſ
rained the whole way down. Such is the genera
character of the “land of mist and snow.” After
traversing nine miles of it, we came upon the un-
covered glacier. It was stillagently-sloping plane:
but now it inclined towards the valley opposite tº
that by which we had first ascended. Thus the
form of the whole glacier resembles a saddle ber
striding a gorge of the Blumlis.
As, however, the inclination was not so great, sº
neither were the cracks so large, but they were
more treacherous, in consequence of being some
times partially covered with snow; and in one or
two instances we felt the edges yielding as wº
crossed them, where we had supposed we were on
firm ice. We were obliged, therefore, to feel our
way at every step with our alpenstocks, and by this
means escaped all danger. We soon left this part
of the glacier, and trod by its side the firm ledg?
of rocks which shut it in. After walking for half
an hour, we came in full view of that part of it
which empties itself into the valley. Nothing can
compare with its beauty. Other glaciers fall inſ;
nitely short of it; and from the moment we behel
it, we no longer regretted the labor which brough!
us to it. I have seen nothing to equal it in th:
Mer de Glace at Chamounix, in the glaciers 0
Gründelwald, in the great glacier of the Rhone, or
in those that lie in the neighborhood of the Orteler
Spitz, Masses of ice “mast-high,” not, however,
“ as green as emerald,” but of as rich an azure º
ultramarine could paint them, formed the steep buk
wark closing up the valley into which we were 19
THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO IN 1836.
175
; . Here the glacier rose in crags and
hurl º ln pinnacles and towers, broken and
*" into every form like a colossal mass of crys-
|Zation.
do.". now free from the extreme cold, we sat
§ 9m a wild promontory to enjoy the situation.
#valanches led continually from the glacier and
ly
**ighboring mountains; some thundering loud-
*...* us, and others rumbling and echoing far
We
The d had still a considerable journey before us.
Wh °scent, however, did not occupy much time.
hou Sº we reached the valley, we walked for two
the is through the very beautiful Gasternthal, until
jº suddenly opened into the plain in which
"ds the cheerful little village of Kaudersteg,
W ere wo shortly arrived, cold, wet, hungry, and
*y-worn.
*HE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMo IN 1836.
LE
** FROM AN officer of the ARMY to His
ºp IN NORTH CAROLINA, communicated To
* NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER.
*n Antonio de Berar, (Texas,) Aug. 24, 1846.
r N the 14th instant I wrote you a very brief let-
SO fºunding my arrival at this place. We are
tº. removed from the United States that inter-
that * is almost prohibited. Mails are so irregular
sº. reliance is to be placed on them, and private
bºsses to La Baca, and thence to New Orleans,
*y vessel that offers, form the most common
* of transmission. This place is very different
and ºny in the republic as it was, and the houses
.* are not more extraordinary than the
im. and appearance of the people: . The most
Ala ºsting object, however, in the vicinity is the
cha *9. It is now a shapeless mass of ruins. The
of º is defaced and broken down, and the walls
* fort are fast crumbling to decay. Time and
i. ºnents have almost completed what the Mex-
Tjery commenced, and the coliseum of
Il will soon form but a shattered and mournful
*ment of its own existence.
em." 23d day of February, 1836, Santa Anna
of th San António de Bexar, and took possession
is.” ºwn without firing a gun. The small gar-
cºni. one hundred and thirty men, under the
i. of William Barret Travis, retired, as he
iver Ced, to the Alamo, on the opposite side of the
determined there to offer whatever resistance
..ogress of the tyrant that God and their own
qu gles should permit. Flushed with the con-
gene. so easily effected, of the town, the Mexican
Ål. Prepared for an immediate attack upon the
On . He ordered breastworks to be thrown up
plan." commanding point, and artillery to be
e h wherever it could be made most effective.
i.ºry was completed on the right bank of the
ri * .
º the 25th, and on this day the siege com-
aft º a dark and gloomy morning, devoted to a
of de ºd unholy purpose. Exulting in the work
*, upon which he is entering, Santa Anna
10 river, the better to behold the success of
small". and establishes his headquarters in a
giv...” building yet standing. The signal is
the º: , Cre the Sun has risen upon the scene,
awaii. . artillery from the Mexican battery
eir i. . echocs far and wide, and rouses from
lile d j ers the yet sleeping inhabitants. But
*nders of the Alamo have not lost sight for a
$rosses th
single moment of their wily and remorseless enemy:
they watch the studied direction of every gun; they
see the match lighted : they listen, breathless, as if
even at that distance they could hear the command
to fire; and when it does come, and the walls of
the citadel tremble under the shock of the iron hail,
and the fragments of stone are whirled aloft by the
sudden impulse, they send back a shout of defiance,
mingled with a discharge from their own guns,
almost as deafening as the thunder of their assail.
ants. Before the smoke rolls away, and the rever-
berations are lost in the distance, while the shouts
of the besieged still linger on the ears of the
besiegers, the cannonade is renewed, and for seven
hours fiercely continued upon the walls of the
Alamo. But these walls yield no more than the
spirits of their defenders. The fire is steadily re-
turned; and, though stones are shivered around
them, there are stout hearts and willing hands ready
to repair every breach, and to restore from the inte-
rior whatever may have been destroyed from with-
out. Earth is thrown up; every crack or fissure
closed as fast as created, by the eager efforts of
those who will permit no evidence of success to
cheer the hopes of their enemy. The sun has
almost sunk behind the western plains when there
is a pause in the work of demolition. The firing
ceases for the day by order of the Mexican com-
mander, with his thirst for blood unsatiated, for not
a single drop has fallen within the Alamo. Many
of his own men have bit the dust before the artiller-
ists and riflemen of the fort; but thus far they are
unavenged. Darkness falls upon besieger and be-
sieged ; the former raise new entrenchments to
prosecute the assault; the latter establish a watch
for the night, and endeavor to seek that repose
which shall give them fresh vigor for the contest
which they know will come to-morrow.
The morning of the 26th dawns, and reveals to
the occupants of the fort the effect of the midnight
labors of their enemy, in the establishment of two
additional batteries within the Alameda of the Alamo.
The bayonets of the infantry, crossed over the river
during the night, glitter in the morning beams, and
the plumes of the cavalry are seen waving on the
eastern hills, to intercept the expected aid from that
quarter. The contest is renewed by a slight skir-
mish between a few of the Texans, sent in quest of
wood and water, and a detachment under the Mex-
ican General Sesma; but this is a mere overture to
the grand performance of the day. The thunders
of the heavy ordnance, under the direction of Colo-
nel Ampudia, are soon roused into action : volley
after volley is poured into the fort, and answered
only, except at rare intervals, by the shouts of those
within. There is no pause, no cessation. Still the
cannonade goes on ; shells fly hissing, through the
air, and balisbury themselves within the ramparts;
but night comes on, and the Mexican general can
see no progress. Baffled, but not discouraged, he
advances his line of posts, and prepares with the
morning light to enter again upon his task. The
north wind sweeps over the prairies, as it only
sweeps in Texas; a stormy lullaby to the stormy
passions of those contending hosts. The darkness
is broken only by the feeble blaze of a few huts,
fired by the Texans, which have furnished a cover
to their enemy. The flames curl upwards with a
sickly glare, throw a fitful light for a moment upon
the slumbering army, and expire. The reign of
darkness and of silence is resumed.
On the next day the Mexicans appear inactive.
There is but little. firing on either side, Those
176 THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO IN 1836.
within the fort, with spirits unsubdued, and with
energies weakened but not exhausted, are applying
their limited resources to the purposes of defence.
No heart falters; no pulse throbs with diminished
power; no hand, shrinks from the labor that neces-
sity imposes; all is confidence and determination;
a firm reliance springing from the holiness of the
cause, and the certainty of its final triumph. Sun-
day follows, but brings no rest to those whom God
has created in his own image, yet endowed with
such unhallowed passions. Perhaps, within the
chapel of the Alamo, consecrated to the worship of
the Almighty, and distinguished by the emblem of
man's salvation which surmounts the dome, heads
may be bowed in prayer to the God of battles for
deliverance from their sanguinary foe: but that foe
takes no heed of Sabbaths. Exclusive followers,
as they proclaim themselves, of the true church,
they doom to destruction the very temple they have
erected for its worship; and, kissing the cross sus-
pended from their necks, and planted before every
camp, they point their guns upon the image of that.
Saviour they once made the tutelary deity of the
Alamo. The fire of their artillery keeps compan
with the minutes as they roll on. Morning, mid-
day, and evening are passed, yet there is no falter-
ing among those who are defending the Thermop-
ylae of Texas. Another sun rises and sets, and yet
another: still the indomitable hearts within quail
not before the unceasing efforts of their enemy. In
spite of that enemy's vindictive vigilance, the little
garrison receives from Gonzales a reinforcement of
thirty-three men; additional victims for the funeral
pyre, soon to be kindled by Santa Anna on the sur-
rounding hills, as a human hecatomb to Mexican
vengeance.
New batteries are erected by the besiegers; from
every point around the missiles of destruction con-
centrate upon the Alamo. The circles grow smaller
and smaller. The final hour must soon come.
Provisions are not yet exhausted, but the ammuni-
tion is almost gone. Water for days has been sup-
plied by the daring efforts of a solitary Mexican
woman, who, through showers of grape and mus-
ketry, has threaded her way from the river to the
castle, while her own blood has marked the path.
She bears with her the spirit of her illustrious an-
cestor, stretched upon the racks of Cortez; and it is
not the fear of death or the torture that can swerve
her from her purpose. In her presence there is
hope, and joy, and life. ... At each arrival, she is
hailed by the garrison as the guardian angel of the
Alamo, and until it falls her efforts fail not.
The siege has continued, for ten days. The
Mexican general has received large reinforcements,
and his army now numbers thousands. . He has
been unceasing in his efforts tº batter down the
walls, but has thus far failed. The triumph is with
Travis; but it is written in the heart of his ruthless
foe that he must die; and when the cannonade is
suspended on the 6th of March, Santa Anna has
determined that the hour for the assault has arrived.
During ten days a blood-red flag has been streaming
from the spire of the church in San Antonio, pro-
claiming that no quarter is to be given to the cham-
pions of the Alamo–that blood alone will appease
the fury of Mexican malice. When the sun again
goes down, the flag is no longer seen, for the deed
of which it was the sign has been accomplished.
It is midnight. Stars are smiling in the firmament,
and the repose of Paradise seems hovering over the
armed hosts, and hills, and plains which encircle
the Alamo. A low murmur rises upon the air,
which gradually becomes more and more distinct.
Lights move to and fro in the distance, and indicatº
some unusual movement. The besieging army.*
in motion. There is no advance by columns. The
force of the Mexicans is so great, that the fort may
be surrounded, leaving intervals only for the fire 0
artillery. The place is girdled by a deep line 0
infantry, and these are hemmed in and surrounde
by another of cavalry. If the first shrink, they
must be thrust forward to the assault by the sabres
and pistols of their comrades. Suddenly the batº
teries are in a blaze, and from their concentric pos!"
tions pour forth radii of fire pointing to a single cen"
tre. Amid the thunders thus created, their ow"
shouts scarcely less terrible, and the blasts of bugles:
the Mexicans advance to the Alamo. A sheet 0
flame from riſles that never failed is the answer t0
the charge. The infantry recoil and fall back upon
the cavalry; their ranks broken and disordered by
the deadly fire of the besieged. The shouts from
the fort are mingled with the groans of the dying on
the plain, while the officers are endeavoring to re.
form their scattered masses. They return to the
attack, but the leaden shower which they encounter
fells them to the earth by platoons. Travis show?
himself on the walls, cheering on his undaunted fol;
lowers. Around him are Crockett, Evans, an
Bonham, roused to a last struggle, for they know
that their doom is sealed. In quick succession, rifle
after rifle is discharged, sending hundreds to their
long account. The Mexicans are again repulsed;
they fall back disheartened by the dead and the
dying around them. The battalion of Toluca, the
flower of the Mexican army, is reduced from four-
teen hundred to twenty-three. Men have become
for a moment regardless of their officers and aro
almost delirious, from the cries of anguish which
no discipline can restrain, and which come from
their fallen and expiring comrades. But . "
breach is made at last; the disjointed forces, by the
aid of threats and entreaties are rallied, and once
more turn their faces to the Alamo. The firing in
that quarter has for some time been growing slower
and slower. Rifles have dropped from many a vigº
orous hand, now cold in death, while others cling
to their weapons even in the agonies of dissolution.
Ammunition, too, has been failing; one by one th9
muzzles drop; the last rifle is loaded and discharged,
and the Mexicans have gained the wall. Proudly
conspicuous in that awful moment, Travis receive.”
a shot, staggers, and falls. He dies not unavenged.
A Mexican officer rushes upon him, and is about 10
plunge his sabre into the bosom of the fallen man,
when, gathering all his energies for a last effort, hº
bathes his own sword in the blood of his enemy, an
they die together.
In the mean time the battle has been raging h9%
and thick. The Mexicans have poured into the cit”
adel, like leaves falling before the storms of autumn.
The conflict becomes hand to hand. Each mºº
struggles with his adversary, dealing blows with
rifles, sabres, or whatever missile may be within
reach. The Texans are almost buried beneath th9
numbers of their opponents. The carnage has beeſ'
so terrible that the slain are piled up in heaps.
Death stares each survivor in the face, but still hº
struggles on. Crockett has been conspicuous in the
mêlée, wherever the blows fell hottest and thickes”
He has forced his way over piles of the dead bodiº”
of his enemies, and has reached the door of th’
chapel. Here he determines to make his last stanº:
At one glance of his eye, he sees that the fate.9
the Alamo rests upon himself alone. Travis
BATS AND FIELD MICE—NOT TO MYSELF ALONE,
177
...; Fyans is no more; Bowie expires upon a
d * Sickness, pierced to the heart by a Mexican
i ....; Bonham falls before his eyes, and he finds
and *If the only living warrior of the one hundred
d *xty-three who had been his comrades. Per-
º, . that moment the life-blood creeps to his
ment yº natural impulse, but it is only for a mo-
of dº. His foes glare on him with the fierceness
Inu nons, and assault him with blows from sabres,
skets, and pistols. The strength of a hundred
º seems concentrated in his single arm, as he
dSS out death to his rancorous and unsparing
6 §. ants. Their bodies have grown into a rampart
i. him. Blackened with fire and smoke, be-
jºin blood, and roused into phrenzy, he
o *s, like some fabled god of antiquity, laughing
ºn the malice, and the power, and the fury of
ºnemies. New fire flashes from his eye, and
..".Vigor nerves his arm. On his assailants rush,
"...it is only upon certain death. They fall, but
. places are still supplied; and so quickly, the
... eemed to rise up before him, like armed men
"n the teeth of Cadmus. At length a ball from
b 'stant rifle pierces him in the forehead: he falls
*ward to the earth, in the streams of gore which
ºlº around him. No groan escapes his lips; no
of agony gratifies the implacable rancor of his
*mies; hé dies, and the Alamo has fallen.
º AND FIELD Mice.—“I was much enter-
led last summer with a tame bat, which would
a. °, flies out of a person's hand. If you gave it
"ything to eat, it brought its wings round before
º mouth, hovering and hiding its head in the
"her of birds of prey when they feed. The
Roitness it showed in shearing off the wings of
O º ies, which were always rejected, was worthy
observation, and pleased me much. Insects
*med to be most acceptable, though it did not re-
; raw flesh when offered ; so that the notion
. bats go down chimneys and gnaw men's bacon,
...? improbable story: , While I amused my:
i with this wonderful quadruped, I saw it several
*s confute the vulgar opinion that bats, when
ºn on a flat surface, cannot get on the wing
#. by rising with great ease from the floor.
ãº. I observed, with more despatch than 1 was
*re of, but in a most ridiculous and grotesque
ºnnor.”
nº. day, in walking in the fields, he sees a
j of a remarkable species, which attracts his
in tion. It was the Mus messorius; and making
޺iries into the habits of this pretty little crea-
. hº writes as follows to Pennant on the sub-
carriº ‘These mice never enter into houses, are
th led into ricks and barns with the sheaves,
. in harvest, and build their nests amidst the
tim ws of the corn above the ground, and some-
... in thistles. They breed as many as eight at
*er, in a little round nest composed of the blades
thi 5. or wheat. One of these nests I procured
() i. most artificially platted, and composed
*g blades of wheat; perfectly round, and about
*šize of a cricket-ball; with the aperture so in-
tiºusly closed, that there was no discovering to
* Part it belonged. It was so compact and well
. that it would roll across the table without
"g liscomposed, though it contained eight little
* that were naked and blind. As this nest was
i. full, how could the dam come at her litter
É. ctively, so as to administer a teat to each
*Ps she opens different places for that purpose,
adjusting them again when the business is over;
but she could not possibly be contained herself in
the ball with her young, which, moreover would be
daily increasing in bulk. This wonderful procreant
cradle, and elegant instance of the efforts of in-
stinct, was found in a wheat-field, suspended in the
head of a thistle.” Recurring afterwards to these
mice, he says, “Two of them, in a scale, weighed
down just one copper halfpenny, which is about the
third of an ounce avoirdupois, so that I suppose
they are the smallest quadrupeds in this island.”—
White, of Selborne.
-wº
NOT TO MYSELF ALONE.
“Not to myself alone,” *
The little opening flower transported cries—
“Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume,
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes:
The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;
The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill.”
“Not to myself alone,”
The circling star with honest pride doth boast—
“Not to myself alone I rise and set;
I write upon night's coronal of jet
His power and skill who formed our myriad host:
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate,
I gem the sky,
That man might ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high.”
“Not to myself alone,” *
The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum—
“Not to myself alone from flower to flower
I rove the wood, the garden and the bower,
And to the hive at evening weary come:
For man, for man the luscious food I pile
With busy care,
Content if this repay my ceaseless toil–
A scanty share.”
“Not to myself alone,”
The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings—
“Not to myself alone I raise the song :
I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue,
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn,
And God adore ;
I call the worldling from his dross to turn,
And sing and soar.”
“Not to myself alone,” +
The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way-
“Not to myself, alone I sparkling glide:
I scatter life and”health on every side,
And strew the fields with herb and flow'ret gay;
I sing unto the common, bleak and bare,
My gladsome tune ; * * * *
I sweeten and refresh the languid air
In droughty June.”
“Not to myself alone"—
Oh man, forget not thou, earth's honored priest?
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart—
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part.
Chiefest of guests at love's ungrudging feast,
Play not the niggard, spurn thy native clod,
And self disown ; -
Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God,
Not to thyself alone.
*
Chambers’ Journal.
T78 HOCH
ELAGA.
From the Spectator.
Hochelaga; or England in the New World. Edit-
ed by Eliot WARBURTON, Esq., author of “The
Crescent and the Cross.” In two volumes.
Colburn.”
Hochel AGA is said to have been the ancient
name of Canada; and these volumes contain an
account of a visit to that country, some rambles in
the United States, with a notice of the outward
and homeward voyage, mixed with a variety of
miscellaneous subjects springing naturally out of
the field of observation. The celebrated and suc-
cessful author of The Crescent and the Cross, Mr.
Warburton, professes to be only the editor of the
volumes, who vouches for the “tone and truth.”
The work, however, is exceedingly Warburtonian,
not only in its manner but its treatment. The
smart and pointed vivacity of style is the same as
in The Crescent and the Cross; there is the same
disposition to rapid and rhetorical compilation
touching the history and statistics of every place
the traveller comes to, and a something of heavi-
ness in the march of the book, in spite of all the
excellences of composition.
But a greater interest, and perhaps more of
freshness in the subject, renders Hochelaga a better
book than its predecessor. The Mediterranean,
Egypt, and Syria, do not receive so many people
as North America, but they are visited by more
professional travellers; they have been more thor-
oughly examined and exhausted; and, after all,
the interest is rather of the dead or dying than of
the living. The remains of Grecian and Roman an-
tiquity are but the skeletons of what were once
animated creatures: the Crescent appears in a state
of decrepitude, and the revival of the Cross is too
remote for any credence save that of the enthusi-
astic. But all is different in the New World. It
may not be quite true that “Westward the scene
of empire bends its way,” but there, without doubt,
are new modes of political being rising into vigor-
ous life, and not merely exciting the most careless
passenger by the rapidity with which society wins
upon the wilderness, and surpasses all that pan-
egyrical poetry could exaggerate of imperial pow-
er, but furnishing to the thoughtful observer some
of the most singular elements in politics—for Can-
ada and the other British settlements are quite as
curious in their way as the United States. They
are not, indeed, so far advanced, and perhaps the
elements in them are somewhat different; but there
are the possible germs of a counterbalance to the
fierce democracy to the south of them, which it
would be well to understand and better to culti-
Wate.
A perfect traveller, who should combine the wis-
dom and observation of the philosopher with the
graces of the literary artist, will be vainly waited
for. We must obtain our notions of a country by
means of a division of labor, one man taking On 8
part, another man another. In this point of view,
it is well to have the pictures of Mr. Warburton
or his “alter idem.” The reader who is exten-
sively acquainted with books of travels may meet
much that he has met before—as the predominance
of fish at Newfoundland, the beauties of the Amer-
ican foliage in autumn, winter travelling in Cana-
da, and perhaps nearly all the broad and obvious
features of scenery and manners which every one
must notice. But they are mostly better done in
* Re-published in New York by Wiley & Putnam.
Hochelaga, with more of point, pith, and condensa:
tion; and where the subject is worth an additiona
view—as Niagara—the picture is desirable on this
ground. . The summaries of such things as the
now settled Oregon question, the exposition of the
American constitution, or the history of Canada,
had indeed been better away, because, however
able, they are jejune from the space into whic
they are compressed, and are little more than well-
executed compendiums for a gazetteer.
The remarkable parts of the book are those
which contain the author's narrative of such inci-
dents as occurred to himself or fell under his im"
mediate observation, or his remarks on men, man-
ners, and the state of the country. These are often
of interest in themselves, full of matter, and with
much of freshness; but the most remarkable char"
acteristic is the way in which the author brings out
the text of his subjects, by his pointed and impres"
sive mode of presenting their striking traits. This
is perhaps as much a knack of writing as a thor-
ough appreciation of the qualities of things; but,
"if an artifice, it is often very effective. #hus, he
brings out by a touch the fine but inappropriatº
names and slender buildings of the newly-settle
districts. “At each seven or eight miles of dis-
tance are thriving villages, built with the solidity
and rapidity of the city of the pack of cards, and
all named by Mrs. Malaprop—Rome is situated in
a valley, and looks as if it had been built in a day.”
The American part of the tour has not only the
greatest interest for the reader from the nature of
its subjects, but we think the strong contrasts an
strange peculiarities of that ſervid nation are better
suited to the writer's style than the quieter an
more English society of Canada. His character,
too, qualifies him to judge. A gentleman acquaint-
ed with good society in many countries, and hay-
ing evidently access to it in America, he has the
tolerance of a gentleman, with the power of a man
of the world to draw distinctions: and his conclu-
sions coincide with those we have more than onco
advanced touching manners and morals in America:
There are many persons of the finest feeling an
of the highest sense of honor, though the last qual:
ity is too often tainted by the “auri sacra ſames;"
but the majority predominates in everything—not
only in political power, but in giving the tone to
manners and opinions. America, in fact, is de;
prived of the use of the services and example o
her best citizens, and has recourse to those of her
WOrSt.
The various topics, and the writer's mode of
treating them, are, after all, better shown by ex-
tracts than description; and for this purpose wo
will draw pretty freely upon Hochelaga.
AMERICAN TRAITS.
“Our primitive railway carried us again to
Queenston : we pass over the ferry to Lewiston;
and are soon on board an American steamer boun
for Oswego, in the United States, on the south
shore of Lake Ontario. There were a great num-
ber of people in the steamer, all Americans, travel:
ling for health or amusement. I talked to every
one I could get to listen to me, and found them;
courteous, intelligent, and communicative; well rea
over a very broad surface, particularly of newspa,
pers, but only a surface; very favorably dispose
to the English as individuals, but I fear not so as a
nation; rather given to generalize on our affairs’
on the state of the poor, from the Andover work."
house—on the nobility, from the late Lord Hert"
HOCHELAGA,
179
§. ºliº, from Dr. Lardner. These are
eir rt of data on such matters kept forever before
FOu º by their press, echoed and reëchoed
0. .. the remotest parts of the Union, till even
e °st-informed and most liberal-minded among
* are, more or less, acted upon by their influ.
º * # #: sº i;
3S . is a large and flourishing town, or city
°y love to call it. Through all these districts
: Stränger is astonished at the appearance of
d ºily in every place and person; he sees no
º even small houses, no poor or idle people;
. place of business, transit, or amusement, is
ways full; lecture-rooms, railway-cars, theatres,
§. banks, markets, crowded to bursting.
it ºre is something infectious in this fever of activ-
. 3 and I soon found myself rushing in and out
*ilway dépôts and dining-rooms just as fast as
"...ºne else. # tº: #
In ‘Our ideas of their perfect equality are just as
º exaggerated as theirs are of our tyranny
d class; servants generally are called servants,
"d address their superiors as “sir' and ‘ma'am;’
Pºrters, cab-drivers, and all those classes of func-
"naries the same. I think there is very little dif.
ºnce between their manners and those which we
§ accustomed to; and they are quite as civil and
0 liging.”
wAITERs' IDEAs of Lords.
l “We found a very good hotel there, where we
ºpt comfortably without any dreams of the In-
*ns. I found in the morning I had indulged too
*ch to be in time for the regular breakfast; but
°re was a side-table laid in the corner, where
* or two stragglers from the town and I seated
§§elves; one of the waiters having put on the
*ble what was necessary for his and our use dur-
!"g the meal, sat down himself also, and entered
!"to conversation with us. He spoke quite freely,
"t at the same time respectfully—his manner was
*ry proper. I talked to him a good deal; on
any points he seemed wonderfully well-informed
Sº a man in his situation. Some of his notions of
"gland were rather amusing. He understood
At it was quite an usual thing for an English lord,
When in a bad humor, to horsewhip his servants ali
#. particularly on a day when his gun had
*iled to kill a sufficient number of foxes. Per-
*Ps you may think the ideas of a waiter at a coun-
!y inn not worth being printed; I think they are,
* a land where his share of the government is as
Bºat as that of a doctor of laws or a millionnaire.
{ { My Georgian friends expressed much surprise
when they heard the waiter had been my compan-
ºn at breakfast; but I have seen similar cases in
*Veral instances: the horsewhipping notion did
"t astonish them in the least.”
Woolwich, west poist, AND AMERICAN officers.
“At Woolwich, everything is trusted to the hon-
* of the cadet: his punishment is an arrest by the
Yord of his officer; no one watches that he keeps
* Often for a week together he is confined to his
ºom for some boyish freak, looking at his com-
anions playing at cricket or football outside, and
9mging to join them; but he is shut in by some-
!hing far more effectual than bolts or bars—by his
9nor; whatever other rules he may violate, to
ºak that is unknown. Again, when an irregu-
ºrity is committed, and the offender cannot be
identified, the officer asks for him on parade; the
°ulprit instantly follows, and says “I did it,' and
is punished accordingly. To establish a system of
this sort among boys, formerly from fourteen, now
from fifteen years of age upwards, is a very deli-
cate and difficult matter; but when accomplished,
it is invaluable; the boy must be thoroughly COr-
rupt who does not imbibe a spirit of truth and hon-
esty under its influence. It teaches to love what
is great and good, and hate all that is false, or
mean, or cruel.
“At West Point, to establish a system like this
would be almost impossible. An officer of the in-
stitution told me, that sometimes boys arrived at
the college utterly ignorant of everything, espe-
cially of the difference between right and wrong:
they find it more difficult to qualify many of their
pupils in matters of honor and º: than in
mathematics and fortification. The appointment
of the cadets rests with members of congress, each
having one: in spite of this, and of its being of
such essential consequence to their army, there is
every year the bitterest opposition to the rate for
the expenses of the college. A great ground of
jealousy is, that there is a decidedly aristocratical
feeling among the officers of the army. I have
had the pleasure of knowing many: America may
well be proud of them; they are highly educated
and gentlemanly, upright and honorable, zealous
and efficient in their profession; with the greatest
pleasure I bear witness that I have met with no ex-
ceptions. They are a most valuable class as citi-
zens; and their high tone of feeling and good man-
ners are not without an influence on society.
They at least are clear of the eternal struggle for
gain, and have leisure and taste for cultivating the
graces of life. The enemies of America may re-
joice when the institution of West Point is aban-
doned by the government.”
THE RANK AND FILE.
“I cannot speak so favorably of the rank and file
of the army; one third of them are Irish and Ger-
mans of the very lowest class. Although their
term of enlistment is only for three or five years,
thirty in a hundred desert annually. Their pay is
about a shilling a day above the cost of their cloth-
ing and living. The uniform is not calculated to
show them off to advantage : their performance
under arms is very inferior—at drill only I mean,
for it is known that they can fight very well.
Their barracks are generally much better than
those of our troops. At first sight it appears
strange, that when the officers are so very good
the private soldiers should be so much the re-
verse; but the evil of the short period of service,
rendered greater by desertion, and by their discon-
tent at being worse off than their civilian fellow-
citizens, makes them but indifferent matériel.
They are not regarded in a very kindly or respect-
ful ſight by the lower classes of the people. It
seems an instinct of the Anglo-Saxon race to dis-
like regular soldiers, though they themselves make
such good ones; perhaps it is from the military be-
ing associated in their ideas with despotic power.”
INTRODUCTION TO PRESIDENT POLK.
“There was no public reception during my very
short stay, but I had the honor of being presented
to the President. At eleven in the forenoon we
arrived at the White House, under the shade of
our umbrellas; from the intense heat, a fire-king
alone could have dispensed with this protection.
It is a handsome building, of about the same size
and pretensions as the lord-lieutenant's residence
180
HOCHELAGA.
in the Phoenix Park in Dublin; but, much as I had
heard of the republican simplicity of the arrange-
ments, I was not prepared to find it what it was.
We entered without ringing at the door: my kind
guide, leading the way, passed through the lower
premises, and ascended the staircase; at the top
of which we saw a negro, dressed very plainly, in
clothes of the same color as his face. He grinned
at us for a moment; and, calculating from the re-
spectability of my companion that I did not mean
to steal anything, was walking off, till he saw me,
with a simple confidence which seemed to him too
amiable to be allowed to suffer a betrayal, place my
umbrella in a corner before entering the gallery
leading to the private apartments: he immediately
turned to correct my error, informing me that if I
had any further occasion for its services I had bet-
ter not leave it there, “for some one would be sure
to walk into it.’ I of course took his counsel and
my property, and proceeded till we arrived at the door
of the President's room. My guide knocked, and
the voice of the ruler of millions said “Come in.”
Before obeying this command, I of course left my
unfortunate umbrella outside : this done, I walked
into the presence, and was introduced. At the
same moment, the watchful negro, the guardian
spirit of my endangered property, thrust it into my
left hand, with another and stronger admonition to
my simplicity; but this time his tone of compas-
sion for my ignorance had degenerated into that of
almost contempt for my obstinate folly. In the
mean time, my right hand was kindly shaken by
the President, according to custom : he told me to
be seated, and conversed with much urbanity. I,
of course, trespassed on his valuable time but for a
very few minutes, and then departed.
“He was sitting at a round table covered with
papers; another gentleman, I presume a secretary,
was seated at a desk near the window, writing.
Mr. Polk is a remarkable-looking man ; his fore-
head massive and prominent, his features marked
and of good outline. The face was shaved quite
close, the hair short, erect, and rather grey.
Judging from his dress and general appearance, he
might have been either a lawyer or a dissenting
minister; his manner and mode of expression were
not incongruous with his appearance.”
MIDDLE-AGED AND MELANCHOLY AMERICA.
“In the number of my fellow passengers there
were neither old nor young, at least there were no
venerable grey heads or cheerful boyish faces. In
no part of the United States do the people seem to
arrive at the average length of life of the Old
World. The great and sudden changes of tem-
perature, while perhaps they stimulate the energies
of those who are exposed to them, wear out the
stamina of the body and exhaust its vitality. The
cares of manhood and the infirmities of second
childhood are equally premature, denying the popu-
lation the two loveliest but most dependent stages
of existence, the idle but fresh and generous morn-
ing of youth, the feeble but soft and soothing even-
ing of old age. In this country, we find even the
climate in league with the practical in its influences
on the powers of man, a goad to material pros-
perity. The child is pushed with a forcing power
into the duties and pursuits of maturer years; the
man, when he ceases to be of active use, is hurried
out of the busy scene, his part played. The cum-
berers of the ground are but few ; all work, none
play. They go more awkwardly about their
amusements than any people I have ever seen else-
where ; theirs is a dark and sombre path through
life, though every step were on gold. Sarcastle
wit will win from them a sarcastic grin ; the happy
conclusion of some hard-driven bargain may raise *
smile of satisfaction; but the joyful burst of cheer
ful laughter, the glee and hilarity of a happy heart,
you must go elsewhere to seek. They are not *
healthy-looking race; the countenance is sallow,
and marked º in life with lines of thought.
The fresh pure glow of the Saxon cheek is never
seen here. The men are tall, but not robust or
athletic: they have no idea of the sports of the
field, and rarely or never join in any more active
game than bowls or billiards. They do not walk,
if they can ride; ride, if they can drive; or drive,
if they can go by railway. Mind and body, day
and night, youth and age, are given up to the on?
great pursuit of gain. But this inordinate appetitº
for acquiring is in their character deprived of some
of its most odious features; it is rarely accompanie
by parsimony or want of charity. I believe nº
people on earth can be more hospitable to their
equals in worldly wealth, or more open-handed to
the poor.”
MANNERS IN CANADA.
“The manner of servants to their masters, and
of the lower classes generally to their superiors, is
much the same as in England.; tradespeople, too,
hold a like relative position. Your bootmaker does
not consider that it adds to his importance or rea
independence to sit down in your room with his
hat on, and whistle and spit while he takes your
measure, as his republican brethren in the Unite
States would probably do. I made a small pur-
chase from a man in a shop at Baltimore, who was
Smoking a cigar, chewing tobacco, and eating a
peach, at the same time : with so many pleasing
and interesting occupations, he of course ha
not much leisure to spare for civilities to his cus’
tomer.
“With the exception of a few of the lowest
class, the Canadians are quite free from those very
disagreeable habits which are so unpleasantly
general among the Americans. Chewing tobacco
is not the fashion, and they reserve their saliva for
other purposes than those of a projectile nature:
Their manners, customs, and dress, are those 0
England, not of America ; ; and in this there is "
bond of union and sympathy, of which all astute
politicians acknowledge the strength and value.”
EDUCATION IN AMERICA.
“The people of New England are, without doubt,
very generally educated: rich and poor, indeed,
have apparently the same opportunities, but prac:
tically they are different. The poor man's son has
to lay aside his books for the axe or the plough, as
soon as his sinews are tough enough for the work;
the rich man's has more leisure to pursue hiº
studies and complete them afterwards. However,
he has but little to gain by eminence. The pursuit
of wealth offers a readier course to distinction; he
meets here with numbers who have like objects,
and whose conversation and habits of life arº
formed by them. The man who labors to bº
learned condemns himself to a sort of isolation.
however precious the object may be to him, it *
not current as value to others. Some there arº
whose love for knowledge is for itself alone, not
for the honors and advantages derivable from it:
these few conquer the great difficulties in the wº
and become really learned : but the tendency is 19
JENYNs' observations
ON NATURAL HISTORY.
181
. 3S much information as may be absolutely
Imake i. then to set to work to apply it, and
Crease Prºfitable for other purposes, but not to in-
£ Il itself. Consequently, the greater part of
j". mind is but a dead level, like the
about t rich and productive immediately round
life, b e spot where it is worked for the uses of
orco ut with few elevations from which any wide
yet mmanding view can be taken in the search for
"...more fertile soil.
enº. equality of education tells very well in
j"; men to fulfil with propriety very different
Orn Pºsitions from those in which they were
has a lº blacksmith who has made a fortune
his n ly to wash his hands; and he does not find
Or #. *sociates either so very highly cultivated,
an . so much the reverse, as to place him in
the ... ſºle situation. For general utility to
... for the practical affairs of life, and for
telli "g men up to the almost universal level of in-
l ºnce, the democratic power has made admir-
i...ºgements; but to go beyond that it has
W3 "h almost insurmountable difficulties in the
|... mot by its laws, but by the habits which its
's engender.
Can "nº passages towards the close treat of Ameri-
cha subjects generally—as education, manners,
*cter, the prospect of the Union continuing :
fire well worth perusal for their shrewdness of
r -
jºk and vigor of style, though we may not
tº. agree with the writer’s conclusion. In
SČ
of time, he thinks, the United States will
ally break up into three communities—
8 "eastern, Southern, and western. Such is
dn esult to be predicated from natural circum-
a. and society as controlled by them; but the
wº. of this work seems to think the dissolution
take place in the usual course of progress, by
... "erſal divisions it will cause. Of this we
t; tº. Should the valley of the Mississippi, the
...is of Oregon, and California, with the
.." ºn parts of Mexico, be completely occupied,
jº so, unwieldly and with, such diverse
r *cters and interests must divide ; but force
...hout nature seems a necessary element of
e. Summer and winter depart with, the
Stor ºctial gales; growing heat is got rid of by a
...; and the pent-up gases in the work-shops
chi. earth vent themselves in volcanoes. Organic
viº ges in a state are rarely brought about without
() . and something that irritates men's minds
...” in which habit and feeling are alike over:
li * seems necessary to break up “the Union.”
wi. necessity is most likely to arise in a war,
jº the Atlantic States, suffering all the direct
angr and paying all the expenses, will get so
j. . as to withdraw themselves from the western
jºints, for the sake of peace. Had a war
i..place on the Oregon question, this separa-
"Would possibly have been precipitated.
eventu
Orth
From the Spectator.
\,
J l
*YNs' observations in NATURAL HISTORY.
Mºſesyns appears to be one of those active,
observi
.#, and recording men, that form the com-
ºriat of science; collecting the materials from
j more theoretical, and it may sometimes hap-
*... philosophical minds, frame an hypothesis,
º * a view, or deduce a principle. The
Iſle is and labors of this class vary, from the
*drudge, whose mind runs upon the dry arith.
metic of measurements and similar tangible
“facts,” to the earnest and truthful observer of
nature, who feels her charms if he cannot extract
her poetry. Such was Gilbert White, and such in
a lesser degree is the Reverend Leonard Jenyns.
In fact, these Observations in Natural History
originated in the author's admiration of White's
Natural History of Selborne; their nucleus having
been formed as illustrative notes to a new edition
of that work which Mr. Jenyns was preparing.
The stock of matter accumulated was, however,
too much to use as mere addenda, and first gave
rise to the idea of this publication. Then the
“Naturalist's Calendar” of White seemed to Mr.
Jenyns deficient in several particulars, and he con-
sidered one might be formed upon a more exact and
methodical plan. He also thought that he was
competent to give some advice on Habits of Ob-
serving to the country resident, who might wish to
avail himself of his opportunities, and acquire a
relish for nature whilst he accumulated facts for his
own use or the advance of science. -
In some sense, therefore, the book may be con-
sidered a species of companion to White's Sel-
borne; and, to speak of its formal divisions, and in
the order of their occurrence, it consists of three
parts. The first is the essay on the Habit of Ob-
serving, which contains a good deal of judicious
advice to the reader, both as to his manner of pro-
ceeding to study nature and as to the uses to which
his studies may be turned ; though the style occa-
sionally smacks of the spiritual rather than of the
literary director. The second part is the largest
and most popular; and contains the Observations
in Natural History, classed under the heads of
quadrupeds, birds, reptiles, fishes, and the lesser
tribes of animantia. . The third part is an essay on
the importance of forming a calendar of periodic
phenomena in natural history—a statistical table
of dates and events kept yearly, and the extremes
deduced from a series of years. The uses to which
these collections may be turned, and the principles
on which the observations should be made and
recorded, form the subject of the text; which is
followed by an example in Mr. Jenyns' own
calendar.
The Observations are various both in character
and extent; sometimes embracing a single fact, of
a small and to general readers an unimportant kind,
sometimes handling a particular subject, and well
illustrating it by anecdotes. On the whole, how-
ever, the special predominates; which will render
the book more attractive to those who open it
with a purpose than to those who read for mere
amusement. We give some examples of this latter
kind of reading. -
RISING AND MOVEMENT OF ANIMALS.
“The most common occurrences, and such as
are brought under our eyes every day, sometimes
escape the notice of inobservant persons. A
farmer, who had lived all his life among stock, was
not aware, till I drew his attention to the fact, that
horses and oxen rise from the ground differently.
There is a slight difference in their mode of lying
down; the horse not generally remaining so long
upon his knees as the ox, before bringing the rest
of his frame to the ground. But in getting up, the
horse invariably rises first upon his fore-legs, before
rising upon his hind. The ox, on the contrary,
rises first upon the hind, and often remains upon
his knees some few seconds until his hind-legs are
straightened. These differences probably prevail
182 JENYNs' observations
ON NATURAL HISTORY.
throughout the two Cuvierian groups of Pachyder-
mata and Ruminantia, to which the horse and ox
respectively belong. The elephant and rhinoceros
both rise first upon their fore-legs, like the horse;
so does the pig : the sheep, goat, and deer, in this
respect, are like the ox.
“The horse, in trotting or walking, lifts his feet
off the ground in a certain order: first he raises the
off fore, then the near hind, then the near fore, and
lastly the off hind. The appearance, as is well
known, is that of the two legs which are diago-
nally opposite being raised nearly simultaneously;
but the two on the same side following one another
at a moderate interval, the hind one advancing first.
The elephant, as many observers have noticed,
appears, in walking, to move the two legs on the
same side at the same time; and it has occasionally
been thought that the order in which the legs are
raised from the ground is different from that in the
horse. But, upon close watching, it will be seen
that this order is in all cases the same; the only
difference consisting in the length of the intervals
between taking the feet successively up. In the
elephant, the interval between raising each hind-
foot, and the fore immediately in advance of it is
very short, and it becomes relatively shorter as the
pace, increases. When the animal walks very
slowly, the legs * to move just as in the
horse; the interval in the two cases being the
same. The same may be observed in the rhi-
noceros; though I have had no opportunity of
noticing this animal moving fast, so as to say
whether it then resembles the elephant in the ap-
earance of the legs or not. The giraffe, whether
it walks fast or leisurely, appears to move the
two legs on the same side together, as in the ele-
phant.”
A HEDGEHog's REPAST.
“Oct. 28th, 1828.-Hedgehogs are still about,
and on the alert for food. I fell in with one to-day
in my walks, in a sheltered part of the garden,
which I was enabled to watch unobserved, and
which afforded me an opportunity of seeing a little
into their habits and mode of feeding. It was
creeping up and down a grass walk, apparently in
busy search for worms. It carried its snout very
low, insinuating it among the roots of the herbage,
and snuffing about under the dead leaves which lay
about. After a time, it commenced scratching at
a particular spot, to which it seemed directed by
the scent, and drew out a very large worm from
just beneath the surface of the ground. This it
immediately began to devour, taking, it into the
mouth by one extremity, and gradually eating its
way to the other; an operation which lasted some
time, and was attended by an incessant action of
the teeth, which grated one upon another with a
peculiar noise. After the worm was all gone, as I
thought, I was surprised to see the whole put out
of the mouth again; and, from the appearance of
the cast, I was led to believe that it had been only
subjected to the action of the teeth for the purpose
of being bruised, and squeezing out the soft inter-
mal parts of the body, which alone were eaten in
the first instance : # skin itself, however, was
shortly retaken into the mouth, and the whole clean
devoured.”
MATERNAL INSTINCT AND JEALOUSY.
“It is curious to observe what slight deviations
from the course which nature has prescribed for
each species of animal are sometimes sufficient to
modify and even entirely overrule their instingtº
at least in the case of domesticated animals, theº
instincts are liable to be much perverted. Myº
has a kitten nearly full-grown, to which she .
quently brings mice, offering them with evidº”
symptoms of complacency, and sitting quietly
while the kitten devours them. Yet, when tº
family are at meals, the old cat, who has be:
accustomed to be fed from the table, is exceeding'.
jealous when the kitten approaches her at su%
times: she is apprehensive lest the attentions 9
the party should be diverted from herself to tº
kitten; and if the latter attempts to take any of
food which she conceives intended for herself, sº
growls, and flies at her offspring in the most sayag.
manner. This has nothing to do with any feeling:
of hunger; for she is often manifestly hung
when she has caught a mouse, but which, notwit
standing, she gives up to the kitten.”
BIRDS TUN ING U.P.
“Birds which are silent during the winter,.”
most are, appear to acquire their notes in the spri"
by degrees. At first their song is very weak and iſ.
perfect; and to hear them laboring at it, and on;
managing to get a part out, conveys the idea 9
some physical impediment, which for a while thº.
are unable to surmount. As the temperature 9
the season advances, their system receives a corº.
sponding stimulus, and their song becomes loudſ.
and more lengthened. This may be particular
noticed in the chaſſinch, and those birds whose song
is generally made up of a definite number of notes.
I have also observed it in the ring-dove, whos”
cooing mole with us, in the height of the summer,
is invariably repeated five times to complete the
usual call; but in January, and February, whº
these birds are only induced, perhaps by a mild
day, just to try their powers, I have sometime.
: them as if obliged to stop after the second *
third coo.
“Birds also appear to lose their song in the saº
gradual way in which they first acquire it. Thº
has been often remarked in the case of the cucko”
which towards the end of June is sometimes on
master of the first syllable of its call.”
AN OWL OF TASTE.
“One of the most striking peculiarities in thº
tame owl is said to have been its fondness for mus!"
It would often come into the drawingroom of *
evening, on the shoulder of one of the children.
and, on hearing the tones of the piano, would sº
with his eyes gravely fixed on the instrument, anº
its head on one side in an attitude of attentioſ :
when, suddenly spreading his wings, he wou
alight on the keys, and making a dart at the pº
former's fingers with its beak, would continue hop"
ping about, as if pleased with the exccution.”
PUGNACITY OF THE ROBIN.
“The pugnacious disposition of the redbreas:
towards its own kind, as well as towards othº
birds, is well known. Mr. Selby sends me the ſol-
lowing remarkable anecdote, showing to what fiſh
extent their passion will sometimes carry them, aſ
how completely they are lost to all apprehension.
of danger while under its influence. A redbreas"
had for sometime taken up its abode in a hot-hous”
from which it had egress at pleasure. One day.
when the gardener was in the house, another reº.
breast found his way in ; but he had no soon”;
made his appearance than he was furiously attack”
BURNING OF WATER—GOVERNMENT CLASS AT SYDNEY.
183
§ the usual tenant, and soon showed that he had
º of the combat: so severely was he
el º ","hat he was taken up by the gardener, and
i." his hand, where he lay struggling and pant-
.# º breath. The victor, i.; i. not thus
upo i .. from further wreaking his vengeance
upon º intruder. He boldly flew and alighted
Ceed i 9 hand of the gardener; and forthwith pro-
. to peck the head of his victim, and buffet
him . such a manner that he would soon have put
him °rs de combat, had not the gardener carried
th *!, and turned him off at some distance from
& building.”
*====
* º of WATER.-It was once remarked by
le . chemist, when speaking of the proba-
ear f ºustion of our coal-fields, that he had little
S ... that event, as long ere then the progress
.*e would have enabled man to support the
"stion of water. Extravagant as this opinion
.. to the unscientific, there is nothing
hydro ikely. Water is a compound of oxygen and
i.º-two gases without which it would be
Pºssible to eliminate a single phenomenon of
"bustion. Thus the gas which we burn in our
j is carburetted hydrogen; that is, a com.
ives of carbon and hydrogen, which, on 1gnition,
Cont s's light and heat only when in a medium
..ºg oxygen—such as the atmosphere.
Porta, then, hydrogen and oxygen play most im-
em ht parts s and could We resolve Water into its
i . which it is quite possible to do, all that
es.ºy to produce heat and light is a little
Qatt n. But we are not left to speculate on this
j.3 the thing has been so far done by M.
i. ;, and gas made from water, possessing
gas . the illuminating properties of ordinary coal
touſ t as been used both in France and in our own
the . M. Jobard obtains his hydrogen gas by
with ºmposition of steam in vertical retorts filled
Om lºandescent coke, and unites this gas, at the
pro j ºf formation, with hyper-carburetted gas,
~as ced by the distillation of any hydro-carburet
pººl. tar, naphthaline, and other products at
of..." rejected by our ordinary gas-works. It is
{l .."ºnt whence his hydro-carburets are pro-
*seless indeed, the substances which are rendered
by . and injurious to the manufacture of the gas,
those lººsent mode of operating, are precisely
ties. Which are the richest in illuminating proper-
Submitt Jobard's process and its details have been
°ommi ed, since its invention in 1833, to several
and t ºns of inquiry both in Belgium and France,
able º of these have been uniformly favor-
natin as to its cheapness and the higher illumi-
º; Pºet of the gas so produced. In a recent
the i. of the “Bulletin du Musée d'Industrie,”
whic ºntor gives a full account of his process,
end. about to become public property; and
near gº that it has been used in a manufactory
in Lvo. ºienne, in Dijon and Strasburg, partially
i. in Paris, and by private individuals in
Paper . London. He modestly concludes his
... ºbserving, that he will not be accused of
vs. ration when he states “that there is some
ºn. * Process, the principle of which is to de-
of co º ...a substance of no value, by means
process' which is of very little value—as under this
will su . pound of oil, which costs a halfpenny,
Candl Pply a burner giving a light equal to ten
eš during twenty hours.”
"obard's is certainly a discovery of great
interest, and though not the complete combustion
of water predicted by Sir Humphry Davy, is at
all events, as every one must admit, an impor-
tant step in the right direction.—Chambers’ Jour-
nal.
THE “Government CLAss” AT Sydney.—
“It may be worth while here, suppressing names
and dates, to give an instance of the feeling which
exists among what are called the ‘free,” in oppo-
sition to the ‘government' classes, now emanci-
pated, and possessing the same political rights and
privileges with the others. Several attempts have
been made to conclude a treaty of alliance between
them, but in vain. All endeavors hitherto have
failed before the invincible prejudices of hereditary
virtue ; and there seems every possibility of the
permanent existence of a class which thanks God it
is not as its neighbors are—sons and daughters of
publicans and sinners. The prejudices entertained
against the black natives have been partially over-
come, by a matrimonial alliance at Swan River.
It was thought, therefore, that if a marriage be-
tween persons of a distinguished position, one of
them being of convict descent, were brought about,
a great step would have been taken. A couple
answering this description existed. The accom-
plished and beautiful daughter of a man of wealth,
who had been one of the compulsory founders of
the state, was betrothed to a young man glorying
in all the pride of honest blood. The marriage
took place ; the bride was given away by the
governor of the colony. The public looked on in
seeming approval ; and as soon as the reluctance
of the young wife to appear in public was over-
come, she entered, leaning on the arm of her hus-
band, a ball-room filled with all the rank and
fashion of Sydney. A titter ran round; there was
shaking of fans, and rustling of gowns, and ex-
changing of glances, and tossing of heads, and
whisperings. Suddenly every kind and charitable
lady rose from her seat, the dance was broken up,
and in a few minutes all the rank and fashion of
Sydney had disappeared ; and even the hostess,
who had magnanimously issued the invitation, awed
by this expression of public opinion, dared scarcely
advance to console the confounded and weeping
cause of all this confusion :
“A nother instance will exhibit the state of feel-
ing among the reprobates themselves. They have
been taught to caricature the feelings of the free.
Because these will not associate with the descend-
ants of rogues, those will not associate with any
who are not descendants of rogues. . A public din-
ner was given by this class, to which the doctor
who took care of their bodily health was invited.
Great was the joviality among these sinners, and
toasts of all kinds were drunk. Our medical friend
got on his legs, to answer for his profession; when
suddenly a man arose, whose claims to Newgate
descent were undoubted, and insisted that, because
the son of Æsculapius was a white sheep, he could
not be heard. No sooner was this hint given, than
divers significant glances were cast on the worthy
doctor, who stood almost overwhelmed by the im.
putation. At length, mustering courage, he re-
pelled the charge of his honorable friend,”
denied the purity of his descent, and, for fear of
falling a victim to the ‘exclusive dealing' system,
actually proved, by a long genealogical deduction,
his relationship with some notorious convicts.”—.
Foreign Quarterly Review.
184
SLIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES-MICE IN GERMANY., ETC.
SLIGHT CIRCUMSTANCEs.-Sir Walter Scott,
walking one º along the banks of the Yarrow,
where Mungo ark was born, saw the traveller
throwing stones into the water, and anxiously
watching the bubbles that succeeded. Scott in.
quired the object of his Occupation. “I was think-
ing,” *Wered Park, “how often I had thus tried
tº sound the rivers in Africa, by calculating how
lºng a time had elapsed before the bubbles os, ſo
the surface.” It was a slight circumstance, but
the traveller's safety frequently depended upon it.
Jº watch, the mainspring foºms a small portion
ºf the works, but it impels and governs the whole.
So it is in the machinery of human life—a slight
%ircumstance is permitted by the Divine Ruler to
dºrange or to alter it: a giant falls by a pebble ; a
girl at the door of an inn changes the fortune of an
empire. If the nose of Cleopatra had been shorter,
said Pascal in his epigrammatic and brilliant man.
ner, the condition of the world would have been
different. The Mohammedans have a tradition,
that when their prophet concealed himself in
Mount Shur, his pursuers were deceived by á
spider's web, which covered the mouth of the
cave. Luther might have been a lawyer, had his
friend and companion escaped the thunder storm at
ICrfurt; Scotland had wanted her stern reformer,
if the appeal of the preacher had not startled him
in the chapel of St. Andrew's castle ; and if Mr.
Grenville had not carried, in 1746, his memorable
resolution as to the expediency of charging “cer-
tain stamp duties’’ on the plantations in America,
the western world might still have bowed to the
British sceptre. Cowley might never have been a
poet, if he had not found the Faery Queen in his
mother's parlor; Opie, might have perished in
mute obscurity, if he had not looked over the
shoulder of his young companion, Mark Oates,
while he was drawing a butterfly; Giotto, one of
the early Florentine painters, might have continued
a rude shepherd-boy, if a sheep drawn by him upon
a stone had not attracted the notice of Cimabue as
he went that way.—Asiatic Journal.
Mice IN GERMANY.-A plague peculiar to the
dry districts along the Rhine is found in the mice,
which, in a fine season, swarm in such myriads,
that whole fields are devastated where no energetic
means are adopted for destroying them. It is true
that the winter frosts and spring floods cleanse the
fields, to all appearance, thoroughly of this nui- |
sance; yet, if the month of May be fine, they
appear in August with undiminished, force. In
various villages, the remedies attempted are diſſer-
ent. Sometimes a reward in money is offered per
one hundred skins, and the youthful population is
encouraged to exert its skill and passion for the
chase on the modern hydra. All such efforts
prove, however, ineffectual to keep down the num-
*; of the general foe, whose paths across a corn-
field are nearly as broad as those trodden by single
fºot-passengers, while the hoard abstracted from
his crop is estimated by the farmer from the num-
ber of straws nibbled off at a short distance from
the ground, the ears from which have disappeared
within the subterranean labyrinths, that often
repay the labor of digging up. In the neighbor-
hood of Jülich a mode ºf smoking out the mice has
been introduced from Belgium. An iron pan, two
feet high, has at bottom a grating supported by
a pin. On the grating some charcoal is laid, and
the pan, when filled with rags, leather, and sul-
phur, is fastened with an air-tight cover, which
has a small tube, into which a small hose, coſt-
nected with a bellows, is inserted. The pan is
held by an upper and a side handle. The night
before it is used the field is surveyed, and all open
mouse-holes are trodden close. In the morning,
such as are reopened indicate those which arº
tenanted, and one being selected, the lower part o
the pan is pressed against it, and the bellows being
set to work, the smoke issues from the orifice nea;
the grating, and penetrates into the runs an
galleries that connect the holes. A number 0
assistants are required to tread the crevices clos?
through which the smoke is seen to escape ; an
if all due precautions be taken, great numbers 6
these diminutive enemies may be slaughtered, an
at the same time buried, in their subterranea”
holds.—Banfield's Industry of the Rhine.
WE MUST INvADE In ELAND.—Ireland was Peel's
difficulty : he said so. Ireland will be Russell's
difficulty. She will be the difficulty of everybody
who shall attempt to govern her peacéably: she is
becoming even a difficulty to O'Connell; thanks-
small thanks—to Mr. Smith O'Brien.
The fact is, as we have heard many respectablº
old gentlemen declare, that Ireland is not yet con-
Quered; and conquered she must be. We there-
fore plainly and plumply, without mincing the ma"
ter, recommend an invasion of Ireland. #
Not from the vain wish to parade our skill in
strategy, but from motives of the purest patriotism,
do we propose the following arrangement of the
invading forces:—
The van is to consist of grenadiers, to be called
the 1st Life Potatoes, who are to shower the effec-
tive missile they take their name from on the quar
ters where it is most needed.
The right wing is to beformed of the Household
Bread and Meat Brigade; troops that may be dº.
pended upon for giving the enemy a bellyful. They
are to be instructed to give no quarter, except the
quartern loaf. The left shall be constituted by thº
Heavy (Barclay's) Dragoons, who will have forme
a junction with Guinness' regiment at Dublin.
These stout fellows will soon drench all their adve.
saries. In the centre shall be stationed the Ligh"
Eatables and Drinkables. The old Coercion Comº
i. is to be disbanded as useless, even as a forlor”
OD6.
The whole army is to be flanked by a squadro"
of schoolmasters, who are to form a corps de resert”
to act only when the victory is decided, in order to
complete and secure it. For, till the operatiºn.”
of the Provisional Battalion have been successful,
the services of the scholastic force will be unavail.
ing. The former, however, having broken the Cº.
emy's line, his utter route and discomfiture by thé
latter is inevitable.—Punch.
New Sign of DeATH-The following discovery
may be of great service in cases of suspected death;
The communication was lately made to the Roy?
Academy of Sciences, Paris, by M. Ripault, who, ſº
directing the attention of members to the discoveº
observed, that it consisted in perfect flaccidity of t :
iris when the globe of the eye is compressed in º:
opposite directions. If the individual be living, tº
pupil retains its circular form, notwithstanding
compression ; if dead, the aperture becomes irregula”
and the circular form is lost. .
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
185
From the Athenaeum.
*TEENTH MEETING of THE BRITISH Asso-
CIATION FoR THE ADVANCEMENT OF
SCIENCE.
SouTHAMPToN, sept. 9.
General Committee.
º committee assembled in the town hall, at
...” glock, and the chair was taken by the presi-
º, Sir John Herschel.
Whi * Secretary read the report of the council :
lch congratulated the association on the success
me." application made to her majesty's govern-
Tes for carrying into effect the recommendations
io lºng magnetic and meteorological observa-
jº adopted at the Cambridge meeting, [Ath. No.
of hº Sir R. Peel had recognized the º:
i."; these observations regularly ma e at the
i. ºbservatories, and in the colonies; and the
Cont; India Company had given directions for their
*inuance at Fort William, Bombay, and Ma-
º's They are to be continued, also, at Toronto
Ot tº Helena; and arrangements are in progress
of §stablishing them at Paramatta and the Cape
Ind ºod Hope. The magnetic survey of the East
$0 * Seas is in progress; and so is that of Hud-
"'s Bay—which will connect itself with Sir John
ºnklin's survey of the northern parts of Ameri-
... Through the Earl of Aberdeen, application
*Imade to foreign governments for the commu-
*tion of such observations as had been made
jºr their directions, and favorable answers had
* received. Her majesty's government had
"mised a favorable consideration to the applica-
* made by the association and the Royal Socie-
§ conjointly, that a premium should be offered for
Provements in the construction of magnetic and
*eorological instruments; and the Royal Society
; , given the sum of £50, from the Wollaston
...], for the construction of a self-registering in-
*ument of this kind, at the association’s observa-
*y at Kew.
n the motion of Sir Roderick Impey Murchi-
the president elect, seconded by the Marquis
orthampton, it was resolved that his royal
ºness Prince Albert having signified his inten-
0n to visit the association and attend the opening
*ting, the association do elect him their sole
..ºrary member. The motion was carried by ac-
amation.
son,
high
EVENING MEETING-THURSDAY.
The business of the sections—seven in number
... ºommenced in the morning; but we shall post-
tº our report of their proceedings till our next
}*blication, for the purpose of coming at once to
i 9pening general meeting and the president's
ress. The expected visit of H. R. H. Prince
'bert attracted a large assembly; and on his ar:
ºl, a little after eight o'clock, Sir John Herschel
§ºned the proceedings by announcing that he was
ºut, to vacate the chair, and make room for the
ident elect, Sir R. I. Murchison. In doing so,
**ongratulated the association on the bright pros-
{* before them of a most successful meeting at
°uthampton. Sir R.I. Murchison then delivered
* annual address, as follows.
The President's Address.
O SENTLEMEN,+After fifteen years of migration
Various important cities and towns in the United
CXxv.111. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI, 12
ri
Kingdom, you are for the first time assembled in
the southeastern districts of England, at the solicita-
tion of the authorities and inhabitants of Southamp-
ton. Easily accessible on all sides to the cultiva-
tors of science, this beautiful and flourishing sea-
port is situated in a district so richly adorned by
nature, so full of objects for scientific contempla-
tion, that, supported as we are by new friends in
England, ...; by old friends from the farthest re-
gions of Europe, we shall indeed be wanting to
ourselves, if our proceedings on this occasion should
not sustain the high character which the British
Association has hitherto maintained.
For my own part, though deeply conscious of
my inferiority to my eminent predecessor in the
higher branches of science, I still venture to hope
that the devotion I have manifested to this associa-
tion from its origin to the present day, may be
viewed by you as a guarantee for the zealous exe-
cution of my duties. Permit me, then, gentlemen,
to offer you my warmest acknowledgments for
having placed me in this honorable position ; and
to assure you, that I value the approbation which it
implies as the highest honor which could have been
bestowed on me—an honor the more esteemed from
its being conferred in a county endeared to me by
family connexions, and in which I rejoice to have
made my first essay as a geologist.
The origin, progress, and objects of this our
“parliament of science” have been so thoroughly
explained on former occasions by your successive
presidents, particularly in reference to that por-
tion of our body which cultivates the mathematical,
chemical, and mechanical sciences, that after brief-
ly alluding to some of the chief results of bygone
years, with a view of impressing upon our new
members the general advances we have made, I
shall in this discourse dwell more particularly on
the recent progress and present state of natural
history, the department of knowledge with which
my own pursuits have been most connected, whilst
I shall also incidentally advert to some of the pro-
ceedings which are likely to occupy our attention
during this meeting.
No sooner, gentlemen, had this association fully
established its character as a legitimate representa-
tive of the science of the United Kingdom, and by
the reports which it had published, the researches
which it had instituted, and the other substantial
services which it had rendered to science, had se-
cured public respect, than it proceeded towards the
fulfilment of the last of the great objects which a
Brewster and a Harcourt contemplated at its foun-
dation, by inviting the attention of the government
to important national points of scientific interest.
At the fourth meeting, held in Edinburgh, the as-
sociation memorialized the government to increase
the forces of the Ordnance Geographical Survey of
Britain, and to extend speedily to Scotland the
benefits which had been already applied by that
admirable establishment to the south of England,
Wales, and Ireland. From that time to the pres-
ent it has not scrupled to call the notice of the min-
isters of the day to every great scientific measure
which seemed, after due consideration, likely to
romote the interests or raise the character of the
}. nation. Guided in the choice of these ap-
plications by a committee, selected from among its
members, it has sedulously avoided the presenta-
tion of any request which did not rest on a rational
basis; and our rulers, far from resisting such ap-
peals, have uniformly and cordially acquiesced in
them. Thus it was when, after paying large sums
186
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
from our own funds for the reduction of large
masses of astronomical observations, we represent-
ed to the government the necessity of enabling the
astronomer-royal to perform the same work on the
observations of his predecessors which had accu-
mulated in the archives of Greenwich, our appeal
was answered by arrangements for completing so
important a public object at the public expense.
Thus it was, when contemplating the vast acces-
Sion to pure science as well as to useful maritime
knowledge to be gained by the exploration of the
South Polar regions, that we gave the first impulse
to that project of the great Antarctic expedition,
which, supported by the influence of the Royal So-
ciety and its noble president, obtained the full as-
sent of the government, and led to results which,
through the merits of Sir James Ross and his com-
panions, have shed a bright lustre on our country,
by copious additions to geography and natural his-
tory, and by affording numerous data for the devel-
opment of the laws that regulate the magnetism of
the earth.
The mention of terrestrial magnetism brings with
it a crowd of recollections creditable to the §.
Association, from the perspicuous manner in which
every portion of fresh knowledge on this important
subject has been stored up in our volumes, with a
view to generalization, by Colonel Sabine and
others; whilst a wide field for its diffusion and
combination has been secured by the congress
held at our last meeting, at which some of the
most distinguished foreign and British magneticians
were assembled under the presidency of Sir John
Herschel.
It is indeed most satisfactory for us to know, that
not only did all the recommendations of the associa-
tion on this subject which were presented to our
government meet with a most favorable reception,
but that, in consequence of the representations made
by her majesty's secretary of state for foreign af-
fairs to the public authorities of other countries
which had previously taken part in the system of
coöperative observation, the governments of Rus-
sia, Austria, Prussia, and Belgium have notified
their intention of continuing their respective mag-
netical and meteorological observations for another
term of three years. *
In º by other instances in which public lib.
erality has been directed to channels of knowledge
which required opening out, I must not omit to no-
tice the grant obtained from our gracious sovereign,
of the royal observatory at Kew, which, previously
dismantled of its astronomical instruments, has been
converted by us into a station for observations pure-
ly physical, and especially for those details of at-
mospheric phenomena which are so minute and
numerous, and require such unremitting attention,
that they imperiously call for º establish-
ments. In realizing this principle, we can now
refer British and foreign philosophers to the obser-
vatory of the British ź at Kew, where I
have the authority of most adequate judges for say-
ing they will find that a great amount of electrical
and meteorological observation has been made, and
a systematic inquiry into the intricate subject of at-
mospheric electricity carried out, by Mr. Ronalds,
under the suggestions of Prof. Wheatstone, to
which no higher praise can be given than that it
has, in fact, furnished the model of the processes
conducted at the royal observatory of Greenwich.
This establishment is besides so useful through the
facilities which it offers for researches into the
working of self-registering instruments which are
there constructed, that I earnestly hope it may bø
sustained as heretofore by annual grants from,”
funds, particularly as it is accomplishing consider”
ble results at very small cost. !
Our volume for the last year contains seve.
communications on physical subjects from emin."
foreign cultivators of science, whom we have.”
pleasure of reckoning amongst our,correspon ing
members, and whose communications, according."
the usage of the association, have been printed ".
tire amongst the reports. In a discussion of tº
peculiarities by which the great comet of 1843 .
distinguished, Dr. von Boguslawski, of Breslau.”
taken the occasion to announce the probabiliº.
resting on calculations which will be published
Schumacher's “Astronomische Nachrichten,”."
the identity of this comet with several of a similar
remarkable character recorded in history, .
mencing with the one described by Aristotle, whº d
appeared in the year 371 before our era: shº"
his calculations be considered to establish this ſa":
Dr. von Boguslawski proposes that the com.
should hereafter be distinguished by the name".
“Aristotle's comet.”. This communication cº.
tains also some highly ingenious and important cº"
siderations relating to the physical causes of
phenomena of the tails of comets.
Dr. Paul Erman, of Berlin, father of the advº".
turous geographical explorer and magnetician W
was one of the active members of the magnetic.cº.
gress at Cambridge, has communicated through h"
son some interesting experiments on the electº
dynamic effects of the friction of conducting su
stances, and has pointed out the differences
tween these and normal thermo-electric effect”
Baron von Senftenberg (who is an admirable e^.
ample of how much may be done by a liberal zºº
for science combined with an independent fortuſ.”
has published an account of the success wº
which self-registering meteorological instrumen.
have been established at his observatory at S**
tenburg, as well as at the national observatory “
Prague.
Of our own members, Mr. Birt has contributed."
second report on atmospheric waves, in contin.
tion of the investigation which originated in the di.
cussion by Sir John Herschel, of the meteorolog.
cal observations which, at his suggestion, wº
made in various parts of the globe, at the periº :
of the equinoxes and solstices, commencing wº
the year 1834.
In a communication to the meeting of the assº,
ciation at York, Colonel Sabine traced with grº
clearness (from the hourly observations at Torontº
the effect of the single diurnal and single ann.
progressions of temperature, in producing on º
mixed vapors and gaseous elements of the alm.
phere, the well-known progressions of daily .
yearly barometrical pressure. To the conclusiº.
which he then presented, and which apply, perh.
generally, to situations not greatly elevated in th
interior of large tracts of land, the same author h
added, in the last volume, a Yaluable explanation * d
the more complicated phenomena which happe.
at points where land and sea breezes, flowing will,
regularity, modify periodically and locally the º'
stitution and pressure of the atmosphere. Taki'ſ
for his data the two-hourly observations executed i.
the observatory of Bombay by Dr. Buist, Colº
Sabine has succeeded in demonstrating for this .
cality a double-daily progression of gaseous rº.
in accordance with the flow and re-flow of the i.
from surfaces of and and water which are unequal”
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
187
effected by heat
*f the dºl.
And thus the diurnal variation
W Pressure at a point within the tropics,
Same º:O hargin of the sea, is explained by the
*rved in. ºg which was suggested by facts ob-
therica. ° interior of the vast continent of North
A
lº. the many useful national objects which
the Bi. Promoted by the physical researches of
for m. d ssociation, there is one which calls
... Rotice at this time, in the proposal of
obert
Suspe tephenson to carry an iron tube, or
i. º tunnel, over the Menai Straits, to sus-
Proposal §eat railway to Holyhead. This bold
emine. d never have been realized if that
great
the s .#ss recently made in the knowledge of
Suc . of materials, and especially of iron;
ºligation edge being in great measure due to in:
still . * in which the association has taken and
ºf its frie "g a conspicuous share, by the devotion
lnve . and the employment of its influence—
. which have been prosecuted with
%gkin *nd success by its valued members, Mr.
Wºr and Mr. Fairbairn.
rec im ºn this topic I may observe, that in the
si...ºnents in railways the aid of scientific
sisti. ºn Was called for by the civil engineer, to
lo pro ºf determining with accuracy the power
fifty vided for attaining the high velocities of
daj...' miles an hour; and it was found
the €r "ed by the most eminent engineers, that
the § best flata for this purpose, and indeed
‘hose jºinents of any practical value, were
by a O *.had been provided for some years ago
lºſſ."lites of the British Association, and
of Civil E. Our transactions. The Institution
ºetical "gineers thus gave testimony to the
º "alue of our researches by adopting their
t O §
S. . imperfect my knowledge of such sub-
* I must now notice that the last vol-
mental epºrts contains two contributions to
ºpesº. philosophy, in which subjects of the
Ślutii. *retical and practical interest have been
labor, of: * the request of the association, by the
That º: foreign coadjutors.
e. substance of a peculiar kind every-
l a S, or is formed in the atmosphere by
€en §ency, both natural and artificial, had
§hey of th *Spected, especially from the persist-
§§ans...ºr developed by such agency; and
Şchiº. *nce by contact to other matter. Prof.
*uthor".", to whom I shall hereafter avert as the
§: first i. practical discovery, is, however,
he nº. *ºsopher who undertook to investigate
Jºsliga. 9f that substance; and though the in-
to re r "is not yet complete, he has been enabled
and is.” inconsiderable progress in this difficult
requ subject of research.
ºf M. from the association to Prof. Bunsen,
f # and our countryman, Dr. Lyon Play-
ºri. With a contribution of small amount
aS proj *Penses involved in the undertaking,
ducts of . * report on the conditions and pro-
Value i .. furnaces, which is of the greatest
Portant Of °mmercial view to one of the most im-
*me tim, * manufactures, and possesses at the
* Some .." Yºry high interest to chemical science
... hanjºys which it develops. On the
... .ºhibits an entirely new theory of the
°yanogen gas as the chief agent, of
* 9.e : on the other it shows, that in
Vast saving of fuel, about two cwt. of
coupled
0 a
*
§gineer had not been acquainted with the to
sal-ammoniac may daily be collected at the single
establishment of Alfreton, where the experiments
were made;—thus leading us to infer that in the
iron-furnaces of Britain there may be obtained from
vapor which now passes away, an enormous quan-
tity of this valuable substance, which would mate-
rially lessen the dº of our agriculturists
on foreign guano. It is indeed most gratifying to
observe, that in pursuing this inquiry into the gas-
eous contents of a blazing furnace of great height,
our associates traced out, foot by foot, the most
recondite chemical processes, and described the
fiery products with the same accuracy as if their
researches had been made on the table of a labora-
ry.
Weighed, however, only in the scales of abso-
lute and immediate utility, the remarkable results
of these skilful and elaborate experiments give
them a character of national importance, and justly
entitle the authors and the body which has aided
them to the public thanks.
After this glance at the subjects of purely physi-
cal science treated of in the last volume of our
Transactions, let us now consider the domains of
Natural History:—and, as one of the cultivators
of a science which has derived its main support
and most of its new and enlarged views from natu-
ralists, let me express the obligation which geolo-
gists are under to this association, for having aided
so effectively in bringing forth the zoological re-
searches of Owen, Agassiz, and Edward Forbes.
These three distinguished men have themselves
announced, that in default of its countenance and
assistance, they would not have undertaken, and
never could have completed, some of their most
important inquiries. Agassiz, for example, had
not otherwise the means of comparing the ichthyo-
lites of the British isles with those of the continent
of Europe. Without this impulse, Owen would
not have applied his profound knowledge of com-
parative anatomy to British fossil saurians; and
Edward Forbes might never have been the ex-
plorer of the depths of the AEgean, nor have re-
vealed many hitherto unknown laws of submarine
life, if his wishes and suggestions had not met with
the warm support of this body, and been supported
by its strongest recommendations to the naval au-
thorities.
These allusions to naturalists, whose works have
afforded the firmest supports to geology, might lead
me to dilate at length on the recent progress of this
science; but as the subject has been copiously
treated at successive anniversaries of the Geological
Society of London, and has had its recent advances
so clearly enunciated by the actual president of that
body who now presides over our geological section,
I shall restrain my “esprit de corps” whilst I briefly
advert to some of the prominent advances which
geologists have made. When our associate Cony-
beare reported to us, at our second meeting, on the
actual state and ulterior prospects of what he well
termed the “archaeology of the globe,” he dwelt
with justice on the numerous researches in different
countries which had clearly established the history
of a descent as it were into the bowels of the earth
—which led us, in a word, downwards through
those newer deposits that connect high antiquity
with our own period, into those strata which sup-
port our great British coalfields. Beyond this, how-
ever, the perspective was dark and doubtful—
Res altă terrá et caligine mersas.
Now, however, we have dispersed this gloom; and
188
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION,
researches, first carried out to a distinct classi-I planetary system are analagous to the
volcanic
fication in the British Isles, and thence extended to apertures and depressions of the earth; the gº.
Russia and America, geologists have shown that gist, contributing data of another order to the gre?
the records of succession, as indicated by the
entombment of fossil animals, are as well developed
in these very ancient or palaeozoic strata as in any
science, in conjunction with Sedgwick, Lonsdale,
storehouse of natural knowledge, has determin".
by absolute and tangible proofs,
the precise mºº
- ner in which our planet has been successively dº
of the overlying or more recently formed deposits. veloped in divers cerements,
After toiling many years in this department of the peculiar forms of distinct life,
each teeming wº
and has marked tº
revolutions which have interfered with these.º.
r - - - º º :-r
De Verneuil, eyserling, and others of my fellow- cessive creations, from the earliest dawn of living
laborers, I have arrived at the conclusion, that we things to the limits of the historic era.
the fundamental steps gained
the globe, and that no further “vestigia retrorsum” early
have reached the very genesis of animal life upon
will be found, beneath the
* - ſº rotozoic or Lower
Silurian group in the great in
markable and so numerous,
erior mass of which come for a second report upon the progress of this
no vertebrated animal has yet been detected, amid science, which may
In short,
in geology, since tº
days of the British Association, are sº .
that the time has nº
trust be prepared for an ap-
the countless profusion of the lower orders of 'proaching, if not for the next meeting:
marine animals entombed in it. But however this
may be, it is certain that in the last few years all
Central and Eastern Europe and even parts of
Siberia have been brought into accordance with
British strata.
fied and illustrated by the splendid map of Elie de
Beaumont and Dufrenoy; and whilst, by the
labors of Deshayes and others, its tertiary fossils
have been copiously described, the organic remains
of its secondary strata are now undergoing a com-
plete analysis in the beautiful work of M. Alcide
d'Orbigny. Belgium, whose mineral structure and
geological outlines have been delineated by D’Oma-
lius d’Halloy and Dumont, has produced very per-
fect monographs of its palaeozoic and tertiary fos-
sils; the first in the work of M. de Koningk, the
second in the recently published monograph of M.
Nyst. Germany, led on by Von Buch, has shown
that she can now as materially strengthen the
France has been accurately classi- of Great Britain.
Intimately connected with these broad views of
the progress of geology is the appearance of º
first volume of a national work by Sir Henry Deº
Beche and his associates in the geological surº
Following, as it does, upon 9
issue of numerous detailed colored maps and *.
tions, which for beauty of execution and exactnes:
of detail are univalid, I would specially diº.
your attention to this new volume as affording.".
clearest evidence that geology is now strict
brought within the pale of the fixed sciences. .
it are found graphic descriptions of the strata in the
south-west of England and South Wales, whos”
breadth and length are accurately measured—whº
mineral changes are chemically analyzed-dº
whose imbedded remains are compared and dº.
termined by competent palaeontologists. The very
statistics of the science are thus laid open—theory
is made rigorously to depend on facts—and thº
zoological and botanical groundworks of the sci-processes and produce of foreign mines are com"
ence, as in the days of Werner she was eminent in
laying those mineralogical foundations which have
been brought so near to perfection by the labors of
several living men. So numerous in fact have
been the contributions of German geologists, that I
cannot permit myself to specify the names of indi-
viduals in a country which boasts so many who are
treading closely in the steps of an Ehrenberg and a
Rose." As distinctly connected, however, with the
objects of this meeting, I must be permitted to state
that the eminent botanist Goeppert, whose works,
in combination with those of Adolphe Brongniart in
france, have shed so much light on fossil plants,
has just sent to me, for communication to our geo-
logical section, the results of his latest inquiries
into the formation of the coal of Silesia-results
which will be the more interesting to Dr. Buckland
and the geologists of England, because they are
founded on data equally new and original. Italy
has also to a great extent been presented to us in
its true general geological facies, through the labors
of Sismonda, Mármora, Pareto and others; Whilst
our kinsmen of the far West have so ably developed
the structure of their respective states, that our
Countryman Lyell has informed us, that the excel-
lent map which accompanies his work upon North
America is simply the grouping together of data
prepared by native state geologists, which he has
paralleled with our well-known British types.
If then the astronomer has, to a vast extent, ex-
pounded the mechanism of the heavens—if lately, 1
through the great telescope of our associate the
Earl of Rosse, he has assigned a fixity and order to
bodies which were previously viewed as mere
nebulae floating in space, and has also inferred that
surface-cavities in our nearest neighbor of the
pared with those of Britain.
When we know how intimately the directoº.
general of this survey and his associates have be?”
connected with the meetings of the British Assº.
ciation, and how they have freely discussed with
us many parts of their researches—when we reº.
lect that the geologist of Yorkshire, our invaluable
assistant general secretary, around whom all º'
arrangements, since our origin, have turned, and,”
whom so much of our success is due, occupies hº
fitting place among these worthies—that Edwº.
Forbes, who passed, as it were, from this associº"
tion to the Ågean, is the palaeontologist of this
survey—and again, when we reflect that, if this
association had not repaired to Glasgow, and there
discovered the merits of the survey of the Isle "
Arran by Mr. Ramsay, that young geologist woul
never have become a valuable contributor to.”
volume under consideration—it is obvious, from
these statements alone, that the annual visits of
our body to different parts of the empire, by bri.
ing together kindred spirits, and in testing the
natural capacity of individuals, do most effect"
ally advance science and benefit the British Coſſ!"
munity.
Whilst considering these labors of the gover".
ment geologists, I shall, now specially speak 0
those ºf Prºfessor E. Forbes in the same volum”
because he here makes himself doubly welcomº:
by bringing to us, as it were, upon the spot, the
iving specimens of submarine creatures, which—"
through the praiseworthy enthusiasm of .
McAndrew, one of our mémbers, who fitted ºut.
large yacht, for natural history researches—h.
been dredged up this summer, by these naturalists:
from the sºuthern coast, between the Land's ſº
*
189
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
i. §.mpton. As a favorite yachting port
..ºn may, it is hoped, afford imitators,
t out with pleasure the liberal example of
es cAndrew—who, not professing to describe
...nº he collects, has on this, as on former
€TS º placed them in the hands of the mem-
Sub *S* Qualified to do them justice, and is thus a
Šantial promoter of science.
me." memoir of Edward Forbes, in the govern:
Would geºlogical survey, to which, however, I
€Spe allude, is, in truth, an extension of his views
...; the causes of the present distribution of
. and animals in the British isles, first made
ion "At the last meeting of the British Associa-
cati As this author has not only shown the º
.." of these ideas to the researches of the Brit-
§ºological survey, but also to the distribution
evi .* and plants over the whole earth, it is
will . that these views, in great part original,
histo troduce a new class of inquiries into natural
. which will link it on more closely than
Pape * geology and geography. In short, this
the may be viewed as the first attempt to explain
%uses of the zoological and botanical features
y region anciently in connection. Among the
ion Pºints which it contains, I will now only men-
º: it very ingeniously (and I think most
at *ºtorily) explains the origin of the peculiar
...” of the botany of Britain—the theory of the
tº of Alpine Floras distributed far apart—the
with ºrity of the zoology of Ireland as compared
. of England—the presence of the same
jº of marine animals on the coasts of America
of th ºpe—the specialties of the marine zoology
* British seas called for by this association-
tº. and present distribution of the great Medi-
ki. Flora;-and lastly, it applies to the
to th edge we possess of the distribution of plants
ficial elucidation of the history of º super-
Diºritus, termed by geologists, the “Northern
th jºid the numerous subjects for reflection which
e ºnal of this memoir occasions, I must now
ex * myself to two brief comments:—First, to
press my belief that even Humboldt himself, who
§.ille, so much and so admirably on Alpine
t $, will admit thatour associate's explanation
bloc * ºrigin of identity removes a great stumbling-
Secºnd." the path of botanical geographers,
to sho y;having myself for some years endeavored
app." that the Alpine glacialists had erroneously
homen their views as founded on terrestrial phe-
must . to large regions of Northern Europe, which
tion of ave been under the sea during the distribu-
hot bu ºratic blocks, gravel, and boulders, I can:
Opini * consider it a strong confirmation of that
#. when I find so sound a naturalist as
fect ard Forbes sustaining the same view by per-
º, independent inferences concerning the mi-
in." °ſ plants to isolated centres, and by a stu-
Shells ºmination and comparison of all the sea-
A. sºciated with these transported material;
find i". mistake not, my friend Mr. Lyell will
ºpport º the above points strong evidences in
º his ingenious climatal theories. ..
have i. º the blocks and boulders to which I
ºccumulat. § seem to be, they . #:
St raised t nder a glacial sea, whose bottom was
$ontinent 9, produce that connection between the
mi. and Britain, by which the land animals
imes: from their parent east to our western
throu i.e. ºn that was afterwards broken
8" by the separation of our islands, and by
the isolation in each of them of those terrestrial
races which had been propagated to it. This lat-
ter inference was also, indeed, thoroughly sus-
tained by the researches of Professor Owen, com-
municated to this association; first, in the generali-
zation by which his report on the Extinct Mam-
mals of Australia is terminated, and still more in
detailed reference to our islands in his recently
published work, “On the Extinct Fossil British
Mammalia”—a work which he has stated in his
dedication originated at the call of the British
Association. Professor Owen adds, indeed, greatly
to the strength of our present meeting, by acting
as the president of one of our sections, which
having in its origin been exclusively occupied in
the study of medicine, is now more peculiarly de-
voted to the cultivation of physiology. . Under
such a leader I have a right to anticipate that this
remodelled section will exhibit evidences of fresh
vigor, and will clearly define the vast progress that
has been made in general and comparative anatomy
since the days of Hunter and of Cuvier—for so
large a part of which we are indebted to our emi-
nent associate.
Assembled in a county which has the good for-
tune to have been illustrated by the attractive and
pleasing history of the Naturalist of Selborne, I am .
confident that our fourth section, to whose labors I
would now specially advert, will yield a rich har-
west, the more so as it is presided over by that
great zoologist who has enriched the adjacent
museum of the naval hospital at Haslar with so
many animals from various parts of the world, and
has so arranged them as to render them objects well
worthy of your notice. The report of Sir John
Richardson in the last volume, on the Fishes of
China, Japan and New Zealand, when coupled
with his account in former volumes of the Fauna
of North America, may be regarded as having com-
pletely remodelled our knowledge of the geographi-
cal distribution of fishes; first, by affording the
data, and next by explaining the causes through
which a community of ichthyological characters is
in some regions widely spread, and in others re-
stricted to limited areas. We know now, that just
as the lofty mountain is the barrier which separates
different animals and plants, as well as peculiar
varieties of man, so the deepest seas are limits
which peremptorily check the wide diffusion of
certain genera and species of fishes; whilst the
interspersion of numerous islands, and still more
the continuance of lands throughout an ocean, in-
Sures the distribution of similar forms over many
degrees of latitude and longitude.
The general study, indeed, both of zoology and
botany has been singularly advanced by the labors
of the section of natural history. I cannot have
acted for many years as your general secretary
without observing, that by the spirit in which this
section has of late years been conducted, British
naturalists have annually become more philosophi-
cal, and have given to their inquiries a more physi-
ological character, and have more and more studied
the higher questions of structure, laws and distri-
bution. This cheering result has mainly arisen
from the personal intimacy brought about among
various individuals, who, living at great distances
from each other, were previously never congre-
gated, and from the mutual encouragement im-
parted by their interchange of views and their
comparisons of specimens. Many active British
naturalists have, in fact, risen up since these meet-
ings commenced, and many (in addition to the ex-
190
MEETING OF THE BRITISH Association.
amples already alluded to) have pursued their sci-
ence directly under the encouragement we have
given them. The combination of the enthusiastic
and philosºphic spirit thus engendered among the
naturalists has #". popularity to their department
of science; an this section, assuming an import-
ance to which during our earliest meetings it could
show Comparatively slender claims, has vigorously
revived the study of natural history, and among
other proofs of it, has given rise to that excellent
publishing body, the Ray Society, which holds its
anniversary during our sittings. Any analysis of
the numerous original and valuable reports and
memoirs on botanical and zoological subjects which
have enriched our volumes is forbidden by the
limits of this address, but I cannot omit to advert
to the extensive success of Mr. II. Strickland's
Report on Zoological Nomenclature, which has
been adopted and circulated by the naturalists of
France, Germany and America, and also by those
of Italy, headed by the Prince of Canino. In each
of these countries the code drawn up by the asso-
ciation has been warmly welcomed, and through it
we may look forward to the great advantage being
gained of the ultimate adoption of an uniform
zoological nomenclature all over the globe.
Whilst investigations into the geographical dis-
tribution of animals and plants have occupied a
large share of the attention of our Browns and our
Darwins, it is pleasing to see that some of our
members, chiefly connected with physical re-
searches, are now bringing these data of natural
history to bear upon climatology and physical
geography. A committee of our naturalists, to
whom the subject was referred, has published in
our last volume an excellent series of instructions
for the observation of the periodical phenomena of
animals and plants, prepared by our foreign asso-
ciate, M. Quetelet, the astronomer-royal of Belgi-
um. Naturalists have long been collecting obser-
vations on the effects produced by the annual
return of the seasons, but their various natural his-
tory calendars being local, required comparison and
concentration, as originally suggested by Linnaeus.
This has now for the first time been executed by
the Belgian Astronomer, who, following out a
pian suggested by himself at our Plymouth meet;
ing, has brought together the contributions and
suggestions of the naturalists of his own country.
when M. Quetelet remarks, “that the phases of
the smallest insect are bound up with the phases
of the plant that nourishes it : that plant itself
being in its gradual development the product, in
some sort, of all anterior modifications of the soil
and atmosphere,” he compels the admission, that
the study which should embrace all periodical phe-
nomena, both diurnal and annual, would of itself
form a science as extended as instructivo.
Referring you to M. Quetelet's report for an ex-
planation of the dependence of the vegetable and
animal kingdoms on the meteorology and physics
of the globe, and hoping that the simultaneous
observations he inculcates will be followed up in
Britain, I am glad to be able to announce, that the
outline of a memoir on physical geography was
some mºnths ago put into my hands by Mr. Cooley,
which, in a great degree coinciding with the sys-
tem of M. Quetelet, has ultimately a very different
object. M. Quetelet chiefly aims at investigating
the dependence of organized bodies on inorganized
matter, by observing the periodical phenomena of
the former. Mr. Cooley seeks to obtain an
acquaintance with the same phenomena for the
Svarious manures upon them, our chemists arº
sake of learning and registering comparative cli-
mate as an element of scientific agriculture. Speakſ
ing to you in a county which is so mainly depend-
ent on the produce of the soil, I cannot have, *
more favorable opportunity for inculcating the
value of the suggestions of this British geogra"
pher. The complete establishment of all the daº
of physical geography throughout the British
islands; i. e. the registration of the mean and ex-
tremes of the temperature of the air and of the
earth; the amount of conduction, radiation, mois:
ture and magnetism; the succession of variou?
phases of vegetation, &c., (with their several locº
corrections for elevation and aspect,) must ce”
tainly prove conducive to the interests of science,
and are likely to promote some material interest”
of our country.
A minute #nowledge of all the circumstances of
climate cannot but be of importance to those whos”
industry only succeeds through the coöperation 9
nature; and it may therefore be inferred that suº
a report as that with which I trust Mr. Cooley will
favor us, if followed up by full and complete tables,
will prove to be a most useful public document:
Imbibing the ardor of that author, I might almost
hope that such researches in physical geography
may enable us to define, in the language of the
poet—
Et quid qua'que ferat regio, et quid quacque recuset.
At all events, such a report will tend to raise
physical geography in Britain towards the level
it has attained in Prussia under the aegis of Hum:
boldt and Ritter, and by the beautiful maps of
Berghaus. º
Though our countryman, Mr. Keith Johnston, is
reproducing, in attractive forms, the comparativº
maps of the last-mentioned Prussian author, much
indeed still remains to be done in Britain, to place
the study of physical geography on a basis worthy
of this great exploring and colonizing nation iT
and as one of the highly useful elementary aids tº
the training of the youthful mind to acquire a righ;
perception of the science, I commend the spiritº
project of a French geographer, M. Guerin, .º
establish in London a géorama of vast size, whic
shall teach by strong external relief, the objeº
and details of which he will, in the course of thº
week, explain to the geographers present.
Reverting to economical views and the improvº,
ment of lands, I would remind our agricultuº
members that, as their great practical society W*
founded on the model of the British Associatiº:
we hope they will always come to our sections ſº
the solution of any questions relating to their Pº.
suits to which can be given a purely scientiſ"
answer. If they ask for the explanation of the de-
pendence of vegetation upon subsoil or soil, 9”
ſº and botanists are ready to reply to º:
s it a query on the comparison of the relaº
value of instruments destined to economize lab";
the mechanicians now present are capable %
answering it. And if, above all, they ask us to
solve their doubts respecting the qualities of soils
and the results of their mixtures, or the eſſects º
hand. One department of our institution is, iſl
fact, styled the Section of Chemistry and Miº.
alogy, with their applications to agriculture and!
arts, and is officered in part by the very men, J ohº.
ston, Daubeny, and Playfair, to whom the agriº
turists have in nearly all cases appealed.
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION,
191
*mentioned of these was one of our earliest
*nds and founders; the second had the merit of
standing by the British Association at its first
*eting, and there inviting us to repair to that
* university where he is so much respected,
º where he is now steadily determining, by
*grate experiments, the dependence of many
*ies of plants on soil, air, and stimulus; whilst
*...third has already been alluded to as one of our
*ścontributors.
• In reviewing our previous labors, I have en-
. to gain your attention by some incidental
aS *ions to our present proceedings, I have yet to
. you, that the memoirs communicated to our
...tºries are sufficiently numerous to occupy our
.." during the ensuing week with all the vigor
t ſch has marked our opening day. Among the
ºpics to which our assembling at Southampton
. peculiar interest, I may, still say that if
.." and English geologists should find much to
...st them in the Isle of Wight, the same island
ºtains a field for a very curious joint discussion
.een the mathematicians and the geologists,
* which I became acquainted in a previous visit
§ this place. It is a discovery by Col. Colby, the
...to: of the Trigonometrical survey, of the ex-
ºnse of a considerable attraction of the plumb-
. to the south, at the trigonometrical station
of £d Dunnose, on Shanklin Down. The details
his singular phenomenon, which has been veri-
. y numerous observations with the best zenith
*tors, will be laid before the sections. In the
j time, we may well, wonder that this low
º range in the Isle of Wight should attract, in
...arallel at least, with more than half the in-
§.ity of the high and crystalline mountain of
...hallion in the Highlands ºf Scotland. Can
. of our associates, who, like Mr. Hopkins,
*** entered the rich field of geological dynamics,
*Plain this remarkable fact, either by the peculiar
*ucture and distribution of the ridge of upheaved
*ta which runs as a backbone from east to west
ºugh the island, or by referring it to dense plu-
* masses of rock ranging beneath the surface
"g the line of displacement of the deposits 4
pr other local subject—one indeed of positive
jºl, interest—that stands before us for dis-
*on is, whether, by persevering in deepening
large shaft which they have sunk so deep.into
*.*halk near this town, the inhabitants of South-
jº may expect to be eventually repaid, like
W. of Paris, º a full supply of subterranean
pl °r, which shall rise to the surface of the low
*au on which the work has been undertaken!
fu ſº occasion, I must observe, could this town be
§lished with a greater number of willing coun-
l() * ºf divers nations, whose opinions will, it is
#. be adequately valued by the city authorities.
Ceed º whether this work ought to be pro-
m. with or not, will, however, I apprehend, be
.*.*ſectively answered by those geologists who
of º acquainted with the sections in the interior
"is county, and with the levels at which the
jº greensand, and subcretaceous strata there
sº. and receive the waters, which thence flow
hi. ards beneath the whole body of chalk of the
$º the south of Hampshire. º
ne. that we are now assembled in the
* bºrhood of our great naval arsenal—that some
º, functionaries, including the admiral on the
th. have honored us with their support, and
ag further, I am now speaking in a town whose
&nificent new docks may compete with any for
bold and successful engineering, I must say a few
words on our naval architecture—the more so, as
we have here a very strong mechanical section, pre-
sided over by that eminent mechanician Professor
Willis, assisted by that great dynamical mathema-
tician Dr. Robinson, and that sound engineer
George Rennie. Duly impressed with the vast
national importance of this subject, and at the same
time of its necessary dependence on mathematical
principles, the British Association endeavored in
its earliest days to rouse attention to the state of
ship-building in England, and to the history of its
progress in France and other countries, through a
memoir by the late Mr. G. Harvey. It was then
contended, that notwithstanding the extreme per-
fection to which the internal mechanism of vessels
had been brought, their external forms or lines, on
which their sailing so much depends, were de-
ficient as to adjustment by mathematical theory.
Our associate Mr. Scott Russell has, as you know,
ably developed this view. Experimenting upon
the resistance of water, and ascertaining with pre-
cision the forms of vessels which would pass
through it with the least resistance, and conse-
quently with the greatest velocity, he has con-
tributed a most valuable series of memoirs, accom-
panied by a great number of diagrams, to illustrate
his opinions and to show the dependence of naval
architecture on certain mathematical lines. Em-
ployed in the mean time by merchants, on their
own account, to plan the construction of sailing
ships and steamers, Mr. Scott Russell has been so
successful in combining theory with practice, that
we must feel satisfied in having at different meet-
ings helped him tºwards by several money grants;
—our only regret being, that our means j not
have permitted us to publish the whole number of
diagrams of the lines prepared by this ingenious
author.
But however desirous to promote knowledge on
this point, the men of science are far from wishing
not to pay every deference to the skilful artificers
of our wooden bulwarks, on account of their ex-
perience and practical acquaintance with subjects
they have so long and so successfully handled.
We are indeed fully aware, that the naval archi-
tects of the government, who construct vessels
carrying a great weight of metal, and requiring
much solidity and capacious stowage, have to solve
many problems with which the owners of trading
vessels or packets have little concern. All that
we can wish for is, that our naval arsenals should
contain schools or public boards of ship-building,
in which there might be collected all the “con-
stants of the art,” in reference to capacity, dis-
placement, stowage, velocity, pitching and rolling,
masting, the effect of sails and the resistance of
fluids. Having ourselves expended contributions
to an extent which testifies, at all events, our zeal
in this matter, we are, I think, entitled to express
a hope that the data derived from practice by our
eminent navigators may be effectively combined
with the indications of sound theory prepared by
approved cultivators of mathematical and mechani-
cal science.
... I cannot thus touch upon such useful subjects
without saying that our statistical section has been
so well conducted by its former presidents, that its
subjects, liable at all times to be diverted into
moral considerations and thence into politics, have
been invariably restricted to the branch of the
science which deals in facts and numbers; and as
no one individual has contributed more to the store-
192
MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
house of such valuable knowledge than Mr. George
Porter, (as evidenced even by his report in our last
volume,) so may we believe that in this town, with
which he is intimately connected, he will contribute
to ralSe still higher the claims of the section over
which he is so well qualified to preside.
If in this discourse I have referred more largely
to those branches of science which pertain to the
general division of natural history, in which alone
I can Venture to judge of the progress which others
are making, let me, however, say, that no member
of this body can appreciate, more highly than Ido,
the claims of the mathematical and experimental
Parts of philosophy, in which my friend Prof.
Bºden Powell, of Oxford, who supports me on
this occasion as a vice-president, has taken so
distinguished a part. No one has witnessed with
greater satisfaction the attendance at our ſormer
meetings of men from all parts of Europe the
most eminent in these high pursuits. No one can
more glory in having been an officer of this asso-
ciation when it was honored with the presence of
its illustrious correspondent Bessel, than whom the
world has never produced a more profound astron-
omer. If, among his numerous splendid discover-
ies, he furnished astronomers with what they had
so long and so ardently desired—a fixed and ascer-
tained point in the immensity of space, beyond the
limits of our own sidereal system, it is to Bessel,
as I am assured by a contemporary worthy of him,
that Englishmen owe a debt of gratitude for his
claborate discussion of the observations of their
immortal Bradley, which, in his hands, became
the base of modern Astronomy.
Passing from this recollection, so proud, yet so
mournful, to us all as friends and admirers of the
deceased Prussian astronomer, can any one see
with more delight than myself the brilliant concur-
rence at our present meeting of naturalists, geolo-
gists, physiologists, ethnologists and statists, with
mathematicians, astronomers, mechanicians, and
experimental philosophers in, physics and in chem-
istry? Surely, then, I may be allowed to signalize
a particular ground of gratification among so many,
in the presence at this meeting of twº individuals
in our experimental sections, to one of whom, our
eminent foreign associate, Oersted, we owe the first
great link between electric and magnetic phenom-
ena, by showing the magnetic properties of the
galvanic current; whilst the other, our own Fara-
day, among other new and great truths which have
raised the character of English science throughout
the world, obtained the converse proof by evoking
electricity out of magnets. And if it be not given
to the geologist whom you have honored with this
chair, to explain how such arcana have been re-
vealed, still, as a worshipper in the outer portico
of the temple of physical science, he may be per-
mitted to picture to himself the delight which the
Danish philosopher must have felt when, on return:
ing to our shores, after an absence of a quarter of
a century, he found that the grand train of discov-
ery of which he is the progenitor had just received
its crowning accession in England from his former
disciple, who, through a long and brilliant series
of investigations, peculiarly his own, has shown
that magnetic or dia-magnetic forces are distributed
throughout all nature.
And thus shall we continue to be a true British
association, with cosmopolite connexions, so long
as we have among us eminent men to attract such
foreign contemporaries to our shores. If, then, at
the last assembly we experienced the good effects
which flowed from a concentration of profound ma-
thematicians and magneticians, drawn together
from different European kingdoms;–if, then, also,
the man" of solid learning, who then represented
the United States of America, and who is now
worthily presiding over the Cambridge University
of his native soil, spoke to us with chastened elo-
quence of the benefits our institution was confer-
ring on mankind;—let us rejoice that this meeting
is honored by the presence of foreign philosophers
as distinguished as those of any former year.
Let us rejoice that we have now among us men
of science from Denmark, Sweden, Russia, Prus-
sia, Switzerland, Belgium, Italy and France. The
king of Denmark, himself personally distinguished
for his acquaintance with several branches of Nat-
ural History, and a warm patron of science, has
honored us by sending hither, not only the great
discoverer, Oersted, who, evincing fresh vigor in
his mature age, brings with him new communica-
tions on physical science, but also my valued friend,
the able geologist and chemist, Forchhammer, who
has produced the first geological map of Denmark,
and who has presented to us a lucid memoir on the
influence exercised by marine plants on the forma-
tion of ancient crystalline rocks, on the present
sea, and on agriculture.
As these eminent men of the North received me
as the general secretary of the British association
with their wonted cordiality at the last Scandinavian
Assembly, I trust we may convince them that the
sentiment is reciprocal, and that Englishmen are
nearly akin to them in the virtues of friendship an
hospitality which so distinguish the dwellers within
the circle of Odin.
Still adverting to Scandinavia, we see here a
deputy from the country of Linnaeus, in the person
of Professor Svanberg, a successful young experi-
menter in physics, who represents his great mas.
ter, Berzelius—that profound chemist and leader o
the science of the north of Europe, who establish:
ed on a firm basis the laws of atomic weights an
definite proportions, and who has personally assur-
ed me, that if our meeting had not been fixed in
the month of September, when the agriculturalists
of Sweden assemble at Stockholm, he would as-
suredly have repaired to us. And if the same
cause has prevented Nilsson from coming hither,
and has abstracted Retzius from us, (who was till
within these few days in England,) I cannot men-
tion these distinguished men, who earnestly de-
sired to be present, without expressing the hope,
that the memoirs they communicate to us may give
such additional support to our British ethnologists
as will enable this new branch of science, whic
investigates the origin of races and languages, tº
take the prominent place in our assemblies to which
it is justly entitled. º
The Royal Academy of Berlin, whose deputies
on former occasions have been an Ehrenberg, *
Buch, and an Erman, has honored us by sending
hither M. Heinrich Rosë, whose work on chemica
analysis is a text-book even for the most learne
chemists in every country; and whilst his research-
es on the constitution of minerals, like those of his
eminent brother Gustave on their form, have ob"
tained for him so high a reputation, he now brings
to us the description of a new metal which he has
discovered in the Tantalite of Bavaria.
Switzerland has again given to us that great mas.
ter in palaeontology, Agassiz, who has put arm”
*Mr. Everett.
:
MEETING, OF THE BRITISH Association.
193
* , Shant. I
. . hands of British geologists, with which
his º conquered vast regions, and who, now on
report tº new glories in America, brings to us his
Which on the fossil fishes of the basin of London,
he ha will, he assures me, exceed in size all that
same ..ºver written on ichthyolites. From the
jºy, we have our friend Prof. Schönbein,
have addition to his report on Ozone, to which I
cº ready referred, has now brought to us a dis-
cotto §§ Yºst practical importance. The “gun:
exhibi of Schönbein, the powers of which he will
.." to his colleagues, is an explosive substance,
unnº exercising a stronger projectile force than
jºr, is stated to possess the great advantages
* it of producing little or no smoke or noise, and
...ely soiling fire-arms; whilst no amount of
§. this new substance, which is as service-
nº..being died as in its first condition. The
- ca.iº. of these properties, to which our asso-
show 3ys claim for his new material, is sufficient to
as al tº extraordinary value in all warlike affairs,
jºin every sort of subterranean blasting.
- §: Matteucci of Modena, who joined us at the
and ...ing. and then explained his various new
agai ºlicate investigations in electro-physiology,
th. ºffivors us with a visit, as the representative of
i.lian Philosophical Society of Modena and of
- jºity of Pisa. This ingenious philosopher,
e...smeasured the effect of galvanic currents in
jºg through the nerves mechanical force in the
. c.ºs, doubtless brings with him such interesting
ºbution as will add great additional interest to
ºceedings of the physiological section.
thºg already spoken of therapid progress which
labo *iences are making in Belgium, through the
. . .9f our associate Quetelet and others, it is
pal Pleasure I announce that M. de Koningk, the
jºntologist, who has mainly contributed to this
of *"ce, and to the solid foundation of the geology
fjºunty, by his excellent work on palaezonic
tº has been sent to us by his own govern-
..i tºng these sources of just pride and gratifica-
“. .9, one has afforded me sincerer pleasure than
i...ºne hither the undaunted Siberian explorer,
wi. Middendorf. Peeply impressed as I am
º ſº e estimation in which science is held by the
ut i. ºus ruler of the empire of Russia, I cannot
- sing. that the presence of this traveller, so
may arly distinguished for his enterprising exploits,
is . *et with a friend in every Englishman who
*ainted with the arduous nature of his travels.
w. Siberia from south to north and from
head ºst;--to reach byland the extreme northern
time *d, of Taimyr;-to teach us, for the first
stem. that even to the latitude 729 north, trees with
Cro º °xtend themselves in that meridian :-that
- vo..” rye, more abundant than in his native Li-
th."ºw beyond. Yakutsk, on the surface of
cold ºn subsoil, the intensity and measure of
e... which he has determined by thermometric
ãº. 3-to explain, through their language
mº }. form, the origin of tribes now far re-
ea.’.... their parent stock;-to explore the far
**gions of the Sea of Öhkotsk and of the
**śles; to define the remotest north-eastern
9 en j. between China and Russia ; and, finally,
...tions. . St. Petersburg with the natural produc-
º tº." fossil and recent, of all these wild and
, b . yal §. lands, are the exploits for which the
last . $99taphical Society of London has, at its
‘. . tº. ...ºing, conferred its gold Victoria medal on
"**st successful explorer. Prof Middendorf
sº
tºº,
bound
, t
now visits us to converse with our naturalists most
able to assist him, and to inspect our museums, in
which, by comparison, he can best determine the
value of specific characters before he completes the
description of his copious accumulations;–and I
trust that during his stay in England he will be
treated with as much true hospitality as I have
myself received at the hands of his kind country-
IIMCI] . -
It is impossible for me to make this allusion to
the Russian empire, without assuring you that our
allies in science on the Neya, who have previously
sent to us a Jacobi and a Kupffer, are warmly de-
sirous of continuing their good connection with us.
It was indeed a source of great pleasure to me to
have recently had personal intercourse in this very
town with that eminent scientific navigator Admiral
Lütke, in whose squadron his imperial highness
the Grand Duke Constantine was acquiring a
knowledge of his maritime duties. , Besides the
narrative of his former voyages, Lütke has since
published an account of the periodical tides in the
Great Northen Ocean and in the Glacial Sea, which
I have reason to think is little known in this coun-
try. Having since established a §."; in
the White Sea, and being also occupied from time
to time in observations in Behring's Straits, the
Russians will soon be able to provide us with other
important additions to our knowledge of this
subject. Separated so widely as Admiral Lütke
and Dr. Whewell are from each other, it is
pleasing to see that the very recommendation which
the last-mentioned distinguished philosopher of the
tides has recently suggested to me as a subject to
be encouraged by this association, has been zeal-
ously advocated by the former. Let us hope, then,
that this meeting will not pass away without pow-
erfully recommending to our own government, as
well as that of his imperial majesty, that a syste-
matic and simultaneous investigation of the tides, in
the Great Ocean, particularly in the Northern Pa-
cific, be the object of special expeditions—a subject
(as Admiral Lütke well observes) which is not
less worthy of the attention of great scientific
bodies than the present inquiries into terrestrial
magnetism;-and one which, I may add, this asso-
ciation will doubtless warmly espouse, since it has
such strong grounds for being satisfied with the re-
sults which it has already contributed to obtain
through its own grants, and by the researches of
several of its associates.
Lastly, in alluding to our foreign attendants, let
us hope that our nearest neighbors may respond to
our call, and, imitating the example of their en-
lightened monarch, may prove by their affluence to
Southampton, that in the ‘realms of science, as in
public affairs, there is that “entente cordiale” be-
tween their great nation and our own, of which, at
a former meeting, we were personally assured by
the profound Arago himself.
o sooner was it made known that the chair of
chemistry at this meeting was to be filled by Mi-
chael Faraday, than a compeerworthy of him in the
academy of sciences at Paris was announced in the
person of M. Dumas. To this sound philosopher
it is well known that we owe, not only the discov-
ery of that law of substitution of types, which has
so powerfully aided the progress of organic chemis-
try, but also the successful application of his
science to the arts and useful purposes of life: his
great work on that subject, “La Chimie appliquée
aux Arts,” being as familiar in every manufactory
in England as it is upon the continent.
' ' ' - , ,
º - n * . .” .*** '•' . -
. - * * * * *
x . .” , - ". . . . .
. . . - "... * * . .
• *.*. ... * * -
. .# *, -
* . . . *
194
MEMORY.
Nor, if we turn from chemistry to geology, can
such of us as work among the rocks be backward in
welcoming the French geologists who have come to
examine in our own natural sections of the Isle of
Wight, the peculiar development of their Paris
basin—the identity of their chalk and our own—the
fine sections of our greensand and of the Wealden
formation of Mantell—and to determine with us in
situ the strict relations of their Neocomian rocks
With those peculiar strata which at Atherfield, in
the Isle of Wight, have been so admirably illus-
trated by Dr. Fitton and othernative geologists, and
of which such beautiful and accurate diagrams have
been prepared by Captain Ibbetson.
It is utterly impossible that such gatherings to-
gether of foreign philosophers with our own should
not be productive of much advantage ; for he must
indeed be a bad statist in science who knows not
that numerous are the works of merit which are
published in periodicals, or in the volumes of so-
cieties of one country which remain altogether un-
known in another; and still less can he be acquaint-
ed with the present accelerated march of science,.
who is not aware that the germs of discovery
which are lying ready in the minds of distant con-
temporaries must often be brought into action by
such an interchange of thought. The collision of
such thoughts may indeed be compºſed to the
agency of the electric telegraph of our Wheatstºne,
which concentrates knowledge from afar, and at
once unites the extremities of kingdoms in a com-
mon circle of intelligence. º
But although the distinguished foreigners to
whom I have adverted, and others, including our
welcome associate M. Wartmann, the founder of
the Vaudois society, and M. Prevºst of Geneva, on
whose merits I would willingly dilate if time per-
mitted it, are now collected around us; many-
among whom i must name M. de Caumont, the
president of the French Society for the Advance-
ment of Science—have been prevented from honor-
ing us with their presence, because the national
meetings in their several cºuntries also occur in the
month of September. To remedy this inconve-
nience, I ventured, when addressing you six years
ago, at the Glasgow meeting, to express the hope
that each of the national European Societies might
be led to abstain during one year from assembling
in its own country, for the purpose of repairing by
its own deputies to a general congress, to be held at
Frankfort, or other central city, under the presiden-
cy of the universal Humboldt. Had the prepara-
tion of the “Cosmos,” and other avocations of
that renowned individual, permitted him to accept
this proposition—which I have ºy reason to be:
lieve the British Association would have supported
—I am convinced that many benefits, to science
would have resulted, and that each national body,
on reássembling the following year in it; native
land, would have more vigorously resumed its re-
Searches.
Adhering still to my project, I beg my country-
men and their foreign friends now present to sustain
this proposition for centralizing in a future year the
representatives of the various jº. of Science of
different countries, when they may at once learn the
national progresses respectively made, and when,
at all events, they can so appoint the periods of
their national assemblies as to prevent those simul-
taneous meetings in France, Germany, Scandina-
via, Italy, Switzerland, and England, which are so
much to be deprecated as interfering with a mutual
intercourse.
*
Finally, my fellow-laborers in science, if by *
united exertions we have done, and are doing, gº
public service, let me revert once more to the pl".
in which we are assembled, and express on y”.
part the gratification I know you experience.
being on this occasion as well supported by .
noblemen, clergymen, and landed proprietors aro".
Southampton, as by its inhabitants themselves- ". .
union which thus testifies that the British Asso"
tion embraces all parties and all classes of men.
Seeing around me her majesty's secretary " f
state for foreign affairs, the speaker of the house."
commons, and several persons of high station *"
influence, who willingly indicate by their prese.
the sense they entertain of the value of our conſ.
ences and researches, let us welcome these dis.
guished individuals as living evidences of that gº
opinion of our countrymen, the possession of whº (?
will cheer us onward in our career. And, abº
all, let us cherish the recollection of this Southam.
ton meeting, which will be rendered memorable.
our annals by the presence of the illustrious cons"
of our beloved sovereign, who, participating in."
pursuits, in many of which his royal highness lº
well versed, thus demonstrates that our associat."
is truly national, and enjoys the most general.”
effectual support throughout British society, ſº
the humblest cultivators of science to the highes
personages in the realm.
Lord Palmerston moved, and the marquis of
Northampton seconded, the thanks of the meeti”
to the president for his address; which having be’”
carried by acclamation, Sir R. I. Murchison rº
turned thanks—and the meeting was adjourned. . . .
*
From the Southern Literary Messeng”
MEMORY.
THE past she ruleth. At her touch
Its temple-valves unfold,
And from their gorgeous shrines descend
The mighty men of old :
At her deep voice the dead reply,
Dry bones are clothed and live,
Long perished garlands bloom anew,
And buried joys revive.
When o'er the future, many a shade
- Of saddening twilight steals,
Or the dimmed present to the soul
Its emptiness reveals,
She opes her casket, and a cloud
Of cheering perfume streams,
Till with a liſted heart we tread
The pleasant land of dreams.
Make friends of potent Memory,
Oh! young man in thy prime,
And with her jewels bright and rare,
Enrich the hoard of Time;
Yet, if thou mockest her with weeds
A trifler 'mid her bowers,
She’ll send a poison through thy veins,
In life's disastrous hours.
Make friends of potent Memory,
Oh! maiden in thy bloom, .
And bind her to thine inmost heart * ,
Before the days of gloom;
For sorrow softeneth into joy
Beneath her wand sublime,
And she immortal robes can weave . . . . . . .
From the frail threads of Time. a
Hartford. L. H. S.
MISCELLANY.
195
i.
MISCELLANY.
tº: OF John RANDolph–A writer in the Nor-
rema .." describes a visit to the grave of this
of . *ble man. Speaking of the former residence
Ҽ, Randolph, he says:
fter a ride of two or three hours, we entered a
• ‘nat of tall oaks, and were told by Mr. Cardwell,
the j were on Mr. Randolph's estate. Shortly,
ecce Qºses that were occupied by the great and
- j'.genius, appeared through the intervening
stum. built up in the midst of the woods. Not a
i."p to be seen, not a bush grubbed up; all stand-
ºš as if the foot of man had never trodden there.
forest
t
ºth would not suffer the primitive aspect
*gs to be disturbed in the least. Not a tree, or
§ Sº, or a switch, was allowed to be cut. During
low ºbsence in Europe, a limb of an oak, projecting
i. a window of one of the houses, grew so near,
Cut ºld Essex, fearing the window would be broken,
one the limb off, on Mr. Randolph's return, he at
. discovered the mutilation; old Essex was called
iºn, the reasons demanded for cutting off the
wind The old negro told his master he feared the
do §§ would be broken. ‘Then,” said Mr. Ran-
º ‘why did you not move the house?’”
of Լ writer here met John, the former body-servant
ion ...Randolph, who treated him and his compan-
.. jº great politeness, conducting them to the
i., and summer-houses, and other objects of
jºst in the vicinity. We copy the description of
"." St resting-place;—
sº. At my request, John directed us to his master's
i."8, at the foot of a lofty pine, just a few steps in
jº, of the summer-hºuse. The place was
i. by Mr. Randolph, twenty years before his
east 3 and by his direction, the head was laid to the
ºbs: instead of the west, the usual position. It was
jºd to John that his master had ordered his
C. to be thus laid, that he might watch Henry
j. John replied, that he had never heard him
Wä anything of the kind. I suppose the position
i. preferred by Mr. Randolph, because it is the
tas ºn Sepulchrai posture, his descent from Pocahon-
ºne Indian princess, being one of the things he
i. boasted of. A rude unchiselled mass of white
$stat found by Mr. Randolph on a distant part of his
him °, many years before his death, and used by
sº." the door of one of his houses, as a wash-
of b , marks the head of the grave. A huge mass
use ºwn stone, also selected by Mr. Randolph, and
foot §s a step-stone to mount his horse, marks the
i." the grave. These rocks were procured and
prºj the purpose to which they are now appro-
*ś.
wº ºn never forget my emotion while standing
ºccen the unornamented grave of the gifted and
jº Randolph. The tall, unbroken forest by
Teign i was surrounded, the silence and gloom that
th. undisturbed amidst the deserted place, the
remi t of the brilliant mind that once animated the
- wi. then mouldering beneath the sod upon
and I was standing, the vanity of carth's promises,
thin º and distinctions, impressed my heart and
u.A legree of solemnity and interest I was
"ung to dissipate.”
Pherubice AGAINST INDIAN CoRN.—A diabolical
G -
- jan, of Drummond House, in the county of Kil-
ojos ºsequence of the potato ſailº, the
the . to introduce Indian corn as a food for
fº... the neighborhood; and he had a supply
ºblin. “Some prejudice against it having
fested,” Saunder's News Letter reports,
mined . ºn in order to remove it if possible, deter.
... tha.ºse it in his own family; and upon finding
**omestic servants refused even to prepare it,
and particular direction given to John on the
. ...ºn mani
Poisoning has occurred in the family of Dr. |
insisted on their doing so, and stood by until his di
rections were obeyed. Of the meal thus prepared he
and all his children partook; in the kitchen, the ser-
wants refused to eat it; and their share was given to
four calves, all of which died shortly after. The ſol-
lowing morning, Dr. Grattan was actually engaged
in investigating the extraordinary occurrence, which
had immediately been spread abroad among the
ignorant peasantry as the effect of the Indian corn,
when his eldest son called him to breakfast, mention-
ing at the same time that they had just breakfasted
on flummery, and, what was very curious, that they
were every one of them sick and vomiting. And true
it was: when he reached the house, he found Mrs.
Grattan, the four children, and a servant-maid, ex-
hibiting all the symptons of poisoning by arsenic. The
Doctor having by accidental absence escaped partak-
ing of the poisoned food, was able to give instant
assistance to the unfortunate sufferers, and had used
the ordinary antidotes and remedies hours before
medical assistance could possibly have reached them
from any other quarter. To this most providential
occurrence it may in all human probability be attrib-
uted that any of them are now living. In spite of
every care, his eldest son died within twenty-one
hours, and the others of the family are not out of
danger.” An inquest has been held on the son, a
youth of fifteen, and a verdict returned implicating
the cook. She has been committed to gaol.
SPECIE FREIGHT.-Captain John Gordon, brother
of the Earl of Aberdeen, was tried by court martial
on Wednesday, for sailing from Valparaiso to Eng-
land with the America fifty-gun frigate, in disobe-
dience of the orders of Rear-admiral Sir George
Francis Seymour, the Commander-in-chief. The
court was held on board the Victory, at Portsmouth,
under the Presidency of Admiral Sir Charles Ogle.
Captain Gordon was assisted in his defence by Mr.
Hoskins, solicitor. Disobedience of orders was ad-
mitted, but the pressing nature of the case was
pleaded. Upwards of 2,000,000 dollars had been
shipped on board the America at Mazatlan and other
places, to be conveyed to Valparaiso, there to be
transhipped into another vessel of war and conveyed
to England. The merchants addressed a strong
representation to the British consul at Tepic, request-
ing him to use his influence with the commander-in-
chief to induce him to allow the America to com-
plete the voyage to England, to avoid the risk of
having so large an amount of specie placed on board
a small vessel; it was urged also, that as the insu-
rance was effected on the America, a transfer of the
risk to a smaller vessel might lead to difficulty in
settling losses, should any occur. Owing to the
length of time it would take to get an answer from
the commander-in-chief, Captain Gordon, after con-
Sulting with his senior lieutenant and another officer
of the civil branch, resolved to proceed to England.
Mr. Hoskins repudiated the idea of his client's being
actuated by any pecuniary motive; stating that he
had directed his agents to pay the freight-money
over to the captain by whose vessel the specie would
have been brought to this country in regular course.
Mr. Hoskins admitted that Captain Gordon had
acted under an error in judgment. The officers gon-
sulted by him previously to sailing were examined;
and their statement was, that at each station they
had visited the usual naval force was present.
The court found the charge of disobedience to
orders proved, but acquitted Captain Gordon of
being actuated by motives of a pecuniary character.
The sentence was, that he be severely reprimanded
A question of much importance to life assurance
companies has lately been decided by the judges in
the Exchequer Chamber, on a bill of exceptions in
an action brought by the representatives of Schwabe
against the Argus Life Assurance Company. The
196
MISCELLANY.
judges have determined that a party assured, hold-
ing his policy in his own hands, who may commit
suicide, forfeits his policy, and that the office is not
bound to pay the amount. This decision settles the
law on a point upon which doubts had heretofore ex-
isted. The Argus Company, who, before trial, had
offered to return all premiums paid, with interest, on
the opinion of the judges in their favor being
declared, immediately renewed their offer; and have
nºw repaid to Schwabe's representatives the whole
of the premiums received, with interest at four per
Sent” amounting to £969 8s. 7d. The company
have at the same time resolved in future to return to
the representatives of any party assured in their
office who may commit suicide the gross amount of
Premiums paid on the assurance.—Times.
At a meeting of shareholders of the Metropolitan
Joint Stock Conveyance Company, held on Monday,
Major Hume explained that the object is to secure a
cheap, expeditious, and punctual conveyance by
omnibus through all parts of London and its su-
burbs; the rate of charge to be two miles for two-
pence, and so on.
The wires of the electric telegraph connected with
the Munich and Augsburg railroad have been cov-
ered with a coating invented by Professor Stenheil,
of Munich, which possesses the virtue of protecting
them from lightning; thereby greatly tending to pre-
vent accidents.
THE Rhine and the Danube, and consequently the
Black Sea and German Ocean, are now united by a
canal just completed, called the “Ludwigs Kanal,”
after its creator, the king of Bavaria; who has thus
realized, in our day, one of the vast conceptions nur-
tured eight hundred years ago in the brain of Charle-
magne. A vessel of small burden now sailing from
Rotterdam or from London, may carry its cargo
through Bavaria, Austria, Hungary, and Wallachia,
even to Trebizond and Constantinople; or if she be
of large burden, may discharge her cargo at the
mouth of the Rhine, and have it transhipped into
smaller vessels at little expense.-Morning Herald.
PLEDGED REPRESENTATIves.—The French Chamber
of Deputies has made what we in England must
account a strange decision—that the taking of
pledges vitiates a deputy's election. Englishmen
have the greatest personal dislike to submit to
pledges; we deem it a plan proper to a system of
delegation, whereas we consider ours a system of
free representation ; but to unseat a member for con-
descending to pledges, would be accounted a very
extravagant act of purism. The arguments by
which M. Guizot advocated the expulsion strike us
as being not only “doctrinaire” in the highest
degree, but as rather the dreams of a student in the
closet than the practical reasons of a man out in the
world. For instance, he boasts for the French con-
stitution that there is arbitrary power in no part of
it; while the use of the “mandat imperatif.” Such as
the Legitimist electors of Poitiers tendered to M.
Drault, is an exercise of arbitrary will; so that to
sanction it would be to establish arbitrary power, in-
dependent of discussion. This is very like nonsense.
The so-called exercise of arbitrary power would still
be subject to the influence of prior discussion, to the
antagonism of other electors at the poll, to the volun-
tary submission of the candidate; and finally, it has
no privilege for its own enforcement. A more shad-
owy monster never was conjured up. However, the
upshot is that M. Drault is unseated, and that the
chamber has forbidden the practice of taking pledges
at elections. The legislature has a right, no doubt,
to establish, any such regulations; only one is sorry
to see the illustrious assembly acting on such singu-
larly bad reasons—reasons so bad as to make the act
one of simple “arbitrary power.”—Spect., 5th Sept.
º, is,' ' * ,
*"...?' "...
º
*
TAKE CARE OF You R Custoyers.—The Free Traº
Association of Sheffield celebrated the passing 9.
the great measures of the past session by a sº
on the 2d of September, at the Music Hall. G r
speeches were made by Lord Morpeth, as member . -
the West Riding, Mr. Parker and Mr. Ward, º -
borough members, Colonel Thompson, and Mr. R.
R. Moore. The following resolution, pointed at ºf
tain movements now going on, was voted una",
mously— bé
“That in case any serious attempts should .
made by the Protectionist party to induce the lºš.
lature to retrace its steps, or prevent the final extinº. .
tion of the corn-laws in February, 1849, this associ".
tion shall be called into renewed existence.” in
On this Colonel Thompson delivered some qual” .
sentences of pregnant import— wd
“I should have been happy if it had so happeſ.
that these halcyon days had been occupied in seaſ.
ing for what remnants of fallacies might yet be lº .
that you might have trodden out the latest spark.
and not have left the remotest chance for any ady.
tage being gained by your opponents. Affairs .
not so settled as they might be. In America, .
alteration of the tariff has been carried by a sinº.
vote; and it would be said that the cry for .
sorting to the old law should be encouraged by .
shadow of success permitted here. We have ...
much at stake to afford to be incautious. We can. -
risk the world's harmony, nor give a chance §:
losing the fruits of the great Peace society of 9.
day. Wit in these times has taken a stride in pº. •
and wit is only wisdom in disguise. The society'.
Friends, as you know, have a quiet but caustic. ... +
of their own, and one of their members at Bris”
has best expressed the truth. On occasion of son,
disturbance there, the yeomanry were turning out 14.
*ms; and as one of them was setting out,
Quaker partner said to him, “John, take care th9.
dost not cut down any of our customers.” Grºß
laughter and cheering.) That is the principle which
will win—the world will be much less willing t
it has been to cut down one another's customers. l,
Qur own country, too, the change is equally apparº.
Can you not perceive in your town the softenº
among those who have hitherto been the bittereº
There is no hatred against the aristocracy now. €
speak not of our friends and leaders, but of thº.
who have heretofore been the objects of popular i. -
like. The great act of justice which has taken pla:•
has softened all hearts and healed all warfares. h
wildest man in the most savage country will yet
reached by the improvement of which you may . .
called the authors. In regions which seemed tº º l
divided between the despot and the slave, the sº.
of common interest is amalgamating both into ".
admission of human comfort. * .
the passport systems are everywhere coming dow.
and man will visit man without necessitating
magistrate's permission for the act.”—Spect.
NUISANces.—At the Liverpool Assizes, judg;
was given on a point of public interest. Sir ſº c.
Gerard had sued Mr. Muspratt, the proprietor of tº
alkali works situated near Newton, for damage: . .
account of injury to the Fº plantations ſº il . . .
the noxious gas emitted by the works. The .
chimney of the works is a striking landmark at . .
junction of the Liverpool and Birmingham rail.
with the Liverpool and Manchester, and well knº. t
to all travellers on the line. The case as made ". .
by the plaintiff was essentially this. The estate.” s
New Hall, on which Sir John Gerard lives, adjº. .
Mr. Muspratt's alkali works; and since their e.
tion the trees have continued to fade and die, es. . .
cially those which face the chimney. The É s,
emitted from the chimney is muriatic acid #. º
which has a great affinity for water. In a damp' . : .
it combines with the moisture in the atmosphº"
The customhouse”.
r *
* *
* ,
197
MISCELLANY.,
and, being
...lished, S
Past Seven
twº
- tº: days, the
xi. the defendants.
*turned
lū
tom.
. . le. 70
Te
the
dº."pany, demonstrating the advantages to be
and . from the abolition of high protective duties
“O
". the ur
Wiset
de;
; ºg itself, and from arriving at those results
stron
it.” º
invited
• bee
3. § .*rtaining Mr. Cobden as a guest for some
:- cieſ ; : .
read
of th
Spon the l
- 4.
J §ard
º, § the fair sex backward on the occasion,
'. hi.ºlºries being filled with elegantly dressed
§ler, the
garried along by the wind, comes in con-
the trees and hedges, and is condensed
**aves and branches. Its immediate effect
*oy the leaves; the bark then becomes
t with
alº.” the final result is to destroy the trees
& Up to the time that the works were
ealth ir John's plantations were perfectly
sº. he of the witnesses, a timber surveyor,
ed the actual damage sustained during the
§uston years at £5,826. On both sides, persons
tifi...º.º. rear and value trees, as well as scien:
tº Were examined. The plaintiff's witnesses
ſenij the damage to the alkali works; the de-
*šeme traced it to peculiarities of soil and man-
oft. After a trial, which lasted the greater part
jury returned a verdict for the plain-
A. ages £1,000.
ſature. °. trial was entered upon of a similar
| Mess. §. John Gerard being the plaintiff, and
Wor rossfield and others, proprietors of alkali
| According to the plaintiff's
Sir i. the damages sustained by those parts of
ºn's plantations subject to the action of the
Was about £3,400. In this case the jury
a verdict for £400 damages.
§: FREE TRADE.—The Association of the Libre
da.gistes held its inauguration meeting on Fri-
e Salle Montesquieu ; the Duke d'Harcourt,
rance, president of the society, in the chair.
0 to 800 persons were present. The cham-
Press, and the commerce of the country, were
ºted at the meeting. The president addressed
3 iſle
Prese
introduction of liberal free-trade measures—
plans,” he said, “are simple and natural;
§§ere friends of the country cannot do other.
&nd han go with us : after the conquest of our civil
labo Feligious liberties, we claim another, that of
lj, We wish labor to be free, to be no longer
With those shackles which prevent it from
... tº
should be expected from it. France is rich,
§ . wise enough, to bear such emancipa-
tion."
A wit out any danger of her being led away by
. The at . º dº
t; *Shairman concluded by stating that subscrip-
- Taised
°re about to be opened to carry out the
of the association; and that the funds so
Would be used in a manner best suited to ad-
* principles.—Spectator.
* ºx has emulated Paris in doing honor to
gbden. The Libre-Echangistes of that city
him to a banquet on the 1st inst.; at which
* of three hundred gentlemen “assisted.”
Vance
ll
e chair was taken by M. Duffour-Duber-
guest...ºr of Bordeaux; who was recently the
...the free-traders at Manchester, and had now
ls private house. Among the guests were
.*.*, peer of France and prefect of the Gi-
e; i.i. Roullet, first president of the Cour Roy-
3. i. sºlet, secretary-general of the prefecture;
ºrin, one of the vice-presidents of the so-
-Echangistes. After the healths of the
the queen and royal family, had been
i. and of
Engliº" ith the “loudest acclamations,” that of the
* º roposed “with the greatest en-
t r. Cobden returned thanks in a speech
ch Was ve p
°r; exce
e dictu
In Ono
hi ry able, but not new to the English
Pº, Perhaps, in the emphatic enunciation
º, “that free trade is association, and
Pºly is competition.” The speech was re-
hunders of applause.”—Spectator.
AN UNIUST JUDGE.-In a letter to the Times, Miss
Agnes Strickland, authoress of the Lives of the
Queens of England, prefers a charge of gross plagi-
arism against Lord Campbell. The fair complainant
states, that if her life of Eleanor of Provence be com-
pared with Lord Campbell's biography of the same
princess, under the title of the “Lady Keeper” in
his Lives of the Chancellors, it will be seen “that
his lordship has published an abridgment of that
which has now been before the public six years”—
“He has transposed the language a little in the
course of his labors, to disguise the fact, and dis.
creetly transferred the references which I honestly
gave to my authorities to his own margins; but he has
not put forth a single fact in addition to those which
I had put forth in my life of Eleanor of Provence;
merely curtailing my matter, but preserving the
arrangement, and adding a coarse joke of his own.
He has even availed himself of the quotations of the
old chronicle rhymes, and some interesting particu-
lars of the dress of that queen, for the benefit of the
lawyers, which, with his important avocations, he
would scarcely, I should imagine, have seriously re-
ferred to books of costume to collect for such a pur-
pose, or known anything about, had he not found
them conveniently under his eye, in connexion with
the rest of the information which he has drawn from
my work. I should have been proud of the convic-
tion that anything from my pen had been of such
great use to a learned dignitary of the law, and
regarded his abridgment of my life of Queen Eleanor
as one of the highest compliments that had been paid
to my work, if his lordship had candidly referred to
the source whence his information was derived; but
he has carefully abstained from even alluding to the
existence of a previously published life of that
queen.”
Miss Strickland asks, whether it is fair in Lord
Campbell to appropriate to himself the credit as well
as the benefit of her labors “The benefit I would
freely allow ; but as my principal reward for the
years myself and my sister have spent in the task of
preparing the Lives of the Queens of England is the
reputation acquired in the course of the undertaking,
I cannot see without some feelings of pain the cool
manner in which Lord Campbell has reaped my field,
and passed off the produce as gleanings of his own.
“In other passages of this work he has not been
quite so correct in his historical assertions. He
makes, for instance, Edward IV. the husband of
Lady Jane Grey; and has made some amusing mis-
takes with regard to Wriothesley. But I forbear
to enlarge on his errors, having found him a very
correct retailer of my facts; and it is but justice to
add, that he has not once contradicted anything I
have asserted in that portion of my work which he
has used.”
THAMEs TUNNEL.-There was a very low tide on
Sunday; and as the Venezuela, a large steamer, was
proceeding down the river, for Havre, heavily laden,
she grounded on the Thames Tunnel. It remained
in this position for two hours; but no apparent injury
has been done to the tunnel.
THE French Scientific Congress opened its sittings
at Marseilles on the 1st of September. An opening
speech was delivered by M. Roux; after which, M.
De Caumont was named president, and Messieurs.
De Cussy, Forbin-Janson, Wulframe Puget, and Cau-
viere, vice presidents.
Foreigners DyING IN DRAZII-A correspondent
of the Times, writing from Rio de Janeiro, calls
attention to the state of law of Brazil, which leads to
the practical confiscation of property held by British
subjects in that country. He describes this state of
things to result from an effort on the part of the Bra-
zilian government to retaliate upon England, for
198
MISCELLANY.
Lord Aberdeen's slavery act, known in Brazil as
tº the Bill.”
There are two, legal, functionaries—one styled
“Juiz dos Orſaos,” the other “Juiz dos Ausentes”—
who are charged with the care of the property, left by
persons dying intestate. Under this term are included
all cases of Wills not made in strict conformity with
the laws of Brazil. “The Brazilian laws allow the
testatºr to dispose of one third of his property as he
may deem fit. He has heirs &º. they are, if
he is unmarried, his father or his mother, if alive; if
married, his children; not having children, then his
parents; his brothers and sisters or next of kin are
heirs, if he should die intestate only. A father may
in some few instances disinherit his children: for in-
Stance, in the event of prostitution, having attempted
his life, for refusing to be bail in any bailable
offence, and also ſor (an offence alike disgraceful to
the framer and the morality of the country where
Such a law is recognized) having intercourse with
his father's mistress. In the event of any of his
heirs being absent from this country, then the Juiz
dos Ausentes steps in, and claims the custody of that
part belonging to the absent; and it not unfrequently
disappears in the cope of this guardian, more par-
ticularly if it has been long there uninguired for.”
The chief illustration of the state of the law is
drawn from the decision on the well-known case of
Mr. George March; and its future operation is indi-
cated—“At the death of any one partner or con-
signee, either resident here or elsewhere, the house
and property will be taken possession of by the
authorities, (the Juiz dos Orfacs and Juiz dos Ausen-
tes,) and an inventory taken of all effects and out-
standing debts; these will be valued by people
appointed for the purpose. After this formality, a
curador is appointed at the option of the Juiz. This is
a post of pecuniary consideration, and much sought
after by all his friends and dependants. It is the cura-
dor that collects all moneys, and orders the sale of the
effects; and when of sufficient magnitude, not a few
instances are wanting of their haying decamped with
the whole, seeing that Juiz dos Orſaos is a situation
held at the pleasure of the minister, wh9, to free him
from responsibility when any such accident occurs,
removes him and appoints another (until the storm
blows over); and this other when appointed gets out
of the affair by referring to it as the act of his prede-
cessor.”
“Under the whole of these circumstances, no per-
son can ship to this country with impunity. What
with long credits and the risk of death to some of the
parties interested, it will be next to impossible to
escape for many years without a visitation from the
Juiz. No gains can withstand the losses that would
accrue from one such visitation; a second, within
a few years, would prove ruinous to the longest
purse.”
Her majesty's ship Serpent, which arrived in Eng-
land from China a few months, since, conveyed, as
one of the instalments stipulated for the evacuation
of Canton and treaty of peace with that country,
treasures in Sycee silver of the value of nearly £506,
000; but, on opening one of the boxes, supposed to
contain that species of bullion to the amount of £100,-
000 value, it nas discovered to be filled with lead! Of
course, immediate conference has been opened with
the representatives of her majesty at Hong-kong, to
obtain the required difference of payment.—Nautical
Standard.
At Baden-Baden, lately, two strangers, an English-
man and a Prussian, quarrelled, according to a very
common incident, over their play, and agreed, in the
usual course, to fire at one another, as the recognized
means of settling a dispute. The Englishman was
so lucky as to win the first fire, and so unlucky as to
miss his adversary. The latter had only now to
shoot his man at his case, and prepared to take his .
aim accordingly; when the Englishman cried out
“Stop, stop! I’ll buy your shot.” The first impré.
sion made was that of the novelty of the proposº
the second, that it contained the preliminaries of . .
mutually profitable transaction. The conditions °,
the arrangement were accordingly entered upon; aſ
the two leading elements were, that the Englishmº".
was rich and the Prussian a good shot. The red.
tion was valued at £1,000; and the parties returnº -
to the city alike satisfied with their bargain. 3.
case is worth reporting; and we are glad it was tº
Englishman who set the first example of this cleaf.
insight into the rationale of duelling.—Athenaum.
INTERNATIONAL CopyRIGHT.-The Gazette of Tuº
day contains the orders in council ratifying .
treaty of international copyright entered into wiſ".
Prussia for the protection of “authors, invento;
designers, engravers, and makers of any of the 19.
lowing works, (that is to say,) books, prints, articlº
of sculpture, dramatic works, musical composition.
and any other works of literature and the fine arts!"
which the laws of Great Britain give to British su".
jects the protection of copyright;” also, regulating tº
duty to be henceforth charged on books and prinº
brought into this country from the Prussian domiº".
ions.—Examiner. • * .
MURDER AND MUMMERY IN ITALY.—A letter frº
Ancona, dated August 1, gives a shocking descrip.
tiºn of the murder of Chevalier Stewart, in th”
Yicinity,of that place, and of the superstitious hom’
age paid to his remains:— -
“ANconA, August 1... .
, “If you have not already heard ãº. pub.
lic papers of a shocking crime that has been perpº.
trated in this vicinity, it is my painful duty to coin.
municate the sad and atrocious deed out mutual.
friend, the Chevalier Abbé Stewart, was, on the 17,
ºlt, most inhumanly and deliberately murdered 9
the shore between this and Sinigaglia. Poor Stewar'. .
put up at Cassabrugiate for a few days, for the bel.
gfit of sea bathing, previous to visiting the fair .
Sinigaglia. On the morning of the 17th, he bath”.
at a secluded part of the shore, when a peasant, aſ...
proached him and tendered his services to hold *.
umbrella, which he accepted, and remunerated.
man for his trouble, upon which the peasant inquirº
if Mr. Stewart intended bathing again in the eve". .
ing. He replied he should, but would not requi.
his services. However, the peasant dodged him
the shore between four and five o'clock in the afteſ.
noon, and waited his opportunity for committing .
premeditated crime, having prepared, and parº
manufactured, a long stiletto since the morning. *. . .
took advantage of the moment that stewart wº.
passing his shirt over his head, and inflicted tº.
stabs, which Stewart received on his left arm, and ...
once faced his murderer, without weapon or cove.
to his body, and demanded his intentions. lº
wretch replied, “Plunder.” Poor Stewart pointed : \
his clothes, watch, ring, and money, and besough º
him to take everything and decamp, and spare his
life. The monster hesitated for a moment, and t º
rushed again upon Stewart, and stabbed him eigh'.
times more, two of which wounds extended to the
whole length of the stiletto. Stewart fell, and . -.
murderer made off with his things. Then pºº. .
Stewart rose to his feet, wrapped himself in a shº
and proceeded nearly half a mile to the nearest º
tage, falling twice before he could accomplish 4.
distance. Medical aid from Monte Marciano soon
reached him, but mortal aid was of no avail; abº *
an hour after midnight he expired, praying fºveº i
and wonderfully composed to the last moment. Hº n
an hour previous to his last gasp he took up a, P.
and wrote to his brother, who, I believe, is his heir . . .
‘Dearest George, I am dying. T. Stewart.” -
MISCELLANY.,
199
“B -
atrº Stewart's description, the assassin was
th...ithin an hour of the bloody deed. Though
i. necessary proof of the identity of the cul-
•r Y not apprehen the extreme penalty of the law
COTding . him, being under age, (nineteen,) ac:
!ºat in c o the laws of this country. I understand
lt is jº. of great atrocity the pope can lend (as
ritish Sº here) a few years to the criminal. The
Qhe 're Consul has represented this case to Rome, as
the jing the exertion of this power, and awaits
ºdy e ºn. The consul has had poor Stewart's
Mafia "balmed, and placed in the church of Santa
Jºevious to embarkation for England.
ible"...W comes the extraordinary and almost incred-
dº.”!ºl to this most melancholy and dreadful
the de ° priests (I presume) having learnt that
usu ... belonged to a rich family, began, as
9th; ° Speculate upon what might turn up most
from i. Advantage. All at once a child, a cripple
and i. birth, was cured by crawling over the coffin,
cle is crutches there. The fame of this mira-
§d tâ
Spread throughout the town and neighborhood,
Nun. ame and halt flocked in from all sides.
ºn."...ºther miracles are said to have been per-
- Shujººrings of wax began to drop in to the
Sured ºscores of children were brought in to be
of §§ all kinds of diseases. At length the crowds
- §. beings reached such an extent that the
ānā.ºsul, feared they would destroy the coffin,
ºd, ºrdingly ordered it to be removed out of the
- §§ the church to a vault; but this was an un-
tail."; of some difficulty, and he was obliged to
, , ºt. the aid of the gendarmes to close the chief
back *ce to the church, and get the crowd out by a
"Shin *y, and prevent the populace outside from
suð... By half past nine º'clock at night they
tº. § in clearing the church, and removing the
'crow. "ext morning the church was again beset by
whic.” who kissed and adored the ground upon
the coffin had been placed, and strewed it
gro...ºers and garlands. It is said also that the
... ."hd has wrought miracles. It is said also that
he ºts will endeavor to oppose the consul when
ſº. the body for shipment, as they hope the
the ºill canonize their relative, and let them reap
leavi.ºntages attendant upon such ceremonies,
*8 the body with them.”
... R Louis
§ay.
§lian
PHILIPPE AND His FAMILY.—The king of the
is one of the best linguists of the present
* Speaks English, German, Spanish, and
port...if he was a native; and, althºugh his op.
is jºies of practice in them are rare, his memory
kjº, that he is never even for an instant at a
in: ly Wºrds. When at Eu, his habits are exceed.
lººr. There, as in Paris, he passes a great
3me Å; the time in writing, with his sister, Ma:
be."lelaide, at his side. He rarely goes to be
is tº ºne or even two o'clock in the morning, but
fe. at seven, or at the latest at eight, and
jy receives persons on business whilst he is
Šinet. In fact, not a minute of the eighteen or
lost.*.*, of the waking hours of Louis Philippe is
$om t . food is of the simplest kind, and he sel-
His i. $ more than two or three glasses of wine.
Se i. As good; for years he has not had one day
ºpti. Pºsition. He is, however, very sus-
nes.”. Sold, and has frequent attacks of hoarse-
Cians º: they are of short duration, and his physi-
enjº never called upon to doctor him. His
$9nstituti are rhubarb and Epsom salts. With his
In his ** and his habits he may live many years.
able ...”. circle he is one of the most agree-
§§t mor 1. easant of men; Darby and Joan were
They . 9Wing than Louis Philippe and his queen.
.*ress each other in the #dest manner, as
*nd mon amie ; and with his children he is
*niable and kind. He is always jocular
. . *ºn an:
*qually
with them, even in his remonstrances. The Duke
de Montpensier, from the liberal turn of his disposi-
tion, he calls Duke de Depensier; and sometimes he
speaks of the Duke de Nemours, who has rather a
haughty and imperious manner, as le petit Bona-
parte. "I am assured, however, that, now that the
Duke of Orleans is dead, there is nothing character-
istic of the old gentleman in either of his sons.
They are all excellent young men, but there is none
of the bonhomie in their nature that so particularly
distinguishes the father. They seem to consider it
necessary to wrap themselves up in their dignity;
the father never loses his dignity, but never acts as
if he felt that the persons around him would lose
their respect for him as their sovereign through the
familiarity that he exercises as a man. The most
haughty of the sons is the Duke de Nemours; he is
condescending and familiar only with persons whom
he has long known, and the consequence is that,
although no man can find in his general conduct
anything to condemn, he is as unpopular as the poor
Duke of Orleans was popular. The Prince de Join-
ville is more free, but his deafness makes him
reserved at times when he would wish to unbend.
The Duke de Montpensier is, as regards the bonhomie
of character, the best of the lot, but he is still very
young, and his character can hardly be said to be
fully formed. The young Count de Paris, as a child,
promises to have more of the grandfather than either
of his uncles. He is an open-hearted boy, and has
been well drilled by Louis Philippe in the duties of
condescension and kindness. Should the king live
ten years longer, we may expect to see the Count de
Paris, at eighteen, what his lamented father was at
the same age.—Correspondent of the Globe.
SPONTANEOUS Sounds iN IRON AND STONE.-Singu-
larly illustrative of the much disputed property
affirmed by the ancients of the sound emitted at sun-
rise by the statue of Memnon in Lower Egypt is the
singular phenomenon of sound occasioned by the
vibration of soft iron produced by a galvanic current.
It was first discovered by Mr. Sage, and since veri-
fied by the observations of a French philosopher, M.
Marian. The experiments were made on a bar of
iron, which was fixed at the middle in a horizontal
position, each half being enclosed in a large glass
tube, around which were wound spirals of copper
wire. A cord of copper wire was afterwards substi-
tuted for the two helices, and placed with its axis
coincident with the axis of the bar. On completing
the circuit, longitudinal sound, although feeble, could
be distinguished, the bar of irón being a little length-
ened or expanded in the direction of its axis. The
origin of the sound has, therefore, been attributed to
a vibration in the interior of the iron bar, or a new
arrangement of the molecules; an explanation which
has been more than once advanced for the mysteri-
ous phenomenon of the same kind connected with the
history of the Memnonian statue.
CoNvict SHIPs.-Until a somewhat recent period,
four and sometimes five prisoners slept together
during the long voyage to Australia in one sleeping-
berth. The prison-deck being entirely dark, neither
employment nor instruction could be carried, on.
According to the improved method of fitting up these
ships, there are tables and seats for the convicts on
the prison-deck in messes of eight, and at night each
convict has a separate sleeping-berth: Illuminators
are introduced on each side of the deck, extending
the whole length of the ship, and the convicts are
thus enabled to read, write, and work. A religious
instructor accompanies every party of male convicts.
A useful collection of books and elementary lessons
in reading, writing, and arithmetic has been provided,
in order that school instruction may be carried on
during the voyage.
200
MISCELLANY.
THE ITALIAN, ORGAN, Boys.--Jean Baptiste Bara-
colia wretched-looking little Italian boy, was charged,
at º º: º with stealing an ºf up.
right piano-forte, urdy-gurd
. #. of sº. y,) the property of
The prisoner was one of a number of boys em-
ployed by Buelzein to play instrumental music in the
street, and about a fortnight ago absented himself
with the instrument that had been entrusted to him.
He was found at his mother's house with the hurdy.
gurdy in his possession. The prosecutor wished to
forego the charge, and take the boy back, but the
later insisted on being taken before a magistrate.
The prisoner said, in a voice stifled with sobs, that
he took the instrument home, not with the intention
of stealing it, but because he was afraid to go back
to his master's house, not having obtained the
amount of money usually expected. The practice
was for the boys to go out at nine o'clock in the
morning, but as he had been severely punished on
the 13th ult, and kept without food, he got up at
five o'clock on the ensuing day to try and mend his
fortune. Though travelling about the town until a
late hour of the night, he was only able to procure
twopence, and, being apprehensive of similar mal-
treatment, he was afraid to go back.
The magistrate said that he fully believed the cor-
rectness of the little fellow's statement, and the case
was one which ought never to have been brought be-
fore him. There was not the slightest ground for
the charge of felony, and the prisoner was more an
object of pity than of punishment.
The case was discharged.
THE ARRACACHA PLANT.-A report was lately read
to the Paris Academy, by M. Boussaingault, in the
name of a committee appointed to examine a paper
by M. Goudot, on the nature of the plant arracacha,
and the possibility of introducing it into Europe. It
appears from the report that this plant comes to ma-
turity under the same conditions of climate in South
America, as the potato, and therefore M. Goudot
infers that it might be cultivated in Europe. In good
soil, it produces a root that weighs from four to six
pounds; and an acre of land will yield, with good
culture, sixteen or seventeen tons, which is one half
more than the average yield of the potato. The root
is said to have a fine flavor, and to be exceedingly
nutritious. s
CDRRENTs of THE AIR AND OCEAN.—We are too
apt, perhaps, to form our notions of the great atmos-
phéric currents from the character of the winds to
which we are exposed upon the surface of the earth;
but a little consideration and observation will enablé
us to correct this prejudice. The lower strata of the
inferior currents are perpetually opposed by fixed
obstacles—mountains, hills; rocks, forests, and the
works even of man—against which they expend most
of their force, and by which they are deſlected and
reflected, and broken into whirls and eddies, produc-
ing, by their momentum, fitful rarefactions and ex-
pansions, which impress us with their character of
unsteadiness and irregularity. But it is not so with
the upper strata or with the superior current. Even
in stormy weather, the eye can ºften, penetrate
through breaks in the canopy of clouds, when it ma
be observed that the wind aloft is blowing with sº
steadiness and smoothness, as not to break the form
2f the lightest cur-cloud that floats in its bosom, and
indicates the velocity of its course. The passage of
balloons invariably indicates the same steadiness of
course; and the experience of every aeronaut con-
firms the fact, that whatever may have been the ve-
locity of his passage, in the upper regions of the air
all around him was perfectly calm. A conflict
indeed appears to take place at times at the junction
of two º: currents; but these are rare excep-
tions to the general rule. This state of the upper
and under surface of the atmosphere is not unaptly
represented to us by the state of the two surfaces 9.
the fathomless ocean, only that the situation of their
great disturbances is reversed. The currents of th”
great, deep ſlow in opposite compensating streat.
like those of the atmosphere. The hot water of t e.
equatorial regions flows with various deflection”
towards the poles, and is replaced by an und.
stream of cooled water from the polar régions.
disturbing forces which are pepetually acting upº
the surface often mask this movement; but the
extend not to the lower current, which flows on tº.
disturbed by the most furious storms, and the mig
ing that our ladies should persist in that ridiculo";
notion, that a small waist is, and, per necessita, º: . . .
be, beautiful. Why, many an Italian woman wou
cry for vexation if she possessed such a waist as som”.
process. I have sought the reason of this differencº
and can see no other than that the Italians have thº'
glorious statuary continually before them as modelº
and hence endeavor to assimilate themselves , t
them; whereas our fashionables have no modelº
except those French stuffed figures in the window”
of milliners' shops. Why, if an artist should pſ.
Sume to make a statue with the shape that seems
be regarded with us as the perfection of harmonio”
proportion, he would be laughed out of the city. . .
is a standing objection against the taste of 0.
Women, the world, over, that they will practica
assert that a French milliner understands how they
should be made better than nature herself. Lette‘.
from Italy. -
Price of LAND IN GERMANY-The pride of the
German peasant is to be a small land-ºwner. " ;
sacrifices made to gratify this longing are incredible:
as is the tenacity with which he clings to his land.
all changes of fortune. The price paid for small 19°
of land in the . of the Wüpper and the adjojº
ing districts would frighten an English fº.
From 500 to 700 dollars per morgen, or £117.
#150 per acre, is no unusual price for arable dº.
meadow land. What interest he gets for his invº.
ment seems never, to cross a peasant's mind...".
ent of small patches adjoining these houses is ".
proportionately high, although dear enough; “...)
twelve dollars per morgen (£2 10s., or £3 per acºlº
is constantly paid in situations remote from the in .
ence of towns. Building sites, especially th.
favorable for trade ºr manufactures, sell also as h;
as in England. The sum of 3000 dollars was p. ,
a few years back for about an acre and a half.
ground, on which some zinc works now stand, !”
Duisburg. This was equal to £500 per acre.—P"
field's Industry of the Rhine. r
Upwards of seven thousand tons of white gra
says a New York paper, have been shipped from
city to London since the 15th of September, 1
It is taken from the beach at Long Island, and ti
to beautify the parks and gardens of London : .
MAsses of iron and nickel, having all the app. ' -
ance of ačrolites or meteoric stones, have been . .
covered in Siberia, at a depth of ten metres be .
the surface of the earth. From the fact, howe.
that no meteoric stones are found in the i. º
dary and tertiary formations, it would seem to ſo.
that the phenomena of falling stones did not * *
place till the earth assumed its present condition. ..
In the duchy of Luxemburg a well is being sº.
the depth of which surpasses all others of the O
Its present depth is 2336 feet—nearly 984 feet º
than that of La Grenelle, near Paris. It is saiº.
this immense work has been undertaken for work *
vel,
this. i.
845:
sed,
a large stratum of rock-salt.
billows which oscillate above.—Daniell's Meteorology
ITALIAN Women vs. TIGHT-LAcing.—It is astonis”
of our ladies acquire only by the longest, painfulles'
* ind. * .
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.-No. 129–31 OCTOBER, 1846.
From Chambers’ Journal.
GERMAN EMIGRATION.
. subjects are more interesting, and none
j important, than the process by which the sur-
pour ſºlatiºn of Europe is every day being
º into the unpeopled districts of the old and
.* forming there the framework of future
ſt º, which are doubtless destined to carry our
""ledge and the traditions of our society to a
€ º
Pºiod when we ourselves may no longer exist as
º: Hitherto the stream has ſlowed princi-
. from the United Kingdom, particulariy Ire-
, which the difficulty of obtaining subsistence
. for many years to come, make an emigrating
jº, An unexampled peace of thirty-one
0n .. duration has likewise had its natural effect
it." continent, by the immense increase of popu-
and º, to stimulate emigration; but more slowly
i." Partially than among us; and it is only with-
the last ten years that it has grown to an
"ºunt, and assumed a direction, which promises
§ous results.
tance has not for the last century been an emi-
§ country, which may mainly be accounted
Of t; the less independent and emergetic character
° people; the greater comfort of the peasantry,
sº are almost all small proprietors, farming their
the ands; and, above all, the enormous chasm in
Whi population left by the revolutionary wars,
i. alone are computed to have swept, away
... en millions of Frenchmen. Even in Algeria,
jº from its nearness to France, and from the
. premiums, in the shape of land for
lik |. held out by the government, was most
§y to attract native emigration, the number of
j is considerably inferior to that of the other
el ºs. The majority are Spaniards or Maltese.
tln jºin has twofold resources in its manufactures
jºirable agriculture, which have hitherto
dens *d for the employment, and support of its
jº population; and the other European states
*in in themselves, for the most part, large
fici i. of thinly-peopled or unoccupied land, suf-
of... to sustain the surplus mouths for a number
°ars to come.
G.§ºny, is the only, other country, besides
* Britain, from which emigration takes place
jeal scale, and is likely to lead to important
anni Since the year 1840, she has sent out
I y 60,000 settlers; about our own average.
injº. year, the number is stated, in the
i.ºpers at 80,000. It is very probable that
inº." or will continue for the future, and even
Sional º as the predisposing causes are not ºcca-
count: "Rºmanen, in the subsisting state of the
... The reasons which are all-powerful
Sults.' . not the same as actuate us. The re-
extent 99, are very different; and their great
with the little attention hitherto bestowed
Sid ... *ºbject; will be our best apology for con-
"g it a little more in detail.
that. Fº peculiarity in German emigration is,
mº irected exclusively to the United States
the Ca ..fc." have been tempted to settle at
cº of Good Hope, in Brazil, or in Algeria;
ſº LIVING ACE. VOL., XI. 13
Tac
e
but the number is inconsiderable. New Zealand
has also been tried; but with no great promise of
success. ... Perhaps the greatest number of Ger-
mans collected in any one place out of their own
country is at Paris, where, among other trades,
there are two thousand boot and shoemakers alone,
and, at the lowest computation, four thousand mas.
ter tailors and journeymen. It is curious that the
Germans, to whom we certainly attach no dis-
tinguishing ideas of elegance, should have so com-
pletely absorbed the business of adorning the outer
man in the city which prides itself, above all
others, on its taste. So far is this carried at pres-
ent, that the native French aspirants for custom
are in the habit of appending to their names a Ger-
man suffix. Pierre becomes Pierremann ; Lenoir,
Lenoirmann ; Paul, Paullmann, &c.; just as many
a tyro in the musical world among us ends his
name in ti and tini, without having a drop of
Italian blood in his veins. But these Germans at
Paris can hardly be classed as emigrants, since
most of them are young unmarried men, who
merely go to France to accumulate, in the least
possible time, as much as will set them up in busi-
ness at home. The chief emigration to America
at present is from the Upper and Middle Rhine,
the Grand Duchy of Baden, Wurtemburg, the two
Hesses, and Bavaria. In Bavaria especially, whole
village communities sell their property for what-
ever they can get, and set out, with their clergy-
man at their head. “It is a lamentable sight,”
says a French writer, “when you are travelling
in the spring or autumn on the Strasburg road, to
see the long files of carts that meet you every mile,
carrying the whole property of the poor wretches,
who are about to cross the Atlantic on the faith of
a lying prospectus. There they go slowly along ;
their miserable tumbrils—drawn by such starved,
drooping beasts, that your only wonder is, how they
can possibly hope to reach Havre alive—piled with
the scanty boxes containing their few effects, and
on the top of all, the women and children, the sick
and bedridden, and all who are too exhausted with
the journey to walk. One might take it for a con-
voy of wounded, the relics of a battle-field, but for
the rows of little white heads peeping from beneath
the ragged hood.” These are the emigrants from
Bavaria and the Upper Rhine, who have no sea:
port nearer than Havre. Those from the north of
Germany, who are comparatively few in number,
sail mostly from Bremen. The number of these
likewise is increasing. From 1832 to 1835, in-
clusive, 9000 embarked every year from Bre-
men; from 1839 to 1842, the average number was
13,000; which increased to 19,000 in the year
1844.
Society in Germany is so much more rudiment-
ary than in England, that it is remarkable to see
this same tendency exhibiting itself in the two
nations. In Germany population is comparatively
sparse, in Great Britain it is dense ; in the one
there is great, wealth and profound poverty, in the
other the extremes of property rarely exist; the
one has a large and dominant town population, the
other has fewer towns in proportion than any
country in Europe; the one teems with political
202
GERMAN EMIGRATION.
activity, in the other political activity is not, or at
least has not yet taken to itself a practical presence
and a name.
The dread of destitution is a motive to emigrate
in Germany, as in England; but not a principal
motive. . This is clear from the fact that the emi-
gration does not take place in those districts where
there is most want, but exists equally where popu-
lation is dense, and where it is thinly distributed.
In Westphalia, for instance, a great number of
small proprietors have lately sold their lands, and
sailed for America—each of whom, it is reckoned,
has taken with him at least thirty pounds’ worth
of goods and money. The Bavarians emigrate
alike from the Rhine country, where population is
thickly clustered together, and from the upland dis-
tricts, where there are not eighty inhabitants to the
square mile.
The one great cause of this almost national
movement is the desire for absolute political and
religious freedom; the absence of all restrictions
upon the development of society; and the publica-
tion of opinions which cannot be realized at home.
The great agitation in society, caused first by the
French domination, and then by the convulsive rise
against it, has never passed away. In that gigan-
tic struggle, when everything rested on the popu-
lar soul, the bonds of privilege and class were
tacitly abandoned, and could never thenceforth be
reinited as before. The promises of having con-
stitutional governments, at that time made by the
sovereigns to their subjects, have been but partially
fulfilled. There is nothing that can be called
oppression on the part of the governments; the
mass of the people are well satisfied with their
rulers—and with reason, for the actual executive
has been generally excellent; but there are many
restrictions, and the young, the restless, and the
imaginative thirst for their ideal freedom, and many
of them seek for the realization of Utopia in
America. Complete religious equality is a still
more powerful want in a country where Catholics
and Protestants are so nearly balanced, and where
the state of parties is such, that the minority in
faith, though nominally equal in law, must always
live under the cold shade of an alien creed. This
of itself has urged many across the Atlantic. It is
probable that the present schism among the German
Catholics will . to the number of the emigrants
from religious causes.
Another motive has been the great success of
some of the earlier settlers. The Moravians and
Shakers, who have emigrated from Germany, have
worked wonders in some parts. In 1815, the
Separatists, another religious body, sometimes
called Rappists, from their head, M. Rapp, sailed
from Wurtemburg with a capital, only of £1200,
and formed a settlement on the Ohio. At the pres:
ent time, the real property in land belonging to
the society is reckoned at £340,000, exclusive of
personal property, and a large sum of money in the
funds. The success of the colony of Zoar has
been equally striking. It was founded twenty
years ago by a few families with a scanty capital,
and now possesses 40,000 acres of land, a dis-
posable capital of £100,000, and an , immense
quantity, of machinery and stock, foundries, tan-
pits, and mills in abundance. This extraordinary
affluence is because these two colonies were
ſounded on the principle of a community of pro-
perty, and have been throughout under a strict
religious government... But the present emigrants
forget this; and looking only at the prosperity
achieved, they think that as the Moravians and
Rappists have succeeded, they must succeed to."
same extent, without either the same capital *
self-denial.
It is not to be expected that the German gover".
ments should look with indifference on this co"
stant and increasing defalcation of their subject:
It is not, as we have said, the very poor that em.
grate ; they cannot, in fact ; but it is those whº
have some little to spare. Every emigrant."
reckoned to take with him equal to £25 of Énglish
money, which would give an annual substractiº"
of £1,500,000 pounds—a serious loss in a country
which has little superfluous capital. And be it re.
membered that this is all loss. Lord Brough?"
said, in one of his speeches, with equal truth aſ
force, of the English emigrants, that not an ax%
falls in America but sets in motion a shuttle "
Manchester. But the Germans in America co"
sume English, not German commodities, and rem"
nothing to Germany in the shape of produce.
it is hopeless to try to stop the tide, the Germº
governments have exerted themselves of late ".
turn it in a direction nearer home—to Hungary aſ
the countries along the Lower Danube, wheº
there is an immensity of rich virgin soil untoucheſ.
Austria, in particular, is naturally very muſ.
interested in establishing a German population 1.
Hungary, to balance the slavonic element; and
with this view a number of pamphlets havº
been drawn up and circulated, with a compara’
tive view of the advantages of emigration to Hui.
gary and the United States, but as yet with little
effect. º
Another plan of an opposite kind at present in
agitation, from motives of humanity as well as ex.
pediency, is, that the Zollverein (customs’ union
should appoint a resident agent at Washington, *
be at the head of the consular body, and in conne”
ion with the emigration committee sitting at Bremeſ”
so as to have some effective control over the em.”
grants. Many of them have been grievous
cheated by speculators, and the accommodation *
board the emigrant ships generally is very bºº.
The Zollverein is to convey them in its own vessel;
and not less than two hundred at a time; which
would be a general saving on the present rates 9.
from twenty-five to thirty per cent. On their arº.
val, the consuls are to take charge of them, and sº
them conveyed safely to their destination. To Pº
the expenses of the passage, and for the foundatiº.
of pauper colonies, the Zollverein to devote *.
annual sum of not less than £80,000. Such
the outline of the plan; which is likely, in part *
least, to be carried into execution.
The most important point connected with thé
subject, is the influence which such an annual infº
of a foreign population, speaking the same languº!
and nearly all professing the same (the Roman Caº
olic) faith, cannot fail to exercise upon the ful.
destinies of the United States. At present, as .
whole stream is poured into the same country, tº
annual number of German settlers considerably *
ceeds those from Great Britian and Ireland. ' here
are of the former resident in America, according .
the last census, about four millions. But this º
not all. If, like the English and Irish who crº.
the Atlantic, they were to spread themselves".
the continent indiscriminately, wherever there º
the greatest chance of success, the whole, in t
course of one generation, or two at most, Y.
blend insensibly with the majority. But they *: S-
out with them all the passions, prejudices, and d!
THE USE OF
THE CORSET. 203
Fion; of the father-land, and keep them immov-
§ he great object of each family that succes-
its j inves, is to fix itself as near as possible to
We atives, if it has any; if not, to its countrymen.
. settlement thus becomes the nucleus of a pure
wi. circle, which is born, marries, and dies
* itself, and with the least possible admixture
a n "glo-Americans. In the reign of Queen Anne,
"merous colony from the Palatinate settled on
"Pper waters of the Hudson, where, after a
d *y and a half, their descendants remain to this
.." separate people. “These honest, folks,”
. 9me of their countrymen, “though living
gen "gºt Anglo-Americans for the third and fourth
'ln °ration, can neither read nor write the English
. and adhering to their axiom, never to
ican he Irish, (thus they designate the Anglo-Amer-
bj, who take their revenge by nicknaming them
ii. ...the are contented with their own German
i. t is the same with them everywhere.
. or preference directed the first settlers
in º Pennsylvania. To Pennsylvania, accord:
.. y, the stream has steadily set ever since; and
jºlt is, that the German population of that
€ already balances the Anglo-Saxon; and, in
jºining state of Ohio, stands as three to seven.
Mar ſº these, the greatest number is ſound in
oi Vland, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri, neither
"g far to the north or south of the same parallel.
*ost of these states, the debates in the houses
čjesentatives and the laws are printed alike in
in º and English. . If this emigration continue
of...esent extent and direction, and in the course
ºne-what is sufficiently probable—a disruption
plac ° great American confederacy should take
the °, a second Germany will have arisen beyond
Wat Atlantic, and monopolized, along the head
Of º of the Delaware and Ohio, the possessions
9 children of Penn.
*–
Cent
From Chambers’ Journal.
THE USE OF THE CORSET.
TR
*LATION of A LETTER To A LADY from DR.
REVEILLE-PARISE,
tººl I have every desire to justify the con-
a."º you honor me with, you must admit, mad-
yºu put me to rather a severe proof. You ask
W e. upon the employment of corsets-
f'. they are, in fact, as injurious to the health
i.e. ºn as has been said; and whether medical
geºt." not, upon this point, somewhat exag;
ears v, I well know with what scruples and
sº...?" maternal affection fills you upon this
r ... Your daughter, whom I have attended
desire . infancy, approaches an age at which the
to ple 9 please is very natural. But is it possible
atº.” without an elegant form! and can this be
wi. Without a narrow waist?—in other words,
pº. the agency of the corset: These are im-
ână"...ºnestions, not to be decided without care
h. ...ºumspection. It is long since the subject
ºp. agitated, but always uselessly, the tri-
Ousse the corset only becoming the more assured.
i.au changed the opinions of his contempora-
he ol. º points. By his eloquent declamations
more . mothers to suckle their offspring ; and,
*º this, his doctrines and principles have
kingdoms, raised nations against kings, and
*N *
Lºrica and the United States as they are.
cast down the powerful; society has been moved
to its lowest depths, and Europe convulsed for fifty
years. But I ask you, what has this philosopher
gained against whalebones transformed into cor-
sets? Absolutely nothing. In vain did he say
that a woman in a corset, was destitute of grace,
and seemed cut in two, like a wasp : the witticism
obtained currency, but the thing remained. Peter
I. humiliates and dissolves his formidable force,
the Strelitz, scarcely a murmur being heard ; hé
obliges the Russians to shave their beard, and he
is seriously menaced; but what would have become
of him had he dared proscribe the Russian ladies
the use of whalebone, or had in any way meddled
with their toilet? The Emperor Joseph II. pro-
hibited the use of corsets, and ordained that crim-
inals only condemned to labor should wear them.
All this was useless at the end of a few years.
But what, then, is this formidable power, which
carries the day against kings, philosophers, physi-
cians, reason, and common sense! Who is there
that is ignorant of it! Who does not know its im-
perious decisions, its sentences without appeal!
In fact, does not fashion govern the world; and,
as regards your sex, is it not the only sovereign
who reigns and governs! Upon those who violate
her decrees she inflicts the chastisement of ridi-
cule, and at once all opposition ceases. Reason
may raise her voice, but every ear is closed. Rea-
son advises, fashion acts; so that we may easily
guess which will prove victorious.
You see, then, madam, why this subject, so
learnedly treated by so many doctors, has as yet
furnished such unsatisfactory results. I maintain
the principle, however, that we must never weary
in preaching the good and the useful. Something
always results; and in this manner a great evil
may become diminished, and a small one reduced
to nothing. How many strange customs, prejudi-
cial to health, have disappeared with time and per-
severance in good advice' I might cite the swad-
dling-clothes and bandages of children, the hairy
pig-tails, hair-powder, garters, and buckles of
IIle11.
What would you say if some one seriously pro-
posed to you to forcibly compress one of vour limbs
for a long period? They might indeed tell you
that the smaller it became, the more elegant lf
would be; but you would not fail to resist such
torture. Besides the pain, the compressed part
would soon diminish in size, and waste away more
or less completely. The pale and thin muscles
would no longer enjoy their natural vigor and ac-
tivity, the vessels would diminish in size, and the
part soon lose its strength and beauty: Now, do
you not think that this same compression, exerted
upon parts of the body which contain the most del-
icate and important organs, must be attended with
yet more disastrous consequences? These organs,
pushed, squeezed, agglomerated together, necessa.
rily lose that development which is indispensable
for their action and energy. And observe, this
pressure is not made upon any isolated point; it
embraces an extensive surface, and just that which
corresponds to the organs which are the very source
of life. Take a large corset, and measure its
height and diameters; and afterwards, when it is
tightened to the degree fashion requires and suffer-
ing permits, compare these admeasurements with
the body of the person who wears it, and you will
be astonished at the result.
But where is the use of reasoning or experience
for those who are convinced not only that the cor-
204 THE USE OF
THE CORSET.
set is not injurious, but that it is useful? Who is
not aware that a thousand marvellous qualities are
attributed to it! º It supports the waist, strength-
ens the body, gives grace to the movements, and
so on '. As to its inconveniences, these are rarely
alluded to, or wholly denied. Far more than this,
if the shape is ungainly, the corset will rectify
everything; and it even cures a vicious conforma.
tion of the spine and chest No sooner are the
fatal words, “She is all one side,” pronounced re-
Specting a young girl, than every description of
corset fit for the reparation, or at all events the dis-
guise of the evil, is sent for; the fact being, that
these corsets, so far from relieving the deformity,
assist and augment it, by compressing, enfeebling,
and wasting the muscles. No matter; the torture
continues, as if this fact were not known. The
patience of women in this respect is worthy of ad-
miration. Ask any of them if she is not too tight,
but never will she allow it, however extreme her
suffering.
It must not, however, be believed that this in-
strument of torture is of modern invention. More.
than one poet of antiquity has reproached his coun-
trywomen with its employment. The Greek ladies
had their seſodosne, and the Roman matrons their
castula, a kind of small tunic, which was tightened
around the waist. According to Ovid, (Fasti iv.
147,) the corset would seem to have been in as
great request among the Roman girls as among
our own. Yet women of other nations reject this
article of dress with advantage. Lady W. Mon-
tagu observes, that nothing can be more admirable
than the forms of the Turkish ladies, who regarded
her corset as a machine in which she had been en-
closed by her husband, and whence she could not
extricate herself. The Spanish women, also, so
celebrated for the elegant contour of their shapes,
do not employ the corset. It was only during the
lifetime of Catharine de Medicis that the custom
of wearing the tightened corset was introduced into
France. * -
Some women have discontinued this article of
dress, whether from fancy or necessity, without
sustaining any inconvenience. It is the long habit
of wearing it which deceives most. Without it,
they do not seem dressed—as if something were
wanting. This may be so for the first day or two
of the experiment, but at the end of a fortnight the
loss would not be perceived; just as in the case of
a ring long worn on the finger, or any other object
habitually employed. Many young women, obliged
to renounce this strange article of the toilet, have
quickly found their health imprºve. The blood
has then been allowed free circulation, the lungs
full expansion; and the free movements permitted
to the body have soon reproduced and preserved
that fresh, animated complexion, the principal
beauty of the young, but which they so rarely pos-
sess in large towns. Surely the preservation of
health is of more consequence than the retention
of these pieces of whalebone' If a young woman,
with the most beautiful form and richest portion,
does not possess health, adieu to happiness and
pleasure, for her life is strewed with thorns. Ex-
cmption from suffering is almost every thing in our
rapid and short passage through life; but to suffer
from one's own fault, because we have desired it
—is this not deserving the chastisement which we
have braved, but which awaits us?
What is most singular is, that women are aware
of the injuriousness of the corset—they instinctive-
ly feel that its action is an unnatural and eminently
hurtful one. Here is the proof. If, by acciden;
a lady falls ill in a crowded assembly of any kind,
a general cry is raised by the others, “Cut he
laceſ” This is done instantly—the compressing
machine is opened, air rushes into the lungs, the
victim breathes, and recovers; which, however,
will not prevent her recommencing the next day;
so inexorable and powerful is this malicious demoſ
—fashion.
I am aware that, in appreciating on the on?
hand these inconveniences of the corset, and on the
other wishing to sacrifice to custom, you will ask
me if there is not some form of this machine less
dangerous than another. It is true that the form,
and size exert much influence on the results an
effects which are produced; so that large, strongly
whaleboned or busked, stiff, inelastic corsets—cut"
rasse-corsets—are more hurtful than small ones :
but the degree of constriction exerted is the one
simple and essential measure of the degree of mis’
chief occasioned. In fact, the varieties of form
are of little consequence. A corset which is ex-
actly adapted to the body, without exerting toº
much constriction or compression, without imped"
ing development of the growth, or producing any
ill effect, does not exist; and this philosopherº
stone of a model corset will never be discovered?
whatever pains be taken. It is impossible to mou!
the form of a nymph in an apparatus of iron. An
evident proof that these machines are hurtful, is
derived from the fact, that the endeavor is constant-
ly made to render them as little fatiguing as possi:
ble. The material has been varied: they have
been constructed in caoutchouc, and transforme
into light apparatus permeable to air; and some are
capable of instantaneous unlacing. But all this is
useless. The grand hygeianic problem of a corse!
without danger, will probably forever remain un-
solved. In all there is this dilemma—either th9
corset is worn loose, and then where is its utility
or it exerts compression, and is then dangerous:
Whenever I see these perfidious instruments 0
torture exposed for sale, I cannot avoid shuddering
at thinking of all the evils enclosed within theſ;
elegant contours. I can believe that you inten
your daughter's corset shall be of a proper for "
and size, and not worn injuriously tight." But gº
serve, that besides engendering a dangerous habi"
the exact point of constriction is diſficult to seizº,
Between the little and the too much there is "
mathematical line difficult to be constantly for
lowed. And then experience teaches us that wº.
men, and even girls, have a mischievous tenden")
to tighten themselves more and more, and espº.
cially if threatened with becoming somewhº
St0tlt.
It is a very unfortunate circumstance, that th9
inconveniences and diseases—the certain cons”
quences of the abuse of the corset—are never iſ.
mediate ; they are long engendering in the su
stance of the organs so constantly pressed up?"
and crushed. The corset does not kill suddenly,
like arsenic; therefore it is harmless Can theº
be a more dangerous or murderous syllogisº
When the physician, who, from long experienº.
foresees the mischief that will arrive, and inform.
a woman how injurious is this lacing and girthiº.
herself in, she smiles, declares that he is mistakeſ
for she is not tight, and that habit has rendered
capable of supporting all. She has resisted.”
effects, and | continue to do so. Her healt
good; why should she change her plans?
does not reflect that this condition of pressuro is iſ,
JACQUARD, THE SILK
WEAVER OF LYONS.
205
º violation of the laws of nature. The most
ment . are deprived of the play and develop-
Olles º to their functions. Even the very
nicious i the trunk and chest suffer under this per-
ave t influence. To convince yourself of this,
6 courage to examine a skeleton, the solid
r * tº &
º: of our fragile organization. On the
Su and, you see the spine—the solid yet mobile
PPºrt of the whole animal structure. A multi-
º Herves escape from its lateral openings,
e A. ife to the internal organs, and establishing
cºjº with the brain. This spinal column is
muscl externally on each side by bundles of
.* moving power. Now, I ask you
interſ ºr a corset, worn habitually tight, must not
inj with, and prevent the action of, these
hand . those of the shoulders! On the other
a "...serve that the ribs, forming a kind of bony
...” cage, represent a cone, having its
S above, and its base below. Well, the corset
and . a totally opposite direction. It compresses
tºº." in this base, whose expansion is indis-
espir * for the play of the lungs and the act of
..ºn. Can there exist a worse or more fatal
B j We laugh at the Chinese ladies; but
does eformed and squeezed-up state of their feet
moth not at least affect the general health. A
the .. protects her daughter from the effects of
from º: draughts of air, from the least damp,
hert the rays of a burning sun, and yet exposes
sº." the dangerous compression of a large cor-
lºgl all portions of the body suffer, and
d to morbid changes, when submitted to great
..". or less prolonged pressure, there are
dure §º which seem especially destined to en:
h ese evils. Among these are the lungs and
and ºf It is through their agency that respiration
S.Širculation are accomplished. º are, so to
, the very roots of life. Now, I ask, what
§ nar take place when the cavity containing them
i. and when the extent of their action is
Tº by the tyrannical exigencies of the corset!
10 diseases which result are numerous, always
prº and so much the more incurable, as they
al. § from a predisposition become constitution-
you were aware of the fine texture, the
SB network of the lungs, the sensibility of
Which Precious organs, the abundance of blood
be On Penetrates their innermost recesses, there to
these revived, you would only be astonished that
ye...sºs were not more frequent still. And
chº. will it be believed that women, having the
Ul thus compressed and narrowed, will read
From ºr engage in singing and declamation:
of actio e most straitened organ the highest amount
n is demanded !
th;
his The liver,
.. chest is not the
Placed . compression of the corset. sº
Te mmediately below the ribs at the very point
Hence ºnstriction is greatest, equally, suffers,
is...". pain in the side, indigestion, and
Omach 9f the organ, with chronic jaundice. The
sº"...itself, compressed by the bone of the cor-
it. Ҽ not enjoy its natural vigor and extensibil-
läägu."ºtaste for food, painful digestiºn,
So sº pallid or pimpled countenance, &c.
sº."; a celebrated German physician, found
$ºssive an lº divided into two parts by the ex-
I know, W. I. continued pressure of a steel-busk.
torture: °ll that few women would submit to such
3 but some there are wh º:
OIII. In O Tel Il Or Dru-
&nce can restrain. p
must
l
º icate
only organ exposed to
It is for balls, parties, theatres, &c., that inter-
minable preparations for the toilet are especially
made, and that the most destructive conspiracy
against health is contrived. The lady of elegant
form who repairs to these, is girt in every possible
manner. Her shoes are as small and narrow as
possible; the entire body surrounded by a large
and strong corset mercilessly laced; the clasps of
her dress maintain the ground already gained; and
her girdle exercises no less constriction. We need
not mention bracelets, necklaces, &c., which nev-
ertheless exert injurious pressure upon the neck
and arms; so that every part of the body is encir-
cled with more or less tight ligatures. Thus ſet-
tered and bound up, she repairs to the place of
assembly, where the air is contaminated by a crowd-
ed company, while the mirrors are tarnished, and
the candles melt, in a temperature equal to that of
Senegal. Nevertheless, she will remain here for
five or six hours, perhaps dancing, or singing in a
more or less loud voice. It is not until she has re-
turned home, and removed the instruments of tor-
ture, that she can breathe. By a miracle of nature
she has not succumbed to efforts which the most
robust man could not support for an hour. And,
yet this is the feebler sex
From Sharpe's Magazine.
JAcquaRD, The silk weAVER OF LYONS.
THE stranger who visits Lyons and becomes ac-
qualnted with the manufactories of that great mer-
cantile city of France, is struck by the contrast
that he sees there, between the luxurious furniture
prepared for the dwellings of the great, and the
poverty of those employed in its production.
The silk weaver may generally be known by his.
pallid complexion, his narrow chest, and his ema-
ciated limbs, which are the natural results of ex-
cessive labor and insufficient nourishment; but,
thirty years ago, these, his melancholy character-
istics, were far more remarkable than they are:
now. Lyons and its suburbs contain at least nine-
ty thousand artisans, who work from four in the:
morning till nine at night, crowded into large fact.
tories that resemble bee-hives with their tiers of
cells. They are full of windows, each of which
lights a machine, and, till within the period we'
have mentioned, these machines, used for brocaded,
silks, were complicated and difficult to manage;
loaded as they were with numberless cords and
pedals by which the body was forced into the most
distorted and unnatural attitudes. The weaver
was mounted on a high stool, and directed the
thread of the chain, and formed the pattern, by
striking out his legs from right to left; but, be-
sides his part of the work, one or two others were
necessary to guide the cords and pedals; and these
were usually young women or children: who were
obliged to preserve the same, painful attitudes
through the whole day, and they frequently be-
came deformed for life, and more often still they
were hurried to the grave. Many, who witnessed.
so much misery, longed earnestly for such a revo-
lution in the state of mechanical science, as should
free the children from work to which their own.
health and the moral feeling of their parents were
alike yearly sacrificed; but amongst all who pitied
their sufferings, who had the power to relieve
them? The honor of accomplishing this task was
reserved for Jacquard, an unpretending artisan, the
genius of the loom, the child of the people. Flor-
enco and Venice, with all their boasted improve-
206
JAcóUARD, The silk weaver of Lyons.
ments, acknowledged the superior skill of the poor
working man, and bowed down their industrial
banners at his feet.
Joseph Marie Jacquard was born at Lyons on the
7th of July, 1752; his father was a master weaver
of gold and silken tissues, his mother was a pat-
tern:reader, another branch of the same trade; as
for himself, he was apprenticed to a bookbinder,
and proved a clever and tasteful workman. At the
end of some years he married, and, having inherit-
9d a small house from his parents, he established
himself as a straw bonnet manufacturer, and was
succeeding very well, when the French revolution
broke out, and brought his prosperity to a close.
In 1793, during the memorable siege which Lyons
50 nobly sustained against the republican armies,
his house was burned to the ground, and, when the
savage proconsuls came with orders from the con-
vention to decimate the inhabitants whom the bru-
tal soldiery had spared, Jacquard's name was on
the proscribed list, and he found himself obliged to
leave his native country. He owed his safety to a
son he had in the ranks of the republican army.
This young man, listening only to the dictates of
filial piety, dressed his father in uniform, inscribed
his name on the list of the hattalion of volunteers
to which he himself belonged, and, placing a mus-
ket in his hand, marched with him to the French
frontier. They reached the borders of the Rhine
together, but there Jacquard had the great misfor-
tune to lose his beloved son, who fell by his side,
struck by a cannon ball, and soon afterwards ex-
pired in his arms. When France was restored to
some degree of order and tranquillity, Jacquard,
wearied with his military profession, for which his
advancing age began to unfit him, was desirous to
return to his former quiet life; he had found pro-
tectors amongst the very men by whom he had
been proscribed; and he now established himself
once more at Lyons, and gave up his time to the
study of mechanics: a strong inclination led him
forward in the pursuit of knowledge, and circum-
stances developed still further his natural genius.
The peace of Amiens had reëstablished commu-
nications for a short time between England and
france, and during this season an English news-
paper happened to fall into the hands of Jacquard;
i.e. read there the announcement of a prize that was
to be bestowed by the Royal Society in London for
the construction of a machine for making fishing
nets, and also for the nettings used on board ship.
From that moment he became conscious of his vo-
cation, and thought of nothing but how to fulfil the
required conditions. . After gºing long in the
dark, he discovered the secret of the machine; but
the satisfaction he derived from his success was the
only reward he chose to receive ; the difficulty once
overcome, he thought no more. about it, and con-
tented himself with giving a piece of the net he
had woven to one of his friends. This friend,
however, showed it as a curiosity to several per-
sons, and it passed from hand to hand, until it
was sent at last to Paris by the Lyonnese authori-
tleS.
Jacquard had long forgotten his invention, when,
one day, to his great surprise, he was summoned
before the prefect of Lyons, who asked him wheth-
er he had not turned his attention to the manu-
facture of nets on mechanical principles. Jacquard
did not remember the circumstance to which the
magistrate alluded, till the identical piece of Ilet
was produced that he had given to his friend.
The prefect then desired to see the machine on
which it had been made. Jacquard asked for threº
weeks wherein to repair and complete his apparº.
tus, which then lay neglected in a corner of hº
dwelling; at the end of that time he carried it."
the prefect, who was able himself to count the
number of meshes, to strike the bar with hº
foot, and to continue the web that was already
begun.
When he had recovered from his astonishment,
he dismissed Jacquard, assuring him that his namº
would soon become known. The machine wº
sent off to Paris, and presently an order arriº
that Jacquard himself should be sent after it. Thº
order was so peremptory that the authorities of tº
town, mistaking its real import, laid hold of tº
honest artizan as a conspirater, and treated hiº
accordingly; without allowing him time to gº
home and make preparations for his journey, h6
was hurried into a post-chaise and conveyed rapidly
to Paris, under the escort of a gendarme. Jacqua.
had never seen the great capital. On his arriº”
he was taken to the Conservatoire des Arts et M*
tiers, and the first persons he saw there were Dº
naparte, and his minister, Carnot; the latter, aº.
dressing him with the blunt severity which wº
natural to him, exclaimed, “Is it you, then, whº
pretend to do what with Heaven is impossible,
make a slip knot upon a tight thread!””
Jacquard, abashed by the presence of the mastº
of half Europe, and still more so by the manner of his
minister, only answered by setting his machine tº
work, and soon showed the possibility of what they
had thought incredible. In this strange way was
Jacquard's first essay made known. Napoleon;
who knew how to appreciate genius wherever hº
found it, encouraged him, and promised him hº
protection; and in a few days after this interview.
he was regularly installed at the Conservatoire dº
Arts et Metiers.
Jacquard's joy may well be imagined when º
found himself in the midst of the wonders of art, aſ
enabled to pierce through the arcana of mechaniº
science, which, hitherto, for want of books and 9
education, he had had no means of doing; he hº
now the experience of others to stand upon, and tº
keys of knowledge were in his hands for fresh ºf
periments. He soon set to work, by order of gº.
ernment, upon machinery which was to produº.
brocaded silk, at less cost, and more easily, than
any then known; he combined two princip".
which were due, the one to the celebrated Vaucº"
son, and the other to Talson, the engineer, and sº
ceeded beyond all expectation. ****
This famous machine, which was destined to º'
mortalize the name of its inventor, appeared at ".
Exposition at Paris, in 1801. The first cons.
erceiving at once the advantageous change whº
it was about to produce in the state of French *
dustry, rewarded this admirable discovery by
pension of 6,000 francs. . The jury, how.
whose province it was to judge of the utility of .
such inventions, showed themselves less C º
sighted, and awarded, only a bronze medal to J.
quard, “the inventor,” (said the report) “of a !.
chine by means of which one workman the º
would be required in the fabrication of brocaded"
sues.” :-" of
Less wonder will be excited by this verdi..'.
the Parisian jury, when we further relate, thº'
- 5
* “Un nocud avec un fil tendu.” This machinery º:
of late years been applied to lace, and Nottingham *
to it the chief successes of its trade.
THE CONDITION OF ENGLAND, .
207
#". the whole face of whose commerce was to
º altered by Jacquard's discovery, no
"de and no admiration were called forth by it.
... ºurned there with his machine, and found
*lf, like Galileo of old, overwhelmed with sus-
§ºnd obloquy. He, the man of the people,
. of the loom, was portrayed in the darkest
elr to the ignorant and passionate multitude as
tious . foe ; one who, for his own ambi-
raft *nd selfish purposes, was about to ruin their
lies.” and to increase the distress of their fami-
º all parts of the district furious mobs assem-
.*gainst him, and his life was three times in
.* danger; this blind hatred rose at last to
Wa ...g. that the Lyonnese authorities gave
§ efore the storm; and the new machine was
Of º to pieces by their orders, in the great square
ridi * town, while the people loudly applauded the
ºlous Scene enacted before them.—“The iron”
iro "Se Jacquard's own words) “was sold as old
º-the wood, for fuel.”
º was not till France began to feel the fatal ef.
..of foreign, rivalry, that the silk-weavers of
3. regretted the narrow prejudices which had
...led their reaping the benefit themselves of
..ºl's discovery ; they then perceived that
. had destroyed the machine which would have
i. their labor, and infinitely multiplied their re-
tº. In the mean time a few more enlightened
Scl ºfacturers, among whom were Dépouilly and
..". having adopted the machinery of Jac-
... had so abundantly profited by it, that its
hy Spread rapidly through Switzerland, Germa-
id taly, and America, where a new opening to
...try, and a fresh means of increasing wealth,
§ joyfully hailed. º
es.”hester, essentially a manufacturing city re-
lººd the Jacquard machinery, in 1813, with popu-
°nthusiasm ; and the name once denounced in
*y factory is now honored throughout Europe.
. *low degrees did this reward reach Jacquard
h
B ce, envy, and selfishness; and all that time
new that he had succeeded, that he had cre-
sº mighty agent for the prosperity of his native
he º and that a day would surely come in which
Seve ºuld see it at work. He was gifted with per-
is tance and rectitude of purpose in proportion to
..". ; his disinterestedness was such, that he
fits o º out no patent to appropriate the bene-
㺠discoveries, and he constantly refused the
*ficent offers made to him by foreigners; sim-
vices Ult firmly he refused to devote to them the ser:
atiºn. believed were due to France, and waited
i. ºy till she should be ready to receive them at
d *ds. We have seen the humble mention
18 f of him with the bronze medal he obtained in
j. It was not till 1819 that a better informed
. Proclaimed the superiority of his machinery
Was the costly and unhealthy processes which it
i.". to replace, and awarded to him the
Compl nedal; the cross of the Legion of Honor
ºted this national recompense. º
lost . the close of his life, Jacquard; having
ieties. Wife, who had been a sharer in all his anx-
j." for whom he had the strongest affection,
miles E. the pretty village of Oullins, about three
house º yons, and took up his abode in a small
wi.º.º.of which had been left to him by
There he received the visits of
d 3. for his life.
"y illustrious travellers; statesmen, and men of
l
}
|
!
i
letters came to converse with him, and to wonder
that a man, whose reputation was European,
should be found spending his old age in solitude,
and dividing his time between religious duties and
the cultivation of a small garden. He died on the
7th of August, 1834; he never saw his great in-
vention appreciated in his native city, and yet he
had lived long in hope, and in his latter days in
perfect peace; his work was done, and at eighty-
four º
“The weary springs of life stood still at last.”
The morning after Jacquard's death, a few
friends, and a very small number of admirers, ac-
companied his remains to the cemetery of Oullins,
and buried him by the side of Thomas, the acade-
mician ; the inhabitants of the village consecrated a
marble slab in their church to his memory, which
mentions simply and modestly his pure life and his
industry.
In his lifetime, like most other great men, Jac-
quard found little but persecution, neglect, and
indifference, in his own country; it was only after
his death that he was really known, and his memo-
ry duly honored. The municipal authorities at
Lyons opened a subscription for the purpose of
raising a statue of the celebrated mechanic, and,
while the city owed chiefly to him its yearly in-
creasing wealth, it was long before many thousand
francs were collected. The statue of Jacquard,
from the chisel of Foyatier, was raised at last on
the 16th of August, 1840, in “la place Sathony,”
where had been placed already the bust of the
*: Rozier, another benefactor to the city of
yons.
It is refreshing, in the midst of the feverish strife.
of mere opinion, to turn to the example of Jac-
quard. Humble and prosaic as his life may at first
sight appear, he stood alone with his genius, sur-
rounded by ignorance and tumult, waiting patiently
until his discovery should be permitted to produce
- y *: the great results in commerce which it could not
*d it, after a twenty years' struggle against
fail of effecting when once it was fairly tricid.
While doubtless a thousand voices were raised to
procure a hearing for fresh schemes and new doc-
trines in science, he expected silently the hour in
which his knowledge should be most usefully cm-
ployed for the benefit of his country. Jacquard and
his machine were alike realities, and the world has.
now acknowledged them as such.
From the N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.
THE CONDITION OF ENGLAND.
In employing this term, now one of frequent re-
currence in the parliamentary debates, we dº not
mean either the physical, the social, or the political
condition of the country as existing at the present
moment, but rather its condition in the three par-
ticulars specified, and with more especial reference
to the future. For we conceive the British islands,
or at least that portion of them known specifically
as England, to be now in a state of change and
progress, the issue of which cannot be anticipated
without a strong and lively interest. In fact, we
know of no more interesting subject for contempla-
tion than the probable course of events in that great
country, among that remarkable people, in the next
twenty years.
We believe that a revolution is going forward
there; a revolution, vast, radical, thorough, and
208
THE CONDITION OF ENGLAND.
invested with every attribute entitled to the respect
and admiration of mankind; for it is a revolution
founded on and carried forward by an intellectual
movement solely, unaided and untarnished by any
employment of force whatever—unless, indeed, we
except that very potent instrument in human af.
fairs, the force of circumstances. It is a revolution
originating in better and truer views of human
rights and the purposes of human existence; views
which have long been held by individuals in con-
siderable numbers, which have often been enunci-
ated with more or less of force and distinctness
through the press, but which are now only begin-
ning to make themselves known, and felt, and ac-
knowledged, through all gradations of society, and,
what is more, are beginning to adapt themselves to
great and powerful interests, through whose coöp-
eration they must inevitably succeed in working
out their legitimate effect.
And here we may incidentally remark that Eng-
land is not alone in this matter. The movement
now working in her bosom is seen and felt also
throughout the continent of Europe. We see-
its operation in the tardy and fearful, yet still
progressive, constitutional manifestations of the
Prussian monarch ; in the predominance at which
productive industry is arriving in France; in the
general stir of thought and opinion, quiet and mod-
erate though it be, throughout all Germany; even
in the successful efforts of the Russian autocrat to
liberate the people of his vast empire from their
subjection to the nobles; and most conspicuously
and remarkably in the liberal course of policy and
government adopted by the new ruler of the papal
empire—a course so unexpected and unexampled
º we may almost venture to call it providen-
tlal.
But the “condition of England” is the subject
with which we have to do, and this will demand
more space than we can afford in a single article.
The idea which we wish to present is briefly and
forcibly expressed in a single phrase, for which we
are indebted to a writer in the National Intelli-
gencer—“Man has been made too cheap in Eng-
land.” This is as true as it is expressive. Man
has been made too cheap; and the principle of the
revolution, which we have asserted to be in progress
there, is, that a truer estimate is beginning to be
placed upon the value of man. -
The depreciation of this value has its origin so
far back as the times in which the feudal system
prevailed. Under it, and especially under its ad-
ministration by the Norman conquerors, the mass
of the people—the serfs, or villeins—were in fact
slaves to their feudal lords; the little estimation in
which they were held is made familiar to us by the
chronicles that have come down to us from those
old-times, and by the works of fiction-true in their
representation of manners, though fictitious as nar-
ratives—for which those chronicles have furnished
the material, as for instance the Ivanhoe of Walter
Scott. We see there that the serf or bondman oc-
cupied, in the estimation of his lord, a place no
higher than that assigned to the swine and cattle
of which he was the keeper. The value of the
human animal was just that which could be assigned
to him as a laborer in the field for the benefit of
his lord, or as a man-at-arms to kill or be killed in
his lord's battles. Man was very cheap in those
dº;
the progress of ages the feudal system passed
away; England became a great commercial natiº":
and then another cause appeared to keep down tº
price of man, It became the interest of capital.”
reduce the price of all commercial fabrics; and *
so happened that the tenure of land, coöperating
with the vices of the parliamentary representation,
enabled capital to control the price of human laboº
and sacrifice it to the necessity of making che”
cottons, woollens and cutlery. For the sake 9
producing these at the cheapest rates man...Wºº
made cheap also; that is, the physical conditiº
of the laboring man was ground down to thº
very lowest point at which existence can be suº
tained.
His moral and intellectual condition was of cour*
affected in a corresponding ratio; for the man whº
is held at a cheap rate by those who control hº
means of living, necessarily holds himself at a cheap
rate, and does indeed become of minimum valu%
for want of time and means and opportunity º
work out the true aim and purpose of his "...# It
is notorious, and has often been said, that the Eng’
lish operative of the present day occupies a statiº
very little if at all higher, as man, than that whi?
was held by his ancestor under the sway of the
Norman noble.
Now the first great step has been taken toward
effecting a complete change in this condition of the
Englishman. The abolition of the corn laws’
which were a relic of the feudal system—has se”
cured an improvement in his physical condition.
It has put a higher value upon him. Farther im"
provements will follow of necessity, for revolu-
tions of this kind never go backward. And wit
improvement of his physical condition will of nº"
cessity come improvement of his moral and intel:
lectual; that is, a still greater enhancement of hiº
value.
The time will come, and we entertain no doubº
that it will come soon, when he will no longer bº
sacrificed to cheapness of manufacture. A tru%
estimate of his value, not only as producer, but
consumer also, will prevail; he will be too costly
for destruction, whether by musket-ball, or coal-
mine, or factory toil. The shrewd remark of th?
Bristol Quaker is in the hearts and minds, now, 0
the English people at large, and of their law-makeº
and rulers, though when uttered it was only
laughed at as an odd saying. It was at the tim”
of the Bristol riots. The Quaker's partner in bus!"
ness belonged to a yeomanry corps which was 9.
dered out to put down the rioters. “John,” sa"
the Friend, while his partner was donning his reg.
mentals, “John, take care thee doesn’t cut dow"
any of our customers.” e
There is a world of significance in that saying:
and we leave our readers to meditate upon it,
they choose, until we find time to continue this *
ticle.
True Humility.—If we can forbear thinki;
proudly of ourselves, and that it is only Go º
goodness if we exceed other men in anything;
we heartily desire to do all the good we can.”
others; if we do cheerfully submit to any afflic"
tion, as that which we think hest for us, becau.
God has laid it upon us; and receive any blessinº
He vouchsafes to confer upon us, as His own bºº"
§ and very much above our merit; He will bles:
this temper of ours into that humility which he *
pects and accepts.—Lord Clarendon.
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 209
From the Church of England Quarterly Review.
*::: and Fictions of the Middle Ages. The
*Merchant and the Friar. By Sir FRANCIS PAL-
*AVE, K. H. London: Parker.
º “past” is a word fraught with deep mean-
. interest: to the imaginative it suggests in-
eSS trable visions of varied forms; to the reflective,
wº ºf wisdom and materials for fecund thought;
* forming, as it does in that which it recalls,
... ºne link in the great chain of eras that unites
º first enunciation of God's mighty purpose of
...tº its final consummation, its chiefest use is
jud ºrnish in its contemplation grounds for wisely
*ing the present and anticipating the future.
mi º been well observed that whilst the Al-
. is most beneficent, he is also most frugal,
an . ling, his creatures, by that which may be known
read by all men of him in the works of his
"ds, that the exercise of true liberality depends
º Provident care, and consists in the exact pro-
is rtion of the supply to the necessity. All nature
jºint with this truth : there is not a leaf that
i. nor a flower that fades to waste; not a form
Cont seems to perish, that does not, in its ashes,
TO ibute to the sustenance of life: there is not a
§. abstracted from the ocean that does not yield a
sing ; not a particle of inanimate matter that
pla not its distinct use, and that does not, in its
W. help on the great work of reproduction.
l **te and want are words, indeed, which have no
Place in the vocabulary of divine providence; there
nº. necessity for which there is not a supply—
ºng which in the constitution of the supply has
noi * proper function. The seasons come and go,
... less in their change and mighty in their opera.
W. each has its work, to see that nothing be lost.
at winter kills contributes to the nourishment of
ºmer life; whilst the sced that falls in autumn
º seems to perish revives in other forms in spring.
.."gality and mercy are indeed twin sisters: their
*ious labor is one of love: the one saves that
other may dispense: without provident care
i. "ºssities of nature never could be met, and
l all that dies a new existence springs. “Gather
WO ° fragments that nothing be lost,” were the
*s of our blessed Lord, and they contained no
i. i passing admonition, but a great and glorious
mind. they were, in their place, a revelation of the
in º: him who created nothing without a purpose,
ºse sight nothing perished, and who has so
th. Fously ordered all things and their going, as
* there should be neither loss nor waste. They
i. ream of annihilation havo neither eyes to sº
.."ºds to understand, and it is only the ſºo.”
d. Saith in his heart, there is no God;” for
WO . and mightier truths even than that of the
i. i. supervision of divine providence are
W. in the decaying seed and substance. He
utu ooks intelligently upon them sees a germ of
i."º existence, and counts upon their resuscitation
“e °rms of vigorous beauty. He knows that,
di.p. a corn of wheat fall into the ground and
.* abideth alone; but if it die it bringeth forth
i. . and when he sees it die, he looks in
whicl or the promised life. Thus, in all things
eca ºurround him, he learns not only that in their
re. thºre is no waste, but that out ofdeathcomes
Q jº life. Whilst he gives faith to the rev-
3S 3. life and immortality” which, the Lord
ture b rought to light,” he beholds in all that na:
i...gs before his eye an unfailing evidence of
° reality of that
13*
pass upon the countless dead, and in the sure and
certain hope of which, moreover, holy church hath
taught him to part for a season with those who
have fallen asleep in Jesus.
So is it also with the history of man—the events
of the past are pregnant with moral life for the fu-
ture. Every one of them has had its use in the
social system, and has proved a seed of fruit for the
harvesting of other generations. It is our part to
use the knowledge which they bring to the fulfil-
ment of its rightful purpose, neither wasting it in
the creation of pleasing visions or recreative fan-
cies, nor passing it by as too cumbersome for the
hastier progress of modern energies. History stops
us in our course through life to point us to the
paths which our fathers trod and the deeds which
they did ; and then come hope and wisdom to lead
us onward and teach us how to avail ourselves in
our forward course of what we have seen. To
stop not at the bidding of the one, or to loiter
where we are stopped, is alike unwise—in other
words, no knowledge of the past or reflection on its
history can be profitable which does not furnish us
with elements of moral strength and wisdom for the
future. The fulfilment of man's destiny is in pro-
gression, the proper development of which, like the
unfolding of a ſlower, is manifested in the varied
forms of great and primary principles, increasing in
beauty as they approach the term which God has
appointed to them for the bearing of the fruit or-
dained to each. No man can properly fulfil his
place, and do the work allotted to him in the pres-
ent, who does not with two-handed strength and
skill hold the past and the future—the past for the
wisdom which it gives, and the future for the hope
which it contains. No man is fitted for the active
and practical duties of life who dwells with the
dead ; nor can he, on the other hand, deal wisely
and kindly with those around him, if he blot the
memories of those who have gone from his mind,
boast in his ignorance of their virtues, or be care-
less of the sources of their failings; whilst for the
foundation of every solid edifice, whose uses are
for other generations, the deepest lessons are to be
learned in the contemplation of the structures which
our fathers built. There are many, however, who
in our days mistake the musings of poetry for the
reflections of wholesome philosophy; who, in their
contemplation of the past, sit down and weep over
the visions which they bring to being, till all
strength for action is gono : there are others,
again, who despise the uses of poetic thought, and
ave no sympathy but for utilitarian materialisms.
To them the past has neither a charm nor a lesson ;
to them the ſº is nothing but a speculation :
they are, as the word goes, “practical men,” who
neither know nor care for anything beyond present
realities, who judge all the spiritual phenomena of
humanity by hard statistics, and measure hearts and
minds by a coarse arithmetic of profit, and loss.
Neither the one nor the other are fitted for the exi-
gencies of the times, which Tequire, for the Super-
vision and right understanding of all which they
produce, a deep acquaintance with the spirit and
mind of man, in whatever form they may have been
developed—in whatever way it is possible that they
may yet be manifested. . .
There is no lack of learning in the age in which we
live. It is, indeed, wonderful how the sccret
sources and springs of ancient knowledge have
been traced out and laid bare to the gaze of all—
how the customs, modes of thought and habits of
great event which shall some day life, ways and works of our ancestors, have been
210
OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
placed, as it were, on a stage of exhibition, that
all who choose may become conversant with them.
From the mysterious days of swarthy Egypt, with
all the wonders of her occult science, down to the
age when the mail-clad warrior gloried in his
strength, or the merchant prince in his argosies, is
now reduced to the form of a familiar tale; and
books of elementary knowledge deal as unceremo-
niously with centuries, and treat as knowingly of
their events, as the smaller histories of our school-
boy days dared to do with the subject of the French
revolution or the geography of the provinces.
Etruscan monarchs, the mighty contemporaries of
the shepherd king of Israel, have been gazed at for
a single moment in their tombs, in all the glorious
panoply in which they were laid to take their sleep
for ages: the wanderings and sufferings of God's
ancient people have been deciphered in what they
have written in their way; the very grain which
the builders of the pyramids have handled is grow-
ing in many parts of Europe; the food of which
they ate, the chairs on which they sat, the cos-
tumes which they wore, all may behold who choose;
whilst, with the days of Norman William and his
rapacious host, the polished Saracen and the stern
crusader, the stately knight and mitred , abbot,
the wilely scrivener, the cowled monk and burly
friar, we are now as familiar as with our kith and
kin a few degrees removed. The imagination has,
indeed, but little to do in recalling a vision of the
past: knowledge has furnished her with all the
material she can need, and that so abundantly and
minutely as well nigh to render her own legitimate
occupation of mental creation useless. She has
only to produce some of the many forms with which
the memory is stored—to bring apout them the ap-
pliances of scenery and dress—to abstract from
them the coarser and sterner elements which tell
of discomfort and oppression if she be in no truth-
ful mood, and retain such as speak in all their rude
development of high resolve and kindly feeling—
and she will have at once before her for her contem-
plation a pleasant picture of other days and their
doings, wanting nothing but life to make it a
reality. º .
After all, however, the picture is but a picture—
a representation of life and not life itself: it is the
vision of what has been, but which will never be
again : of an age which, having fulfilled that part
of God’s great purpose allotted to it, has passed
away and become as the seed to the plants—the
germinating principle of other forms—in which,
though the fruit of the past is seen, the past itself,
as it was, will never be reproduced. It is a great
error to think otherwise, and yet it is the error of
the day—the error into which many gentle minds
have fallen, wasting the energies which present
exigencies so much need in fruitless efforts for the
revival of that which, in its past form, is forever
dead; or spending them in melancholy, mournings
for that which ought not to be mourned for. The
matter which perishes has fulfilled its purpºse and
obeys, in its decay, the law of its being; whilst the
spirit that was created to survive is still existent,
though in some form which, for lack of discern-
ment, we do not readily recognize. It is not
God's purpose to reproduce the past, but out of the
past to bring forth the future: this we may learn
from the contemplation of that which is within our
own experience. The man is the same as he who
was the child; but, once attaining to manhood, it
is impossible that he should be ever a child again.
Old age, it is true, is sometimes called a second
|
childhood; but, apart from its feebleness, the Qº
has nothing in common with the other; and thº
very feebleness is that of the plant, not newly
sown, but worn out in the production and bearing
of fruit. It has a knowledge and an experienº
which childhood of itself never can attain; anº
whilst to learn is common to all, to unlearn is "
impossible process. Yet this is needed to make
the old man once more in all respects a child, an
throw the present into the past. It matters nº
therefore, whether this error manifest itself in 1"
tile efforts to recall the practices and spirits of P*.
tristic ages—to bring back the cowl of monachis"
and fondly fancy the system will come with it—9;
to revive the ancient sports and pastimes of rº
manhood; there is something abroad which wil
interpose its veto. The spirit of the age, whi"
now is, will not yield to that of the ages which arº
gone; and, though there is much that is pleasanº
in the memory of the departed, there is too mu%
of serious import in that which is upon us and bº.
fore us—too much of coarse materialism and ster”
reality to suffer us to lose one atom of the strengº
we need for present strife in vain repinings for tº
past or fruitless efforts for its revival. "Let any
one, for a moment, reflect upon the progress of tº
last sixteen years. It is just that period since thº
first railway in England, in its more develope
form, was opened; when the lamented promote
of the scheme met with his death in the inaugurº
tion of a system which he foresaw would exercisº
so great a power on the destinies of the world.
And now all Europe is interlaced with iron roads;
the ends of the earth will soon be brought to:
gether; there will be hardly a land to which there
will not be means of ready access—hardly a clim?
which shall not own beneath its influence men 0
every speech brought together as to a market place.
Who can foretell the consequences! A greate.
social revolution than that which awaits us has nº
been recorded in the annals of time. Haste 1"
thinking, haste in action, are already amongst tº
characteristics of the age; and the power and V*.
locity of steam are but the symbols in the physic”
of that which exists or is coming forth in thº
moral. It were a mad effort to endeavor to fore"
the speed of modern locomotion back to the dilatº.
ry processes of our fathers—it is as mad an effor
to seek to restrain the hastening spirit of this agº
to the staid and stately paces of the past. Th;
love of railway motion is the index of the miſ
of the day, at once an effect and a cause: an eſſe”
of the immediate onward progress of man to *
given end; and a cause fruitful in result of the iſ.
creasing ratio in which all moral development
taking place. Let any one judge of that which .
to be by that which is—let him, by the simple:
arithmetic, try to ascertain, from the data whic
he has, what may be the probable amount of h".
man progression in the course of the next fº
years, and he will at once admit that it is as *.
wise as it is impossible to seek in the ages of tº
past fitting garments for the growing and gigan”
forms of the present. Whether all this be for go"
or evil is another matter: we deal with facts, aſ
we think it is with facts that all must deal wº"
would come to any right conclusion as to what *
or what may be. t
It is very possible that there is no greater amo".
of happiness amongst men now than there was in
former days. A vision of feudal times has it.
many forms of poetic beauty; but it has, also,
darker shadows. Noble daring and warm"
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
211
. the glorious panoply of war, the pageant-
Welo nighthood, manhood in all the fearless de-
.." of its hardy energy, are there; but
lein ped with them are the wrongs of the “vil-
acil the shackle on the hands of the serf, the ra-
} is y of the noble, and the suffering of the poor.
..". task for fancy, in gazing upon the
With lif all or castle of other days, to people them
€er "e, and so create a picture of that which she
and . them to have been in their primeval strength
the § ºy; but she will too often forget the real in
Inent eautiful, and omit, in her creation, the ele-
en. of discomfort, misery, and abject depend-
ap ...” too surely existed. N evertheless, we
. lend there were many things tending to ame-
up. * Condition which so many are apt to look
Sion With contempt. If feudality had its oppres-
W ºnly possessed its amenities—if the church
P0or: ark, it was hospitable and mindful of its
for th * it would be hard to prove a worse estate
I, e laboring classes than that which they now
p. ; where, in the midst of boundless luxury,
W º is the rule and not the exception with the
"g man, where death from starvation is a
ity º occurrence, and where the church's char.
dw as been exchanged for the iron rules of a cruel
.. its merciless administration. The truth,
th . is still the same, that whoever would be
back enefactor of his age must be so, not in forcing
* *ts spirit to suit the forms of other days, but
jºring fitting garments for its enlarged ca-
i.", its increasing wants, and energies in
For every age of man's life there are knowl-
; and strength proper thereto. Childhood has'
an hornbook and its primer, manhood its treatise,
han ". age its meditations. In like manner the
bo of the strong holds up the tottering infant, the
"" of brotherhood nerves the man, and the feeble
. of the declining is made sure by the tender
i. of kindred or of friends. So it is with the
... ºf the world; they have had their infancy,
º ºve their prime, and they shall have their
à...turity, full of all knowledge and ripe with
an "...ºness for the consummation of God's great
wi ... ghty purposes. He, ever in his mercy, pro-
tal mºst amply for the necessities of these seve-
i."liºn; raising up men for the times in
ſlained they live, and furnishing his church, or-
i.º.º be, the light of the world, with fitting
ii. ºd wisdom for the nourishment and instruc-
" ºf her children. The great mistake which
ing th * made is this—on the one hand suppos-
for º there is no light in the sanctuary available
civil * guidance of the world in great moral and
§uestions; on the other, in forgetting that, as
º * body of life, her strength is fitted to her
ër. the very law of her spiritual existence being
**ase of that strength according to her necessi-
sis i.e. men have dreamed of her as though
..". dead for all present purposes, and, men
ave ºne to the fathers for the light they should
...ght of God in existing ordinances, or have
th º east the church aside as a mere appur-
i. of state pageantry, or an incorporation of
Ome *Ye theories. Some talk indeed, nay more,
of ...; there has been of development; but
gend development as the corruption of death en-
i. Hºnºr than of that which properly results
Oma %althful life. The miserable abortions of
TO *** folly and superstition have been gravely
Pºunded to the worlä as the glorious aspirations
*nd ripened knowledge of the church of Christ,
made meet for her inheritance of light and pre-
pared to share the throne of her Lord. This is
sad enough, when coming from born Romanists
themselves; but issuing from neophytes, who have
been, it is to be presumed, conversant with their
Bibles and accustomed to large and comprehensive
freedom in examination, it is a striking proof of the
magic process by which, the moment submission
is made to Rome, every fruitful capacity is rendered
sterile and barren to the seeds of truth—every
power of the mind is ſettered down in servile sub-
jection to a narrow system.
We have been led into these remarks in perusing
the book whose title stands at the head of this arti.
cle. It is a book full of interest, combining amuse-
ment in the amount of information afforded with
ample materials for reflection. The crudeness and
the quaintness of the antiquarian are visible
throughout; but its chief value is in the enuncia-
tion of principles of great truth and wisdom.
Whatever rust there may be is the rust of gold;
and if the knowledge which it contains sinells
$omewhat of the dust of the book-shelves, we are
well assured that it is the result of deep research,
and that of the author's own labor, and not of sec-
ond-hand purloining.
Sir Francis Palgrave has chosen as a vehicle for
the information which he gives, and the reflections
which he makes, some fictitious events (which can
hardly be called a tale, but rather detached and
graphic scenes) in an epoch fraught in all its asso-
ciations with the deepest interest. He has put his
matter into the form of an imaginary conversation
between two of the most illustrious men of their
day—the fathers of their class, as far as that
fatherhood can belong to the middle ages—and the
pioneers in the two broad paths of the knowledge
which comes from seeing and conversing with men,
and that which comes from tracing physical phe.
nomena to their primary principles. His heroes
are Marco Polo, the Venetian traveller, and Roger
Bacon, the Franciscan friar. It is difficult to con-
ceive a more felicitous choice for the purpose which
he had in view. In the one, he had the exponent
of the energy and enterprise which made merchants
princes; in the other, the leader, in that spirit of
hardy inquiry, that not only first broke down the
hedges and fences with which ignorance had sur-
rounded the Romish domain, but ultimately brought
the full light of truth to bear upon the structure
which stood therein. Marco saw nearly as much
of the world as has been seen in latter times, and
penetrated farther than most modern travellers; and
though his relations were treated at first as vision-
ary creations, yet subsequent experience has with
few exceptions verified them.
We are not, however, aware that Marco ever
saw England, and we think that Sir Francis has
forgotten that he and the friar could hardly have
come together, seeing that Marco did not return
from his service of Kublai Khan till, 1295, about
which time, according to the popular tradition,
Bacon must have been laid to sleep with his fathers.
This literary license, however, We presume must
be permitted. Both Marco's father and uncle,
Nicolo and Maſſeo, had preceded him. With a
spirit of enterprise that is not generally thought to
have belonged to the civilians of those days, they,
having heard that a market for costly articles of
easy transport existed amongst the western Tar-
tars, determined to avail themselves of it. They .
accordingly converted their property into such arti.
cles of jewellery as they understood to be in de
21
Q
OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
*
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
mand about the year 1254, started on their perilous
journey, and eventually succeeded in reaching Bok-
ara, at that time a city of the east celebrated for
its commerce. Here, it appears, that they met
with a Tartar envoy on his way to Kublai Khan,
the conqueror of China; and, being persuaded by
him, they accompanied him to the court of that
prince. After some stay they returned to their
native country, which they reached about the year
1969; and it was not till about two years after this
period that they again set forward on their journey,
accompanied this time by Marco, who was between
Seventeen and eighteen years of age. Up to this
º Marco had never seen his father, and, having
ost his mother shortly after his birth, had been de-
pendent upon the care of others, who, as the sequel
sufficiently testifies, had not been negligent of the
trust. The Poli, it seems, were of a noble family,
and as was then the fashion in Pisa, Genoa, Flor-
ence, and the other commercial states of Italy,
eagerly engaged in mercantile pursuits, without
fear of taint to their blood or disgrace to their lin-
eage. To this probably is owing the union of
taste and wealth which afterwards distinguished
the Italian nobility under the rule of the Medici,
the reſinement of aristocratic breeding directing and
influencing the expenditure of the gains which
commercial enterprise had won.
In speaking of Marco we must not, however,
forget an older traveller than he into the regions
of the east, William de Rubruquis, as he was
pleased to call himself, whose real name was Ruys-
broeck, a friar, who, in the spirit of the times, un-
dertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where
Louis IX. was then detained a prisoner by the Sar-
acens. This pious monarch had heard of a great
Christian nation and a certain Prester or priest,
John, who ruled them, as existing in the wilds of
Tartary ; and Father William formed one of a
commission of monks despatched by the king on a
mission of inquiry. Of Prester John and his im-
aginary subjects, it is almost needless to add, he
saw nothing; but he found at the court of one of
the Khans Christian missionaries, witnessed a
great deal which must have opened his own mind
and that of his companions—no small benefit to
society, considering their character and the age in
which they lived—and bestowed upon the world
an account of his travels in the shape of a Latin
letter to his patron, which was partly done into
quaint English by Hakluyt nearly four centuries
afterwards, and subsequently given to the public by
Purchas in his “Pilgrimes.”
It is worthy of remark that the accounts of these
two travellers do not materially differ; and, though
there were many then, and have been since, scep-
tical on the subject of the facts which they related
—though Marco was called in derision “Old Mil-
lion,” and became a subject of burlesque in panto-
mimic effigy to the Italian populace of succeeding
generations—yet, as far as we know, subsequent
experience has confirmed their statements and
borne honorable testimony to their veracity.
But it is time to turn to the friar, glorious Rog-
cr! whose wondrous feats and brazen head were
the familiar subjects of our nursery knowledge.
He was a great exception to his day, which, not-
withstanding Mr. Maitland's clever defence of it,
we must still continue to consider a dark one ; for,
whilst posterity reaps in many a way the benefit
of his labors, the common tradition concerning him
has perpetuated the ignorance of the Romish
Church in the legend of his magical skill: both he
and Albertus Magnus of Cologne passed for deal:
ers in the black art; whilst poor Roger, at the ag”
of sixty-five, paid the penalty of his great knowk
edge in an imprisonment which lasted until neº
the close of his life. This imprisonment, it is said:
he owed as much to his character as a reformer tº
to his reputation as a magician; since he did no"
hesitate boldly, upon every fitting occasion, to re.
prove the ecclesiastics of his day for their sloth an
ignorance. It is recorded of him that he expendº
no less a sum than two thousand pounds" in the
course of twenty years in the purchase of rarº
works—a wondrous munificence for such an one *
he—and at once a proof of the scarcity of books,
and how highly he prized the knowledge which hº
sought.
Of this scarcity there are some curious instances
on record; we will quote some of them: “In a
close roll, dated 29th of March, 1208, king John
writes to the Abbot of Reading to acknowledgº
that he had received, by the hands of the sacris'
of Reading, six volumes of books containing the
whole of the Old Testament.” The gº; is alsº
acknowledged of “Master Hugh de St. Victoire':
Treatise on the Sacrament;” the “Sentences 0
Peter the Lombard;” the “Epistle of St. Atº
gustine on the city of God and on the third part Q
the Psalter;” “ V. de Moribus;” “ Origen's
Treatise on the Old Testament;” and “Candidus
Arianus to Marius.” The following month the
king wrote to acknowledge the receipt of his copy
of Pliny, which the abbot had in his keeping.
Now, this is a truly magnificent collection for the
period, and the care which is observable in the
enumeration, together with the formality of the
king's receipt, shows how highly it was prized. In
like manner, there are similar documents of the
reign of Henry III., which show the estimation in
which the library of the new chapel at Windsor,
consisting of eight books, was held : and the valu%
of a certain volume entitled “The Exploits 0
Antiochia and of the Kings and Others,” at tha;
time in the possession of the Knights Templar, an
in the custody of R. de Sandford, Master of th9
order in England.
Henry, in his “History of Great Britain,” re-
lates many instances of the costliness of books in
the beginning of the fifteenth century; by which
time, however, it would appear that the scarcity,
and even the price of them, had greatly diminished,
if it be true that the Duke of Bedford, in the year
1425, bought the royal library of France, collected
by the fifth and sixth Charleses, and consisting 0
nine hundred volumes, for one thousand two huſ!"
dred livres. Another proof of the value of book:
in the middle ages is the care that was taken 0
them by securing them with chains to the places
where they stood—a custom which continued to be
observed in many libraries so late as the beginning
of the eighteenth century. . A curious instance 0
this is mentioned by French antiquarians, where,
when a priest named Henry Beda, in the year
1406, bequeathed his manuscript breviary to the
* It is hardly fair to allow this statement to stand tº.
. It is what is related in the “Encycloped.
ritannica;' but Chalmers says that the money was ſº.
the most part contributed by certain members of tº
University'of Oxford, and expended by him, as well º
the experiments which he made, and the construction 9
the instruments which he invented, as in the purchase §
books. Still, supposing him to have spent but the hal
or quarter of that sum for the latter purpose, it shoº
. estimation that was put upon them and their scº’
City.
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
213
*h of Jacques-la-Boucherie; he left at the
** time, to William L'Exale, the churchwarden
... the said church, the sum of forty sous to pay
* ºpense of having a cage made, in which the
*iary might be kept, to prevent its appropriation
Iº; in plainer words, its theft—by any of the
*lers whom it might attract.
§ºbertson, in proof of the assertion that the
ºl. ages were ages of great intellectual dark-
. says—“The price of books became so high
...Persons of moderate fortune could, not afford
3 Purchase them. The Countess of Anjou paid
#. * Copy of the Homilies of Haimon, Bishop of
alberstädt, two hundred sheep, five quarters of
Yººt, and the same quantity of rye and millet;”
he quotes as his authority the “Histoire Lit-
§aire de France, parles Religieux Benedictins.”
tº adds also, on the authority of Gabriel Naudé,
§ his “Addit, a l’Histoiré de Louys XI., par
9mines”—“Even so late as the year 1471, when
9tlis XI. borrowed the works of Rasis, the
i **bian physician, from the Faculty of Medicine
...; he nºt ºnly depºsited as a lºgº ºn.
"ºrable quantity of plate, but was obliged to pro-
.* a nobleman to join with him as surety in a
*d, binding himself under a great forfeiture, to
§store it.” With both these statements Mr.
V aitland, in his “ Essays on the Dark Ages,” is
*y angry: he seeks to invalidate the credit of
° inference which the historian would derive
*m the first by some unworthy quibbles as to his
*Islation of the French word muid, the Latin of
§º in a monk’s letter, is modius, and which
* Maitland would translate bushel, instead of five
ºrs. He also wonders at the omission by the
"storian of an item in the price paid—of “a cer-
*n number of marten skins.” These criticisms
9 not touch the fact that a great price was paid
Sº a certain volume of homilies, however much
they may show the learning of the critic. He is
*sūlittle content with the second instance quoted
f Robertson, and thinks that the value of the in-
*ence which he would likewise draw from it is
*troyed by a similar fact of modern times—viz.,
hat when §. wished to borrow a manuscript
*m the Bodleian Library he was required to give
nd for a thousand pounds. Mr. Maitland's
however, fails in the use he would make of it,
. fully bears out the supposition that the exces,
O º Surety required, in both instances, was a proof
the value of the book ; whilst all the concomi-
i. ºrcumstances attending the surety required
th ºn the French king show that it was not, as in
**ase of Selden, an illustration of the rarity of a
Fºuhi book, but of the rarity of books in gen-
fact
W Yºher this scarcity of books, or the high
*e that was put upon them, be a proof of gene-
: *gnorance, to the extent that Robertson asserts,
i."º matter; still it does not alter the fººt, as
b º, Maitland endeavors to show, that this value in
°ks depended rather on the manner of their com-
Fºsition than in the nature of the subject which
*Y treated: he thinks, and with justice, that the
...nº of this estimation are partly to be looked
it. the costliness of the illumination and the
pos º of the binding—the latter being mostly com-
d i. of plates of gold, silver, or carved ivory,
§. with gems, and even enriched with relics.”
We §rtheless, books must have been scarce; when,
him. upon the showing of the learned writer
e elº that the Abbot Bonus, in the beginning of
*venth century, spent a life in acquiring a
el
library, the catalogue of which contains but twenty-
six items, and only accounts for some forty
volumes; and when, as there is every reason to
infer, some of the royal libraries of the succeeding
two centuries, at least in England, scarcely
amounted to half the number. º
It may, however, fairly be argued that, if Roger
Bacon gave so large a sum as is stated for books,
their value must have consisted as well in the sub-
ject treated as in the cost of the materials of which
they were composed. It shows, at least, that, if
the age in general was dark, there must have been
a few either prizing, for their own acquisition,
works of rare knowledge, or aware of the value set
upon them by others; for the venders, whoever
they might be, if not conversant with the subject-
matter of their merchandise themselves, could not
possibly have been ignorant of the estimation in
which it was held by those who were : and it is
difficult to suppose that these same volumes, ac-
quired at so great a price by the munificent friar,
had no other value than in the beauty of their
adorning, or the artistical skill of their composition
and decoration. If a conjecture may be hazarded
by persons so unlearned as ourselves, it is more
than probable that they were the rare treatises
from which he drew the secrets of ancient Greek
philosophy, or the more modern manuscripts of
eastern sages from which he derived his knowledge
of the occult science of Arabia. Much of that for
which he has the credit of discovery, though un-
known to his own age, seems to have been familiar
to the philosophers of old ; and, whilst the merit
and wonder of his learning and sagacity be not the
less, the darkness of the age in which he lived be-
comes more apparent ; as it is found that what he
introduced, and which was then accounted by so
many to be the result of magical art, was not so
much the discovery of what had never been known
as the revival of knowledge lost. Many of the
principles upon which his inventions were founded,
especially those of optics, seem to have been known
to Euclid, Archimedes, Proclus, and Ptolemy.
Alhazen, an Arabian author, wrote a treatise; about
the year 1100, in which he gave the first distinct
account of the magnifying powers of glasses or
crystals; and, though Bacon carried his improve-
ments farther, in the matter of spectacles, than any
who had preceded him, it is not unfair to suppose
that the knowledge of the principles which led him
to the invention was contained in some of the rare
treatises which had cost him so much. With
reference to the greatest invention of which he has
the credit—viz., that of gunpowder-Sir Francis,
in his dedication, says—“Hindostan seems to
have produced the invention of nitrate powder; but
.it remains to be ascertained to which of the races
who have peopled her soil the discovery belongs.
Thence it was acquired, either, primarily or de-
rivatively, by the Chinese, the Tartar, the Arab,
and the Greek, all distinguished either by mentai
acuteness or warlike spirit, or by both these quali-
ties.” He adds—“And if any one of these na-
tions had been permitted by Providence to use the
simple process of converting the powder into the
grain, the people so acquiring the knowledge would
have obtained exactly the same predominance in
the middle ages which the modern European now
exercises over the rest of mankind.” Sir Francis
imagines a humorous incident (p. 190) to show
that Bacon probably derived his invention from his
observations on the nature of the “Greek fire”
then in existence, to which there is such constant
214
OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
allusion in all the histories of ancient warfare, from
the hardy enterprises of the Macedonian Alexan-
der, down to the stern conflict of Saracen and Cru-
sader, and the fierce struggles of the Venetian and
Genoese republics.
What was the exact nature of this “Greek
fire” seems now hardly known; its effects were
however very terrible. Of its use by the Turks
against the Crusaders, under St. Louis, Jonville,
the French historian, who was present, thus
speaks—“It was thrown from a machine called a
petrary, and came forward as large as a barrel of
verjuice, with a tail of fire issuing from it as big as
a great sword, making a noise in its passage simi-
lar to thunder, and seeming like a dragon flying
through the air; and, from the great quantity of
fire issuing from it, giving such light in the army
that one might see as if it had been day.” Gaul-
tier de Cariel, a valiant knight, was so terrified
that he gave it as his opinion, and it was no bad
one, that “as often as it was thrown the soldiers
ought to prostrate themselves and beseech the Lord
to deliver them from that danger against which he
alone could protect them.” Jonville adds that
“Louis, being in bed in his tent, as often as he
was informed that the Greek fire had been thrown,
would raise himself up and exclaim, ‘Good Lord
God, preserve my people.’” This fire was thrown
three times in the night from a petrary and four
times in the day from a large cross-bow. Geoffrey
de Winesauf, who accompanied Richard Coeur de
Lion in his crusade to the Holy Land, speaking of
this fire says—“With a pernicious stench and livid
flame it consumed even flint and iron, nor could it
be extinguished by water; but by sprinkling sand
its violence might be abated, and vinegar would
put the fire out.” Father Daniel tells us that this
fire was not only used in sieges but in battles.
According to this author, Philip Augustus, king
of France, having found a quantity of wild-fire
ready prepared at Acre, brought it with him to
France, and used it at the siege of Dieppe in burn-
ing the English vessels then in harbor. There is
nothing new it seems under the sun ; and, if we
are to believe the same worthy authority, modern
“infernals” cannot claim for their constructors
much novelty of invention, since there seems to
have been the same amount of mischievous inge-
nuity amongst our ancestors. He says, that
“ there was an engineer named Gaubet, a native
of France, who found out the secret of preserving,
even under water, a kind of artificial fire enclosed
in earthen pots without any openings. He was so
excellent a diver as to be able to pass under a
river: of this secret he availed himself so far as to
succeed in setting fire to some thick palisades that
stopped up the entrance to the Isle of Andely
which Philip was then besieging. At the time the
enemy made an attack on the bridge which, that
princé had built over the Seine, and when all the
attention of the besieged was directed, that way,
Gaubet dived with his pots under the palisades and
set fire to them. Boats having been prepared for
the soldiers, the isle was surprised on that side and
the garrison of the castle compelled to capitulate.”
We do not vouch for the truth of this : We can
only say that, if it be true, it beats all that French
and American engineers have threatened to do,
but, as far as we know, have never done. It is a
pity for himself that Gaubet is not alive; he and
his pots would have been a capital catch for the
Adelaide or the Polytechnic.
To return, however, to our book. The author
has given us some of the truths held by men in the
middle ages, but scarcely any of the fictions, 0
which, it would seem, there were not a few ; an
et we would humbly suggest that, without a
łºwºg, of these, it is impossible to form a fair
estimate of the actual condition of these times; for
it must not be forgotten that, whilst the truth is
the secret treasure of the few, the fiction is the
common inheritance of the many. Whatever is
valuable in institutions or in systems is not, after
all, so much the characteristic or the exclusive pos-
session of any one particular age; but is generally
the result of the cumulative wisdom of all, the
necessities or better perception of each successive
generation retaining that which experience has
tested, abstracting that which may have become
pernicious or obsolete, and adding that which any
fresh and nascent condition coevally brings to birth.
Great men, far beyond their fellows, there have
ever been and always will be ; and it would seem
that upon these properly dévolves the work of re-
moving what may have become effete, or of bring-
ring forth such fresh elements as may be needed.
The result of their labor is the characteristic truth
which has distinguished every age as indicative
both of its necessity and progress. These men
must, in a sense, express the mind of their gener
ration ; and, though oftentimes at an immeasurable
distance, betray that which they have in common
with the most ignorant of the day in which they
live. Whoever will trace the progress of civiliza-
tion through the calendar of time, with reference
to man's character and deeds, will be able surely
to ascertain the processes of this cumulative wis.
dom, and mark where halts have been made an
increasing impetus received in its onward course.
It is of the blessing of this wisdom that we are
now reaping. What of liberty we enjoy in the
state—what of light we have in the church—what
of comfort and refinement we experience in the
intercourse of social life, is owing, not to any sud-
den act, outbreak, instantaneous illumination, or
unprepared discovery of any one class, or age, or
man; but to the legitimate results which the ne-
cessities of an altered condition generated—the
slow but steady growth of ordained principles to
their true developments—and the natural issue of
increasing knowledge. The truth is God's ; some-
thing of it there has ever been with man, for he
always, in his mercy, has been near to him. As
long as he shall preserve his ambassadors upon
earth with their ministry of reconciliation, that
truth must manifest itself; and, in proportion as
faith finds a place, in the spirit of statesmen;
priests, or princes, so will all national acts, and all
forms of public teaching preserve the golden im-
! º of this most precious of all moral treasures.
o man, therefore, can lay his hand upon the
institutions of any age and say, “There is no truth
here.” We know that, as the spirit of life suc-
cessively tore aside the cumbrous coverings whic
the cruel care of her nursing by dark ignorance ha
thrown around her, to the hindrance of all health-
ful breathing and vigorous action, so her growing
vigor became discernible in the successive impart-
ations of truth and light to the greater institutions
of Christendom. It is not then to the successive
cycles or periods of British history, in isolation
from each other, that we must look for that which
we possess in the form of state verities or civi
rivileges—it is not to the struggle of the rude
riton with the polished Roman—of the English
churl with his Saxon master—the Saxon serf wit
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 215
º Norman Conqueror—nor to the fierce contention
**he lawless baron with his grasping monarch—
ºn. not to the strife for privilege which has so
C0m existed between the church and the state, the
in º and the throne—it is not to these alone
We ºateness—it is not to any one of these that
is". look for the blessings we enjoy. They
right rather be traced to whatever elements of
i. ºusness there were in any one of these con-
... and they come of the silent but sure con-
O º of such elements into systems. There is
i. ºnent of righteousness which does not, in due
i. ear its fruit. Wherever it is found it comes
i od, and whatever flows from, or is given by
j, as, inherent in it, as the very law of its being,
*life-like property of fecundity. Men, see not,
a. be, in the wild and prolific abundance of
ºral vegetation, how or when the seed is drop-
; into the ground: they dream not, whilst it is
ºlden, of that which it shalf one day be. A bird
the air may carry all unheeded the source of
"re life to a distant spot; and, where there was
#. before, beauty and verdure may spring
of m. though by processes all abstract from the ken
ºn. So it is with the constitution of the land;
* Briton, the Roman, the Saxon, and the Nor:
..", have each contributed somewhat to its forma-
* The rude struggle for freedom left its im-
!. the better civilization of the capital of the
§ was not without its ameliorating influence:
... the sea kings and their tribes came in the
§: of enterprise and the elements of inquiry;
lst the mailed conquerors of the country some-
*... redeemed the wrongs occasioned by their
jºy in the amenities of chivalry which they
tln ºduced, and the greater ecclesiastical knowled ge
Th carning which . brought with, them.
tºgh what of right each contributed might for;
... have been hidden from sight in the rank
*sses of coeval corruptions, yet the clearing pro-
“esses of advancing civilization, whilst they re-
. that which was less pure, laid bare and gave
althful life to that which was essentially good.
Ca * Seeds of truth are ever sown by the merciful
i. and providence of God, and no matter by what
i. he sows them, they must spring forth and be
º in blessing to some one or other of his
W *tures; and we are now reaping the result of
ºy, right principle for which our ancestors,
jing to their light, or in any measure, con-
nded.
º: graphic sketches which Sir Francis gives of
Sº *ction, the transactions of the Guildhall and the
..on of the king in Parliament, lead his readers
º łº naturally to entertain the just reflections
tº. he makes on the constitution, political and
ll, of the country; whilst the great truth is ever
ºnted to our minds, that man, in all the chang-
. and varied forms of his social existence, has
*. essentially the same. Though between, the
Ina ºne of one age and the guise of another there
i. be enough of distinction to show of what dif.
of i. aspects he is capable, there is still sufficient
Tºlo * which is common to all to cstablish a com-
6 . rotherhood between the men of climes and
i. 8 far removed from each other, Whilst it
des is the folly of the unthinking, therefore, to
. any phase through which man in his social
d . has passed, it betrays, on the other hand,
fitte Int of intelligence as to that for which he is
go and destined to assume the aspect of a bye-
* †me, as being more suited to our condition
n that which we have. To enforce what we
feel upon the subject we cannot do better than quote
from the book before us one of the many beautiful
reflections with which it abounds, wherein the
author, though in other forms, enunciates the prin-
ciples which we have ventured to suggest.
“But is there any reason to wonder if the devices
of the mortal man, the shadows of a shade, are seen
to waste and wane away! Should we sorrow be-
cause the stability of the everlasting hills is denied
to the fabric raised upon dust and ashes ; Must we
not confess the truth, and submit, without repining,
to the wisdom of the dispensation which decrees
that when human institutions have once arrived at
their fatal term they can never be revived? During
the convulsions which alter the level of society, new
opinions have been adopted, new habits have been
assumed. Young spirits have risen, confident in
their own untaught conceit; whilst ranks of con-
tending champions have sunk into the grave.
Diversified as the human countenance is, by feature
and expression, the human mind is still more varied
by temper, education, rank, position, and intellect.
Providence works by eliciting modes of thought,
not cyclical but successive; and in which man freely
acts, though without the power of controlling their
evolution. No era which has once gone by can
ever be brought back: individuals are never repro-
duced: the creatures not merely of the last year,
or even of the yesterday, will never more be found
together. Never will the same combinations recur,
so long as the world endures.”
“The fitness of the forms possessed by the extin-
guished policy is utterly lost: and the same integ-
rity which resisted the removal of the old land-
marks will, as consistently, refuse to disturb the
new, within whose boundaries other rights of prop-
erty have been acquired. Blessed is the protecting
hand 1’’ *
Now, this is the sound and truthful dealing with
the present and the past, so far as moral reſlection
is concerned, that we need; for the morbid spirit of
the times has well nigh, on the one hand, emascu-
lated all wise and vigorous thinking on that which
has gone, down to the puerilities of a childish mind;
and, on the other, the antagonistic rashness of the
age passes by, in its mad haste, whatever of dignity
or truth are to be found in that which preceded us.
The one is an abuse of the imaginative faculty-
the other is a contempt of the meditative powers :
in every well regulated mind each should have its
place, for they are each an attribute of the immortal
spirit, by which she recalls the past for wisdom and
anticipates the future for strength and consolation;
but all becomes confusion and disorder when, cither
is unduly fostered to the prejudice and weakening
of the other.
We could have wished, however, as we have
before said, to have found somewhat more of the
fictions of the middle ages. . Much is learnt by con-
trast. It is oftentimes by the deformity of the lie
that the beauty of the truth is made manifest; and
the quaint absurdities and monstrous forms of fiction
serve to show by what paths and what distance
reality has been departed from . It is difficult to
suppose a tradition which is not founded on some
fact; nevertheless, the forms which popular tradi-
tions assume show, in the disfiguring of that fact,
how unsafe a vehicle it is for its transmission to
society in its positive verity. Say what men will,
where these fictions abound proof is given of a dark
condition of society; for if there be on the one hand
some above their fellows who know the error, there
must be on the other a total absence of means by
º
216
OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
which it may be pointed out, or an absolute want
of capacity to receive the explanation; and in this,
after all, lies a sturdy obstacle in the way of those,
who, in opposition to all that has hitherto been
written on the subject, would fain persuade us that
the centuries from the seventh to the thirteenth were
not dark.
Customs and costumes are able expounders of
the social condition of any nation: the legends of
popular faith and the fictions of vulgar tradition, of
its moral estate. It is by what men do believe,
rather than by what they do not, that we find out
where they stand in the scale of mental civilization;
and we apprehend that, whilst the characteristic of
the middle ages was ſº it was a faith in much
that was positively false, rather than in that which
was positively true; and this to such an extent that
the amount of error far exceeded that of truth; nor
should we be able to comprehend all the moral phe-
nomena of those periods, many of which were cer-
tainly most beautiful and good, if we did not our-
selves believe that it is in the heart, more than in
the mind, that God is both apprehended and mani-
fested; and that, apart from what the corruption of
man has made them, there is a safeguard for him
in the mutual sympathy, better aspirations, and
deep yearning after the really excellent in all human
affections, as they have been implanted by God.
These have ever preserved and do still preserve
men, through the overruling mercy of a heavenly
Father, in the midst of the darkest times, from the
deep abyss into which ignorance would thrust them.
We do not forget the light which the church has
been commissioned to bear in the midst of the
world; nor will we deny that, in the times of her
reatest faithlessness, she has still been compelled,
in some one form or another, to hold it forth; new-
ertheless, it is rather to the goodness ºf God in
maintaining that light in, it may be, illegitimate
ways, j to any legitimate result of her own in-
fluence, rightly directed in the feudal times, that
Christendom has emerged, such as she is, from her
mad follies of mimes, mysteries, and mummings.
The mental condition of the middle classes of
these ages did not stand high, but the heart was
sound: there were tokens of its existence not to be
mistaken, in the healthful beatings of honest affec-
tion and social union, in many an institution from
which the ancient spirit is now gone, or of whose
forms the head has taken possession to the dispos-
session of the heart, with about as much propriety,
too, as he should manifest, who, hard and crabbed,
lean and angular in his shape, should take a vain
conceit to figure in the fitting garments of youthful,
supple, and graceful beauty. Sir Francis, speak-
ing' of the ancient system of city apprenticeship,
says— * º
“So long as the engagement subsisted according
to its pristine spirit, it rendered the mºster and the
servant members of one household and family; the
parties were united by the mutual obligation of pro-
tection and obedience; the mutual connection re-
cognized better elements than those of mere profit
and gain. He would be an unwise legislator for
his fellow-men, who would omit to take self-inter-
est into considération as a most powerful impelling
motive ; but a sorry one is he who relies upon self-
interest as affording any kind of security for dili-
gence or industry, or for any quality to which the
name of virtue can be ascribed. Whatever the
political economist may urge to the contrary, unless
men begin by bettering themselves, all his assumed
receipts for bettering their condition are in vain.
“Motives infinitely more valuable than those of
mere money or money's worth were engrafted upon
the system of apprenticeship, so long as its spirit
was properly observed. #. admission into the
guild, after the period of probation had concluded:
was an attestation that, during the period of life
when the human character is most susceptible 9
the influence of habit and example, the future citi-
zen had conducted himself with a due attention tº
diligence and morality. Gratitude towards a kin
master—emulation excited by an able one—the nº
cessity of conciliating a harsh superior—affection
towards an infirm or needy parent—the wish to be
married, to form that union which the church s?
emphatically calls ‘a holy state,’ and upon which
the happiness of the individual, and through the in-
dividual the happiness of the state, so mainly depends
—all these rendered the guild an unceasing source
of moral renovation to the commonwealth.”
It was the kindly heart, rather than the fertile
mind, that originated such systems as these; an
though the medal had its reverse, as Sir Francis
acknowledges, yet it was one worthy to be borne on
the breast of a nation ever distinguished for its open
hand and stout courage. If the political economies
of these modern times could allow of such a thing
as the existence of hearts in the masses of humanity
with which they deal, we question whether they
would so often fail; but the curse of the day is a
mechanical intellect—gigantic if you will—which
never thinks its work is effectively done until the
finer fibres of the human heart—the sensitive
nerves, which expand at the warm handling of aſ-
fection, as they shrink from the rough usage of the
unfeeling—are all beaten out and flattened into one
inert, senseless, mass, ready for any other impres-
sion it may desire to give it. Whatever is beauti:
ful in those visions of the past which the mind will
sometimes call into being, invariably stands connect-
ed with the associations of kindly feeling and warm,
though rude, affection. Nor is this because the
fancy would have it so, but because the memory,
familiar with the history of the past, naturally leads
the thought, though in a creative mood, instinctive-
ly to take the forms with which it is most familiar.
Knighthood and chivalry, yeoman courage and city
independence, come before us, it is true, with as:
pects of much ignorance, but with much bearing of
honest truth and social love ; and if the schoolmas-
ter be wanting in the group, whilst we miss, it may
be, the impress of his ſluent knowledge, we are not
wearied with the dull monotony of his inane pedan-
tries.
We neither despise intellect nor knowledge—far
from it; we are not so overstocked with either that
we could afford to do so were we willing ; but
they have, in the composition of man's nature an
the relations of life, their proper sphere and limits;
and when they take the place of kindly affections,
and seek to fill up that for which, in the intercourse
of man with man, the heart alone was destined, we
think (perhaps we speak a rank heresy against the
creed of the times) they are to be mourned over as
the sad abuses of God's good gifts, rather than re-
joiced in as great blessings. After all, you never
will and never can have any system of government
or of teaching, by which men are to be ruled or
bettered in their condition, that will answer to the
end proposed, which does not, in some sort, takº
Some of its forms from the simple suggestions o
the human heart—which does not reckon that hearts
as well as minds are to be dealt with—which does
| not address itself in the language of experience 19
TRUTHS AND FICTIONS
OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 217
* one of the many facile entrances which the
**,9fman ever keeps open with a ready welcome
§: *l who rightly come thereto. “No manknow-
º the things of a man, (said the apostle,) save the
ºt of man which is in him;” and it was a touch-
º, true, and beautiful answer which the psalmist
*turned—“When thou saidst, Seek ye my face,
ºr said unto thee, Thy face, Lord, will I
9°ncerning the dark ages much has been written
ſº ºnd con. Into the literary contest Mr. Mait-
*"d has lately entered, and has brought his deep
*ºrch and learning to bear upon the somewhat
*kless assertions of Robertson, Henry, and
*hers. We cannot altogether congratulate him
* the issue: he has demolished a few of the out-
.* of exaggeration, but he has left the strong-
ºld of concurrent testimony, as we think, un-
touched; he has set, it is true, a few brilliant stars
§ the moral hemisphere of these ages; he has re-
"ed the darkness, but he has left the period, as he
*nd it, one of night; and has but established
Xhat we think most were ready to allow—that to
* general rule there were many brilliant excep-
"ns. We do not think that he has dealt at all
‘mes fairly with his adversaries, nor that he is al.
Yºys happy in his instances. For his friend Mein-
Yºre, Bishop of Paderborn, we have certainly no
§eat respect; we rather apprehend that some of
* doings would secure him a less favorable judg-
*nt at the Old Bailey, were he to practise them in
.* days and in our land, than they seem to elicit
*In this clever writer. His reasoning, in answer
* the assertion that “persons of the highest rank
*" in the highest station could not read or write,”
*ms to us inconclusive. The evidence that exists
ln support of this assertion, as generally true, is
...tainly, to say the least of it, in support of the
ºbability of its truth; whilst none, that we know
§ exists by which the error of it can be shown.
We say “as generally true,” because it is clear there
Yere. exceptions. enry I. was a scholar, as his
#.lar designation of Beauclerc proves; so was
jºy II. John could not be altogether ignorant of
r * Contents of the books for which he gave a
* to the Abbot of Reading; nor would Henry
have borrowed the “ Exploits of Antiochia”
º the Templars, for the use of his queen, unless
W. had desired to know what the volume related.
0. other John and the queen read for themselves,
* Sy their chaplains, we leave to others to settle.
sº Maitland is a learned and pains taking man,
whi if he could have found anything by searching
*h would have enabled him positively to con-
º Robertson, when he says “the nobility could
S *Write,” he would not have spared trouble in the
arch, nor have hesitated triumphantly to produce
. §vidence. The reasons why men did not sign
...tularies which conveyed their gifts, as Mr.
*land sets them down, are very ingenious; but
*Y are, after all, conjectural; and, if the whole
In * is to be argued on conjectural grounds, we see
º, why that which lies at the very threshold,
an * considering the times, is the most probable,
* which almost all writers have given assent,
º not be the first received. Qf the four rea-
viz which he deduces from Mabillon, the second,
cas. physical inability—is admissible only in a few
... ºf the last two—viz., “an affectation of
jº, through which many high official persons
Ilot € that their names should be written by the
º” and “all persons, following the custom of
** men, preferred to have their names written by
*ix. Living age. vol. xi. 14
the notary, that he might say of them what he
liked, and to affix the sign of the cross, in token of
their faith, instead of writing”—the first is rather
far-fetched, and the second will scarcely stand.
Doubtless, the sign of the cross affixed was a sym-
bol of faith and a confirmation of the act; but it
stood exactly where political jurisprudence has ac-
counted a personal signature to be a better evidence
of identity, as it most certainly is. It may have
been affixed, as Mr. Maitland observes, by those
who could write ; but we apprehend, in that case,
the signature would sometimes, have been seen.
At any rate, if the question is to be settled by prob-
abilities, we think, as we have already said, that
the probabilities are in favor of Robertson's asser-
tion, rather than of the learned critic's attempted
refutation. If the nobility of that day could have
written, it is singular that there is no evidence in
proof of it. Sir Francis Palgrave says–
“So few persons amongst the laity, with the ex-
ception perhaps of the mercantile classes, and the
legists, were acquainted with the alphabet, that
reading and writing acquired the name of “clergy.”
The term “clerk’ became equivalent to “penman.”
Our common nomenclature still bears' testimony to
the lack learning of ancient times.” (16.)
The scene which he describes at page 122, for
the purpose of explaining the phrase “benefit of
clergy,” is also confirmatory of this; whilst, at the
same time, it places the church in a better and
truer light with reference to this custom than that
in which she has generally been seen.
We perfectly agree with Mr. Maitland that the
case, as regards the clergy, has been greatly exag-
gerated ; but when he would lead us further, as he
seems desirous of doing, till we admit by inference
that the darkness of these ages was the exception,
and not the rule, we say it with all deference, he
has undertaken as difficult a task as that which
Horace Walpole proposed to himself in his “His-
toric Doubts” on the reign and character of Rich-
ard the Third. A graver condemnation lies against
this clever writer for admitting, without explana-
tion, the term “his altar,” with reference to the
particular saint to whom gifts might be offered. . It
may be an oversight, but it is one hardly allowable
in a matter where the consequences are so serious,
and when, unfortunately, such oversights charac-
terize a school of men in the present day, whose
real sympathies are too often expressed in the tol-
erance of doubtful phrases on the one side, which
their jealous watchfulness would not suffer on the
other. It might seem from these remarks that we
are professing to review the very able work, which
Mr. Maitland has written. We would not do him
such an injustice in such a form, nºr ºurselves so
great a wrong ; for it is a work which cannot bo
so easily passed by, and to review,it is a task not
so easily despatched. In the elucidation of the
subject before us, essays, which treat so directly
upon it, naturally presented themselves to our re-
collection, and the free use we have made of their
contents is simply a result of the important bearing
they have on the settlement of the question, as to
whether the ages which are commonly designated
“dark” were really so or not!
That the middle ages should be dark was a natu-
ral consequence of the position in which the world
was found from the sixth to the thirteenth century.
When the Roman provinces were converted into
barbarian kingdoms it was a legitimate result that
civilization should receive a violent check; and
that, though the barbarian invader might be some-
21S
CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELD,
what humanized by what he found, he should, in a
greater degree, animalize what he found by that
which he brought in. Learning, the arts and sci-
ences, and all that distinguished man in a higher
condition of social existence than that from which
they themselves emerged, were despised by these
wild conquerors and considered marks of effemi-
nacy; and there is no wonder that, for a period,
both knowledge and civilization should be retro-
#. Mr. Hallam considers the extinction of
earning to have been intimately connected with the
change of language which immediately ensued when
so many parts of the world changed masters, as well
as the gradual dying out of Latin, the common source
of all written information, as a living tongue. The
Church, certainly, on the one hand, preserved what
light there was, whilst at a later period there came
in from the East the knowledge of the sciences.
By one of those wondrous systems of compensation
which the history of the world so frequently affords,
the Arabian paid the Christian in the impartation
of his own civilizing knowledge for the wrongs he
had done him in his faith; and if the crusader found.
in the Holy Land little but wounds and sickness,
mortification and defeat, he brought back with him
many an art which he had learned, and many a
polished habit which he had acquired in his rough
intercourse and stern encounter with his Moslem
foe. Many an amenity which chivalry possessed-
many a gleam of scientific knowledge which had
so large an influence on the social condition of those
days—may be traced to this source, and the reflec-
tion opens a new field of profitable speculation OIl
the wondrous ways in which Divine Providence
has watched over the destinies of Christendom.
Sir Francis, in the work before us, puts into the
mouth of the friar, in the way of Sagacious proph-
ecy, some admirable meditations on the probable
effects of the future developments of the science
that was then in its infancy. He has also been
true to the fact, in rendering Roger Bacon's remarks
subservient to the one great religious principle which,
as his biographers inform us, was really predominant
in his mind. We deem it the highest praise, indeed,
which we can bestow upon this work, to say, that
throughout, the reflections are all conceived in the
spirit of the deepest reverence to the divine will and
law. Of this the last chapter on knowledge, a very
beautiful chapter, is a sufficient proof. ..
It is, indeed, refreshing when men of information
and deep learning dedicate the talent which God
has bestowed upon them to His service. Knowl-
edge is not always wisdom: this consists in its
right use, rather than in its ample possession. The
highest attainment of wisdºm is the knowledge of
our own ignorance; and the nearer We are led to
God by that which we learn the better has learning
fulfilled her proper province--th? better shall we be
able to discern 'how much, in the midst of all we
know, we yet lack. God has endowed his creature
man with many wondrous faculties and powers, and
has allotted to cach its proper sphere of exercise
and action; and it is a melancholy thing when men
turn them from their right uses and bring ruin and
deformity into the fair creations which, it is their
province to engender. Such, alas! is in Qur da
too often witnessed: what might be a noble work
for the amount of skill and genius that are brought
to its erection, often stands an idol temple—the
prison-house of holy things—or the leprous lazar-
etto of diseased thoughts, through the absence of d
master principle of godly reverence. We rejoice
when we behold a man wise as well as learned,
and, as far as this little book has made us acquainte
with its clever author, we offer the tribute of thankº
fulness for the amount of truth which he has writ"
ten.
CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.
MATTHEw vi. 28.
Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies
To fill the heart's fond view
In childhood's sports, companions gay :
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing !—in our last decay,
Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers;
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair
As when ye crowned the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fallen all beside—the world of life,
How is it stained with fear and strife
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare
But cheerful and unchanged the while,
Your first and perfect form ye show :
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;
Ye may be found, if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow :
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet;
ut we may taste your solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.
Ye ſearless in your nests abide ;
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes;
For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys:
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when he paused and owned you good;
His blessing on earth's primal hour
Ye felt it all renewed.
What care ye now if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form 2
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm ;
Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
.* Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares will bring to sight:
Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And #º thy morn will bless.”
—The Christian Year.
ALGERIA, PAST
AND PRESENT
219
wº:
From the Foreign Quarterly Review,
1. The French in Algiers, and Abd-el-Kader. Mur-
ray, London. 1845.
2. Abd-el-Kader's Prisoners; or, a Five Months’
ptirily among the Arabs. By Mons. A. De
RANCE. Translated by R. F. Porter. Smith,
Elder, and Co. London: 1846.
h * Africa owns one peculiar district on which
* ancestral curse is specially entailed, it is surely
* portion of the southern shore of the Mediter-
*"ºan flanked by the pathless sands of the Desert
§ Sahara, which is known by the modern apella-
tion of “ Algeria.” In former times, indeed, the
*nd of the Algerines “hath been against every
ºn’—and foul were the outrages and cruelties
which rendered their city a byeword, and their
*ame a reproach.
{{ -
Ergo exercentur poenis, veterumque malorum
upplicia expendunt.”
Rhadamanthus himself could not inflict a severer
§piation for former license, than their present con-
*tiºn. The red pennon of the pirate is forgotten
* the aggressions of the tri-color. Providence—
§ ambition—has assigned to the “Great Nation”
9 task of avenging, and that, perhaps, altogether
190 ruthlessly, the ancient insults of the lawless
°orsairs of Ålgiers. -
We propose, in the present article, to take a
**pid review of the rise and fall of this piratical
*ate, and to enter into some brief considerations
ºf the position and prospects of its French con-
Querors.
The north-western coast of Africa has under-
§ºne, perhaps, more than the usual vicissitudes to
which national as well as individual life is sub-
Jºcted. Mauritania Caesariensis—for such was the
*me which that district which we now term Al-
Bºria received from the Romans, when the battle
St Thapsus reduced Numidia under their sway, is
**egion whose most prominent feature is the two
Parallel chains of mountains which traverse the
Ҽuntry from west to east. The southern and
*ºre lofty of the two is called the Great, and that
which fringes the Mediterranean coast, the Lesser
tlas. Ancillary ridges, usually stretching north
and South, unite at unequal intervals the two At-
*s, and enclose within their arms valleys and
table-lands of exquisite fertility; while the north-
§º slopes of the lesser Atlas are covered with the
: and varied vegetation of the east, and yet pre-
. some of the peculiar advantages of more
ºperate climates.
E. productive colony was lºst to the Western
tl *pire, under the third Valentinian. Bonifacius,
* imperial governor in Africa, desirous to revolt,
. diffident of his own resources, resolved upon an
V ..ºut. which is never tried but once, and in-
Oked the aid of a foreign power. Genseric and
$º, the young and ambitious leaders of the
ń. als, having already devastated Spain, cheer-
º, lºsed their assistance; and these princes
sum ished, on the ruins of the kingdom they were
tit º to preserve, a dynasty which (though
... nº menaced by the famºus Belisarius)
COn ºned to sway the north of Africa, until its
Ce lºst was achieved, at the close of the seventh
ºury, by the enterprising khalifs of Arabia.
te ° reduction of the west had indeed been at-
*Pled by the Saracens somewhat earlier; for in
* Year 647 Abdallah, the foster-brother of Oth-
man, led thither an army of 40,000 men; and
though this expedition was not entirely successful,
it paved the way for future attempts; and Hassan,
the governor of Egypt, established a nominal
Arabian supremacy ever an immense region, more
than 2300 miles in length, comprising, under the
eneral name of Barbary, the states of Morocco,
'ez, Algiers, Tripoli, and Tunis.
But though the Arabs overcame the resistance
of the aboriginals and of the Romans who still re-
mained in the country; , and though their half-
disciplined and predatory tribes roamed at pleasure
through these fertile districts; it was not in the
power of such an unconnected and marauding peo-
[. whose principal strength lay in their fervent,
ut evanescent religious enthusiasm, to form any
lasting projects for the subjugation of the provinces
they overran. Many, indeed, settled in the coun-
try they had inº, and in time became exposed,
in their turn, to aggressions, such as those by which
they had themselves profited. But the greater
number preferred the wild charms of a desert life to
the sober pleasures to which alone a citizen can
aspire. H. however, of Arabian blood—the
Zéirides—reigned over the north-western coast till
the beginning of the twelfth century; and it was
under their patronage that Abdallah, the marabout,”
implanted in the bosom of his countrymen that
love of Islamism, which—if it has imparted to the
resistance of their hardy descendants the ferocity
of a religious war—has also stamped it with a
generous self-devotedness which irresistibly chal-
lenges our admiration and our sympathy.
But, in addition to the sº tribes, the re-
maining Roman colonists, the Wandals, and their
Arabian conquerors—and we must add to our list
the ubiquitous Jew—another people combined to
swell the heterogeneous throng, which dwelt in
these regions. The Spanish Moors, driven from
their native fields in Granada and Andalusia, found
here a temporary refuge where they might brood
over vain hopes of future revenge.
This confused mass, in course of time, subsided
into separate and independent kingdoms—of which
Algiers, Morocco, and Tunis, were the most con-
siderable. The history of the two last must from
this period be abandoned, in order to pursue the for-
tunes of Algiers itself. - - -
Exposed to all the temptations, which situation,
poverty, and the hereditary craving for wild and
hazardous adventure conspired to afford, it is not
strange that the coast of Barbary became the dread
of every Mediterranean cruiser; but the maritime
depredations of its occupants, however daring, did
not attain any formidable degree of organization till
the commencement of the sixteenth century; when
the restless ambition of two brothers, in humble
station, laid the foundation of that lawless power
—“friends of the sea, but enemies of all that
sailed thereon”—as they exultingly proclaimed
themselves, which for nearly three centuries ren-
dered the name of Algiers at once an object of
hatred and of terror. th
A potter in the island of Lesbos enjoys the am-
biguous celebrity of being, the father of these
youths. Horuc and Hayraddin have not been the
only truants who have shrunk from a life of indus-
* A marabout is the Levite of the Arabs. The dis-
tinction is hereditary and is confined to a particular
tribe. He is considered a saint both before and after
death, and enjoys many privileges, and a vast degree of
influence. The word marabout is indifferently applied to
the tomb or the saint after death.
220
AND PRESENT.
ALGERIA, PAST
try; but seldom has truancy been attended with
such disastrous consequences to mankind. Both
brothers joined the pirates of the Levant, and
Horuc, the elder and more determined villain of the
two, soon learned how high a premium, bravery,
when united with a total want of humanity and
Vºl. bore among those roving adventurers.
ith wickedness sufficient to overawe, and with
daring to fascinate, their comrades, the young Les-
bians gained rapidly in resources and influence;—
but, in all probability, would never have aspired
beyond the command of a few privateers, had not
a fortunate conjuncture of circumstances opened to
them a field for more permanent conquest.
Spain, even before she sank to the condition of a
third class state in Europe, was never remarkable
either for the justice of her arms, or the liberality
of her counsels. Not content with persecuting the
unhappy Moors with relentless fury, couched un-
der a pretended zeal for the furtherance of Christi-
anity, Ferdinand V., guided by his clever and am-
bitious minister, the Cardinal Ximenes, pursued
them even to their African retreats. In the year
1505, he despatched to the coast of Barbary a
powerful force, under Peter, Count of Navarre;
who subdued Oran—a town which has given its
name to one of three Regencies into which Algeria
is at present divided, placed there a Spanish garri-
son, and menaced the capital itself.
The Algerines in this extremity summoned to
their assistance a prince of Arabian extraction,
Selim Eutemi ; who enjoyed great influence among
the tribes of the desert. This chieftain accepted
the sovereignty they offered him, and for a while
enabled them to resist the efforts of the generals
of Ferdinand. But, in a few years, it was again
necessary to resort to foreign aid, and in an ill-ad-
vised moment Selim begged succor from Barbarossa,
(to whom we have already alluded under his more
proper name of Horuc.,) who at that time had be-
come one of the most notorious of the Mediterra-
nean corsairs. The pirate came ; and the infatu-
ated Selim went with open arms to greet his
future murderer. *
Barbarossa, on his arrival, took the command of
the fleet and army, and spared no pains to ingra-
tiate himself with the Algerines. A mixture of
cruelty and liberality was peculiarly attractive to a
eople already predisposed to piracy; and when
łº caused Selim to be stabbed in his bath,
and himself to be proclaimed king, he found no
more serious opposition than a few subsidiary mur-
dors, and the distribution of a few bags of sequins,
were sufficient to extinguish. º º
History has not failed to embellish, this crime,
in itself sufficiently treacherous, with the incidents
of romance. It is said that other passions, besides
that of ambition, impelled Barbarossa to shed the
blood of his suppliant and his host... The innocent
incendiary was Zaphira, Selim's Arabian bride, who,
on the murder of her husband, repelled with a
noble indignation the amorous overtures of the
usurper, and—a second, but a purer Cleopatra-
preferred death itself to rewarding his crimes with
her love.
But Barbarossa, though immediately successful
in his projects, had not gained possession of a quiet
throne. The Spaniards, masters of the province of
Oran, attacked him with European skill and, East-
ern perseverance; and the self-elected sovereign of
Algiers found his piratical bands, however superior
on their native element, totally unable to cope with
soldiers regularly disciplined. It was in vain that
the fierce usurper fought with a courage that
should animate only the bosom of a patriot ; *
vain did he scatter his ill-gotten treasure on the
banks of the Sinan, in the hope of arresting thº
steps of his merciless pursuers; Heaven could nº
suffer the prolonged existence of such a monster :
and in dying the death of a soldier he experience
a fate far too lenient for his crimes. g
Hayraddin, his successor, known (as well as hº
brother) by the soubriquet of Barbarossa, was less
cruel in disposition, and was an equally entº
prising commander. Finding himself unable tº
contend single-handed against Spain, he became *
vassal of the Grand Seignior in return for his prº-
tection; and so ingratiated himself with the Turk:
ish court by his matchless skill in naval tactics, thº
Solyman raised him to the dignity of a pasha, sen"
him against the celebrated §. admiral, An-
drew Doria; and as he proved successful in his op-
erations against this formidable commander, the
grateful sultan assisted him to gain the neighboring
kingdom of Tunis by a manoeuvre very similar tº
that which had wrested the sovereignty of Algier8
from the family of Selim. The Bey, of Tunis,
however, Muley Haschen, had the good fortune tº
escape from the clutches of Hayraddin, and make
his way to Spain, where he claimed the assistance
of Charles V. His petition was successful; for the
emperor, ambitious of the renown, which in those
days attached to every expedition against a Moham-
medan state, fitted out an immense armament to
effect his restoration.
On the 16th of July, 1535, Charles sailed from
Sardinia with more than 30,000 troops on board
his fleet. The Goletta at Tunis had long been con-
sidered one of the strongest forts on the Mediter-
ranean, and Barbarossa had intrusted its defence to
Seiran, a renegade Jew, of unquestioned couragº
and ability. But the numerical preponderance o
the Christian army was too jº. to allow
of any prolonged resistance. The Golletta was
taken by a coup-de-main; and the tardy loyalty ºf
the inhabitants of Tunis began to declare itself
against the usurper. In this extremity, Barbaross”
risked all in a pitched battle. The impetuous on-
sets of the Moors and Arabs, though led on by the
fierce janissaries of the sultan, failed to break
the serried ranks of Charles' veterans, and the sud-
den apparition of a body of Christian slaves, who
had taken advantage of the confusion to free them:
selves from their ſetters, accelerated a victory that
had hardly ever been doubtful; Barbarossa was
compelled to abandon Tunis, and save himself, by
a hasty flight, from the dungeons of Madrid.
This expedition, one of the most successful ex-
ploits of Charles' eventful reign, levelled for a
time the power of Barbarossa to the dust. Ten
thousand Christian slaves spread the fame of their
deliverer through every state of Europe, and Spain
for once enjoyed the sweetest triumph a nation can
taste ; that of having been the successful and disin-
terested champion of humanity and legitimate war
fare. But other engagements soon diverted the at:
tention of Charles from the humbled pirates; an
with a pertinacity peculiarly their own, they were
soon bolder and more prosperous than ever.
Barbarossa in person indeed no longer directed
the affairs of his capital. His duties as the Turkish
high admiral detained him at the court of Solyman,
but his place at Algiers was ably filled by Hassan
Aga, a Christian renegade; and it was when coſº.
manded by this general, that the pirates taught
Charles a lesson which deeply mortified tha'
ALGERIA, PAST
AND PRESENT.
$ 221
...ty prince, and amply revenged them for their
°ºner disasters at Tunis.
Dr A. * Qºcasion of this fresh invasion by the emper-
t Vas the atrocities committed by the pirates on
. of Spain; and the forces which he assem-
.."ºne even more numerous than before. Every-
. apparently conspired to its success. The
mi ºlous Algerines had forgotten to spare the do:
.. of the pope; and his holiness promised
jº ution to all who took part in the expedition,
fall the crown of martyrdom to those who should
lan The chivalry of Spain, and many of the gal-
*knights of Malta, crowded on board the fleets
*Volunteers, and even ladies of birth and character
" not disdain to share the hardships of the voyage.
**s the army was disembarking, a violent storm
ºnced that disorder which is fatal to an ill-
ºnged project; and the torrents of rain which
Pºured for several days together, proved an im-
§ºnt auxiliary to the spirited sallies of Hassan.
j y day the immense host became more demor-
"...and broken; the prestige of former success
d § dispelled; and at length, without receiving any
*1 blow, it melted insensibly away as “snow on
* nountain,” and Charles, having lost all, not ex-
ºpting his honor, was glad to reëmbark the shat-
. remains of troops that had conquered at
avia. -
Very dolorous is the narrative of this ill-fated ex-
*dition, which has been transmitted to us by the
Pen of an English volunteer, Sir Nicholas Wºn:
º, who—while he extols the “high enterprise
Valeauntness” of the emperor—bewails “the
Yserable chaunces of wynde and wether, with dy-
* other adversities able to move even a stonye
*:::e to pray to God for his ayde and succour.”
knº" exultation of the pirates at their success
o ºw no bounds. With sarcastic profusion, an
ºn became the market-price of a captive Span-
*; and the situation of Charles was such during
Sºemainder of his reign, that he could make no
º attempt to redeem his lost laurels in Al-
B
Sp
C
ut though unattempted by the government of
*R, such a fair field for chivalrous enterprise
not remain long unoccupied. John Gascon,
.."g Valentian noble, was the next who volun-
#. to break a lance for the security of travellers.
: Plan, though rash, was not ill-imagined. As:
. ing a few adventurous friends, he sailed
*ght to Algiers, and, favored by the night,
#ºhed unchallenged the famous Mole-gate.
tº his machinery been equally prompt with his
3. º, he would have avoided his subsequent fate,
the questionable advantage of ranking among
... martyrs of Spain. But gunnery, and, all the
i. subsidiary to it were at that period in their in-
...}, and bad powder marred many a hopeful de-
. and sacrificed many a brave soldier. The
jins destined to blow up the Algerine fleet
. not explode, and the chivalrous Gascon,
.."... tº escape unperceived, struck his dagger
fatal the Mole-gate, and left it sticking there, in
Or || derision of their careless sentinels. A race
.* or death followed; but the long polaccas of
i. Plates gained rapidly on the Spanish vessels,
.*.*ged with all the energy of despairing
º and a torturing death, to which it would be
***, to do more than allude, ended the career of
0. Hallant but rash Valentian.
the * Quixotic attempt of John Gascon was not
of i ºy one directed against Algiers by the prowess
*ividuals. In the year 1635, four young
Frenchmen resolved to win renown by reducing
this nest of freebooters with a single privateer.
Their expedition, though not so tragical in its ter-
mination as that we have just related, was not more
successful. Its, only effect was to leave in the
minds of the Algerines a rankling enmity to the
French flag, which in time surpassed their heredi-
tary dislike to that of Spain. This feeling first
openly displayed itself when, in the year 1652, a
rench fleet was forced by stress of weather into
their harbor, and the admiral demanded the release
of all his countrymen who happened to be confined
in the town. A contemptuous refusal was the only
answer vouchsafed by the pirates; and the French-
men retaliated this insult by carrying off in durance
the Turkish viceroy and his principal cadi. Mad-
dened by this abduction, the Algerines swept the
coast of Fº with fire and sword; and a bucca-
neering warfare commenced between the two coasts
of the Mediterranean. Louis XIV, at length de-
termined to chastise the insolence of the corsairs in
the most signal manner, and he announced his in-
tention of laying Algiers in ashes. The reply of
the dey to this threat tells more for his humor than
his patriotism. “Let him,” quoth he, “send me
half the money it would cost him, and I will do it
for him more eſſectually.” The pirate's coolness,
however, did not avail him, for the celebrated Du
Quesne, with the aid of bomb-vessels (which had
then been recently invented by Bernard Renaud, a
young French artisan) found little difficulty in ful-
filling the threat of his sovereign; and the humbled
and frightened inhabitants, after having endeavored
to atone for their resistance by murdering its pro-
moter—a common expedient enough in despotic
governments—obtained peace from France, and
leisure to recruit their coffers by depredations else-
where. -
It was not, however, only by the secular arm
that efforts were from time to time made to rescue
unhappy Christians from Paynim bondage. The
court of Rome exerted its influence in their cause,
and, under her auspices, a society of monks—the
Mathurin Trinitarian fathers—established them-
selves at Fontainebleau, from whence from time
to time they despatched bands of missionary tra-
ders to traffic with the slave-merchants of Algiers.
Their design was humane, and it would be unjust
to sneer because the friars yearned after the acqui-
sition of sequins, as well as of communicants.
Philemon de la Motte is the Chaucer of these ambi-
dextrous pilgrimages, and he evidently considers
the chance of reward for himself and his associates
in another world, as unaffected by the trivial circum-
stance of their having “made it answer” in the
present. And perhaps he is right. º º
The immediate effect, however, of this philan-
thropic bartering was unfortunate ; for the Alger-
ines found the traffic so much to their mind, that to
replenish their stock more rapidly than they could
do by casual captures on the sea, they commenced
again harassing the coast of Spain with marauding
incursions; and their spoliation became at length
such a disgrace to the government of that country,
that, in 1775, Charles III. resolved to give the whole
piratical states of Barbary such a decisive blow as
would cripple their resources for the future. For
this purpose a large fleet was fitted out, and the
command entrusted to Count O'Reilly, an Irish ad-
venturer of some reputation, in conjunction with
Don Pedro Castejon. But “Ferdinand Count
O'Reilly” did not take Algiers. He landed his
troops in disorder, kept them for some days in a.
222 d
AND PRESENT,
ALGERIA, PAST
state of inaction, exposed to the harrassing attacks
of the Algerines, and then hastily reëmbarked them,
and returned, home. The discomfited Spaniards
tried to console each other, not only for dishonor,
but for “infinite loss,” by alternately cursing the
climate of Africa, and the policy of employing
a hot-headed and quick-footed soldier of fortune.
Hitherto the states of Europe alone had been in-
sulted by the corsairs, but we have now to recount
their relations with a trans-Atlantic power. On
the first appearance in the seas of the white stars
of the United States, the dey inwardly rejoiced,
and promised himself and his associate thieves most
thoroughly to despoil the infant republic then
struggling into existence. An American vessel
was soon captured, and with a coolness that recalls
to the mind the grim politeness sometimes recorded
of the more civilized “minions of the moon,” his
highness consoled his captives, while superintend-
ing the riveting of their manacles, with praises of
the “immortal Washington,” and conjured Con-
gress, in answer to its demands for their liberation,
to send him that general's portrait, “that he might
always have before his eyes the asserter of inde-
pendence and liberty.”
America, although in no mood for jesting, was
at that time unable to resent this impertinence of
Omar, son of Mohammed. Her contest with
England had, indeed, proved triumphant; but
another such victory would have been her ruin, and
she had emerged from the conflict crippled and re-
sourceless. Though sorely against . will, she
was compelled to “eat the leek” proffered her b
the insolent dey. Washington did not, indeed,
send his picture, but he despatched deputies with
plenary powers to purchase, at any reasonable
price, the captured Americans. But the bill
was heavy, and made out with commercial ac-
curacy:
For 3 Captains
at 6000 dollars each 18,000
2 Mates at 4000 ** 8,000
2 Passengers at 4000 £ & 8,000
14 Seamen at 1400 “ 19,600
53,600
For Custom 11 per Cent, . .
Total, . . 59,496
This was more than America could at that time
afford, and several years elapsed before such of the
risoners as had survived their treatment, were
iberated. t
Hitherto we have seen the wicked “flourishing
like a green bay-tree;” but the climax is past;
humanity reásserts her rights; and we are about to
record the punishment.
Juring ū. struggle between Napoleon and the
allied powers, Algiers was but little heeded. In
vain did the expectant pirates,
5,896
“Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of enterprise.
For, under the policy of Bonaparte, commerce
languished almost to inanition—and at a crisis
when the liberties of Europe hung suspended in
the balance, few vessels cared to cross the seas
unless guarded by the all-sufficient protection of an
English frigate. But, when the fall of Napoleon
gave tranquillity once more to the world, and men
isegan again to busy themselves with trade, and in
the pursuit of riches, the piracies committed by the
these concessions.
states of Barbary became once more the subject of
remark and indignation.
England, which had just chastised, at such
fearful cost to herself, the great arch-robber of
Europe, was not likely to permit the petty depº.
dations of a few insignificant states to remain aſ
longer unreproved. To her, as the constituted
protectress of the civilized world, seemed naturally
to belong the office of exterminating this nest 9
robbers. Accordingly, in the year 1816, a diº
cussion arose in parliament, on the motion of Mr.
Brougham, as to the propriety of our compelling
the piratical governments of Algiers, Tripoli aſ
Tunis, to observe the conventionalities of the la"
of nations in their intercourse with other state”;
Up to this period our own relations with them hº
been on the whole amicable. In the time of Eliz"
beth, indeed, Sir E. Mansel had conducted thithº
an expedition, which he mismanaged so much as"
weaken in some degree the influence of our flag
and Admiral Blake still later had stormed thº
Goletta, at Tunis, in revenge for some insul".
offered to vessels under our protection, and hº
presented himself before Algiers, and demanded
satisfaction from that city also. The Algerines bid
him do his worst; and Blake, after having “curlº
his whiskers,” (his constant custom, it is sai";
when irritated,) captured two of their vessels, an
compelled them to sue for peace. These misunder,
standings, however, had been only temporary; an
in the reign of Charles I. a treaty had been con-
cluded with them, which was then still subsisting,
and had been adhered to on their parts with toler
able fidelity. Some, therefore, urged, that, unde:
these circumstances, it was inconsistent with goo
faith on, our part to commence hostilities; and iſ
was moreover suggested, that, waiving the quº
tion of right or wrong, success itself would.”
doubtful; for it was by no means an easy explo"
to bombard a city in which all the houses were flºº
roofed, and built of stone, after the fashion of Ror
Setta and Buenos Ayres. . .
To these arguments, however, it was replied
with irresistible force by the promoters of the
Algerine expedition, that the pirates, by indi*.
criminately attacking all nations they fancied
weaker than themselves, had become hostes human”
generis, and out of the pale of ordinary treaties;
that we merely owed our own exemption from iſ:
sult to the salutary dread they entertained 0
British guns; that, as to the difficulty of the enter.
prise, it did not become those who had sustaine
the hostility of Europe, to flinch from punishing
half-disciplined barbarians; and, finally, that *
was not intended to interfere with their indepeſ!"
dence, but simply to compel their adherence.”
those principles, in their foreign intercourse, whic
humanity and justice rendered imperative on ever
government.
These considerations prevailed ; in the summº
of the same year, a fleet was placed under the com.
mand of Edward Pellew, Admiral Lord Wiscouſ"
Exmouth ; and that officer was directed to obta";
from the several states of Algiers, Tripoli, aſ
Tunis, if possible by negotiation, but failing that,
by force of arms: first, the unequivocal abolitiº
of Christian slavery ; secondly, the recognition 9
the Ionian Islands as possessions of our crown ; and
lastly, an equitable peace for the kingdoms of Sar-
dinia and Naples.
The appearance of the English squadron off º
coast of Barbary *Pººl; suffice to obtain a
ith regard, indeed, to th”
ALGERIA, PAST
AND PRESENT.
223
...le respecting slavery, the Dey of Algiers de-
ºd, and suddenly remembering his allegiance
si * "assal of the Ottoman empire, which had long
"º become merely nominal in its character, sug.
º the necessity of obtaining the concurrence
*the Sublime Porte.
W ord Exmouth, on the dey's first answer, which
f *** pºint blank refusal, had vigorously prepared
... hostilities; but this latter proposal threw him
is guard. His lordship's honest English heart
i. no match for the cunning of the Algerine,
t "...only object was to gain time for finishing
j defences of his capital. Unsuspicious of this
*rior object, he even placed a frigate at his com-
i.", in order that the desired, permission might
j". speedily obtained—and, contenting him-
In With stipulating for a final answer to his de-
. at the end of three months, sailed back to
"gland, where the fleet was paid off.
when tidings arrived of an outrage so cruel and un-
;.ed, that we scarcely know whether most to
ºire the folly or the treachery of the dey under
§e orders is was perpetrated.
he town of Bona, to the east of Algiers in the
ºince of Constantina, has from a very early
*iod’ been famous for the excellence and abun.
*ce of the coral found in the gulf of the same
*ne on which it is situated. These fisheries had
*** formerly in the hands of the Catalans, then of
*Genoese, and afterwards of the French, under
. the “Compagnie d'Afrique” at one time
80 alled in wealth and prosperity our own “Hud-
O s Bay Company.” Oregon, however, is not the
'''y, debatable territory in the world, and those
. banks often changed masters. At length, in
th 07, England was duly invested by the dey with
* Seignorial possession of this fishing station ;
''" at the time of Lord Exmouth's expedition, it
... occupied for the most part by Genoese, Nea-
* ºlitan, or Sardinian traders, under the protection
of our flag.
hº this defenceless colony, as soon as the now
i. sails, of the English fleet had disappeared,
ciº of Algiers, with all the wayward folly of a
!, poured out his pent-up indignation. His
!ers laid waste the town, massacred many of
jºitants and enslaved the remainder ; and,
i. there, wreaked their vengeance upon, the
8 Élish flags, which they tore to ribands and drag-
§hrough the mire in insane triumph.
off & Commotion excited in England by this burst
lea ºlish fury may easily be imagined. It had at
* the effect of silencing those disposed to advo-
L §, ºnciliatory measures with the pirates, and
with Exmouth set off again for the Mediterranean
b the full determination not to be again deceived
W.His highness.
joi ", arriving at Gibraltar, Lord Exmouth was
led by the Dutch admiral Van Cappillen, who
.*en ordered by his government to coöperate
i. the British §º. and the combined
i.* forward in company for the coast of Bar-
the se b he dey now felt that he must throw away
Ort ; bard; and on a frigate appearing in the
Iacd Algiers to take off the English consul, Mr.
Tl ºld, he placed that gentleman in chains,
dau ..ºg to his vexation that his wiſe and
**ter had effected their escape in the dresses
, he ordered two boats belonging to
midshipmen
¥
fº °ºal fisheries of Bona are mentioned h Aboul-
his º. floºrished about the year 700 of the Hejira, in
*ription du Pays du Magreb.º.
Hardy, however, had this been accomplished,
the frigate, which happened to be in the harbor, to
be detained with their crews. When these fresh
misdemeanors were reported by the fair fugitives,
on their arrival on board the fleet, they of course
added new fuel to the general indignation, and on
the 17th of August, Lord Exmouth anchored his
fleet, which consisted of twenty-five English and
five Dutch vessels, three or four leagues from
Algiers, in no mood to digest any further coquetry
on the part of the dey.
His lordship's interpreter, M. Salemé, was im-
mediately despatched with a letter containing the
ultimatum of the English admiral. His demands
were brief and stern ; though, not more so than
the conduct of his highness fully justified. In ad-
dition to our previous requisitions, they comprised
stipulations for the immediate delivery of all Chris-
tian slaves without ransom; for the settlement of
the grievances of the Sardinian, Sicilian, and
Dutch governments; and for ample satisfaction for
the insults offered to our own. Three hours were
all that was to be allowed the dey for deliberation,
and M. Salemé was directed to return at the expi-
ration of that time if no answer was previously
given. Even this short interval was considered too
long by the gallant spirits on board our fleet.
“Salemé,” playfully exclaimed an officer of the
Queen Charlotte, as the interpreter stepped over
the side into his boat, “if you return with an an-
swer from the dey, that he accepts our conditions
without fighting, we will kill you instead ‘’” And
that the same ardor animated the whole fleet their
subsequent conduct abundantly testified.
At the expiration of the appointed time, Salemé
returned without any reply from his highness, and
at the same instant a light breeze springing up,
Lord Exmouth gave the signal for advance. Turn-
ing the head of his own ship towards the shore he
ran across the range of all the batteries without
firing a shot, and lashed her to the main-mast of an
Algerine brig which lay about eighty yards from
the mole that enclosed the inner harbor. The
other vessels followed in the wake of the Queen
Charlotte, and took up their allotted stations with
admirable precision.
A dead silence prevailed during these evolutions:
the Algerines were taken by surprise, and their
guns were not shotted, so that a brief interval
elapsed during which the scene must have been one
of the most thrilling interest. --
This frightful repose was soon broken. The
Algerines took the initiative, and a gun fired
athwart the poop of the admiral's vessel began the
battle. A furious cannonade on both sides continued
for several hours without intermission. The bomb-
boats belonging to our fleet pressed forward close
under the batteries, and caused immense havoc
among the troops which crowded the mole; and,
when at last the enemy's fire became more slack,
an explosion ship which had been kept in reserve
was brought forward close under the walls, and
the devastating effects it produced completed their
confusion.
The total cessation of the enemy's fire towards
the close of the evening convinced Lord Exmouth
that his victory was complete, and he therefore
drew of his vessels out of gun-shot, and early
the next day despatched Salemé with a second
note to the dey, reiterating the demands which had
been treated so disdainfully the preceding morning.
At the same time preparations were made for re-
newing the bombardment, but they were unneces.
sary. The haughty Algerine was effectually
2-
224
AND PRESENT.
ALGERIA, PAST
humbled. The greatest part of his capital was
reduced to ashes, and his very palace at the mercy
of our troops; his ships were burnt or taken, and
his numerical loss was very great. Under these
circumstances no alternative remained to him. A
gun was fired in token of his acceptance of the
terms offered, and an officer was sent on shore to
superintend the embarkation of the liberated slaves,
and the restoration of the immense sums the dey
had from time to time exacted from the Sardinian
and Neapolitan governments as ransom for their
captured subjects. The demeanor of his highness
on this trying occasion was very entertaining.
The most bitter pill appears to have been the
apology which we required on behalf of our consul.
Seated cross-legged on his divan, the dey sulkily
gave the requisite orders for the freedom of the
slaves, and even the delivery of the treasure; but
when Salemé hinted that now was the proper time
to ask pardon of Mr. Macdonald for the insults to
which he had becn exposed, his highness shook his
head, and puffed his i. in all the bitterness
of wounded pride. But the English officer was
inexorable, and Omar at length muttered, that M.
Salemé might say for him what he pleased. “This
is not sufficient,” was the answer, “you must dic-
tate to the interpreter what you intend to express.”
And the dey at last complied. More than a thou-
sand slaves on this occasion were restored to liber-
ty, and as they embarked on board, the vessels
employed to convey them to Europe, they exclaim-
ed in grateful chorus: “Viva il Re d’Ingliterra, il
adre eterno! & il ammiraglio Inglese che ci ha
iberato di questa secondo Inferno (’” Among them
were inhabitants from almost every state of Europe,
but, singularly enough, not a single Englishman.
The punishment which England thus inflicted
seemed severe enough to have produced caution,
if not penitence ; but the habits of the Algerines
were too inveterate to be changed. Under Ali, the
successor of Omar, who did not long survive his
disasters, they returned to their old courses ; and
so early as 1819, a combined, ſleet of French and
English vessels were compelled to threaten a sec-
ond bombardment, if their flags were not respect-
ed. But from the moment that the last Dey of
Algiers, Hassein Pasha, succeeded to the divan, it
became evident that even plunder had become a
secondary object with the Aſgerine government;
and that hatred to the French power was now the
ruling passion by which it was actuated. Among
the signs which from time to time gave evidence of
this hostile feeling was a tax, which, in 1824, Has-
sein Pasha levied on all French goods of whatever
description; and, as may easily be imagined, the
French, the most irascible people in the world, bore
with the utmost impatience these marks of enmity,
and eagerly longed for some occasion for an open
rupture. W. both sides were thus ripe for a
quarrel, an opportunity was sure to prºsent itself,
and the petuſant ill-temper of the dey furnished. ºl
ºusa belli perfectly legitimate. Upon some trivial
dispute with the French consul, his highness so far
forgot his dignity and his safety, as to strike him.
across the face with a fly-flap he held in his hand;
and this outrage being followed by an attack on
some French establishments near Bona, war was
declared. A blockade commenced, which continued
for three years, greatly to the expense of France,
but not much to the annoyance of the Algerines,
who being able to draw boundless resources from
the interior, treated the blockading fleet with con:
tempt, and at length fired on the ship of Admiral
de la Bretonniere, which had approached their hº
bor bearing offers of accommodation. • . *
This unpardonable breach of the laws of legiº
mate warfare put all France in commotion.
national honor had been outraged in the most 0Pº.
manner, and it must be as openly vindicated.
was therefore resolved, not only to visit the ºl.
thors of this crime with condign punishment, bº
also to take that opportunity of repairing the recen"
dismemberment of the French colonial possession.”
by reducing Algeria itself to a province, and esta
lishing there a permanent French supremacy.
This project pleased everybody. The patriot .
ulted in the idea of rivalling, if not eclipsing, tº
splendor of England in the east; the philanthropiº
anticipated the blessings which would enure *
Africa from European civilization; and the speº".
latist already saw himself possessed of the riº
plain of the Metidja, and the orange-gardens 9
the Koleah and Blidan, whose fame had even "
that time penetrated to Paris, and had there excitº
a mania for foreign acquirements not unlike tº
which raged in the days of Law and the Miº
sissippi Scheme.
Having thus determined upon the subjugation of
Algeria, neither pains nor money were spare
insure the success of the expedition. The minist*
of war, the Count de Bourmont, with more heroisſ”
than he afterwards thought proper to display in th9
course of the campaign, placed himself at its head;
and on the 28th of May, 1830, the army effecte
an undisturbed discmbarkation at Sidi-Eſ-Ferruch,
a small promontory about five leagues to the west
of Algiers.
As the projects of the French embraced occur
pancy as well as conquest, and an attempt *
“colonization made easy,” by the aid of wealt
and science, the ingredients of the immense hº
thus poured forth upon Africa were necessarily
very miscellaneous, and even chaotic in their chart
acter. Engineers to map out the country; savaº
to philosophize on their discoveries; antiquarians tº
search after Roman relics; farmers, fond of exper
rimentizing, to cultivate the land as it was con.
quered; emigrants with their title-deeds to farm”
yet in the future tense firmly secured in their knap.
sacks, mingled with the more regular elements 0
an invading army; while crutches for the disabled,
wooden legs for the mutilated, and air-balloons fo,
the adventurous, bore witness to the foresight an
*ś of the Parisian war-office.
he first military operations on the African coas'
took place on the same day that the army disem,
barked. A small fort on the promontory appear?
to the French engineers to present an obstacle
which must be overcome. Approaches were mad?
in form—a storming party threw themselves, with
promising bravery, on the breach as soon as practº
cable—but alas ! parturiunt montes, and the young
aspirants for fame received more raillery than praise
when they emerged with the garrison—two hon”
and a litter of puppies!
But more formidable enemies were not wanting,
and soon made themselves felt, though not seeſ:
It was the policy of the dey to allow the French
to land, for the sake of plundering their baggagº
after he should have beaten them; but it formed n°
part of his design to allow them to sleep in peacº
when that landing was effected. As night drow
on, the tired soldiers addressed themselves to rº,
pose—but in vain. Continual alarms preventº
their closing their eyes. Sentries mistook thºſ
comrades for Bedouins; partial attacks were ma"
ALGERIA, PAST
AND PRESENT. !. 225
from ti #
t; * III]
line; ° to time upon detached portions of the
Con fi. were surprised; and at length the
- im. became so great, and the casualtics so
June *S. that if it had been January instead of
sº. 19, consequences would have been very.
assei It would, perhaps, have been happy for
º Pasha if he had persevered in this mode
tiºn. * . It was suited to his resources, his
inal and his troops. But he had formed an in:
resol estimate of his own military skill, and
'''“d to risk his fortunes in a battle.
* Plain of Staweli appeared to offer consider-
Ome 'antages as a theatre for this combat.
for.* elevated above Sidi-El-Ferruch, it af.
Own | Mussulmans the opportunity of charging
i. ill—a consideration of no slight moment in
... "set of troops, each man of whom ſought as
*** fancy or fortune directed him, and who
dn º regular manoeuvres as much as the High-
*s at Preston-Pans.
Each r tench army, consisted of three divisions,
ing § which was, about four o'clock in the morn-
the e the 17th of June, simultaneously attacked by
Turk "emy ; and on each wing the success of the
char was at first decisive. Against the left the
§On § was led most gallantly by the Aga in per-
º the head of his Janissaries. Urging their
the **t full speed down the declivity, and leaping
ºrricade, behind which the French were
°hed, in a style which Lord Gardiner might
their first onset was irresistible; and if it had
Çine *n for the opportune arrival of General D'Ar-
have With the 29th, the fortune of the day might
hockb Cen different, and “Flodden had been Ban-
Stanti ºn!” On the right, too, the Bey of Con-
W.", by creeping up some small ravines clothed
hun rushwood, approached unperceived within a
athi *d yards of the French line, and all, but
d §ed the capture of a park of artillery which
§ there posted.
Prº among undisciplined troops there is no surer
0m * tº ruin than a partial success, and at this
i.". General Lahitte—for the Count de Bour-
t."ºad contented himself with surveying the ac-
Ok rom the beach with the aid of a telescope—
wi. himself the responsibility of ordering the
COO of the right wing to advance in echelon, so as
ivisi Pup the Arab army between the two French
Ul . This movement was completely success-
i.”hºgll the left forgot to act merely as a
his' and advanced simultaneously with the right.
rº h °rror, which, with more skilful antagonists
have been fatal, had in fact a happy result;
sº bºrbarians, broken and disheartened, re-
bi...ºn the utmost disorder. The French army
it'."ºked for the night in the Algerine camp; and
gi...general had pushed on immediately to Al:
there is little doubt he would have carried it
§ “oup-de-main.
r º the Count de Bourmont was not a prompt,
Sol i. Wº...have already hinted, a very courageous
ºn the 1: he battle of Staweli was fought and won
gtle ºth of June, at the distance of only four
hat i. fººm Algiers, but it was not till the 28th
uja le French army was ordered to take Mount
it "ºh, the summit of which commanded the cap-
:*s important position was carried in a night
Sh, and rapid preparations were now made for
$xcels ś itself. No nation in the world
*eak on nce in military engineering; and at day-
the 4th of J s 4-
º Opened of July, the batteries of De Bour
* devoted c
des
°ntren
Ily y
their fire at point-blank distance upon
ity, with splendid precision and effect.
*
The dey and his Janissaries fought like lions; bui
the fortifications of Algiers on the land side, erected
merely with a view to the rude assaults of insurgent
Arabs, were quite unfitted to withstand a scientific
attack—and the issue of the combat was not for a
moment doubtful. By nine o'clock, the fire from
the emperor's ſort, which overhung the town, was
silenced; and the French, engineers had already
broken ground for new works against the remaining
stronghold—the Kassaubah—when a flag of truce
from the dey announced that he had abandoned the
hopeless conflict, and suspended further operations.
The terms which were granted the unfortunate
old pirate, were more clement than he could reason-
ably have expected. His personal property was
secured to him, and he was permitted to retire to
Naples, which he chose for his future residence.
One article of the convention concluded on this oc-
casion is important; as it must influence our opinion
of the subsequent conduct of the French in Algeria.
It is to this effect—“The exercise of the Moham-
medan religion shall remain free ; the liberty of the
inhabitants of all classes, their religion, property,
commerce, and industry, shall receive no injury;
their women shall be respected; the general takes
this on his own responsibility.”
Algiers being thus reduced, and the dey expelled,
the French began to congratulate each other on
their conquest; to survey its resources, and to delibe-
rate as to its future fate. No great acumen, how-
ever, was requisite in the opinion of the politicians
of Paris to mark out their future course. The end
was obvious, and the means easy. Algeria must be
colonized. The Arabs must be flattered or forced
into submission; and European energy, with the aid
of science, must supply the ravages or the lethargy
of barbarism. True, they argued, we have hitherto
been unfortunate in our colonies; they have been
one by one wrested from us by the arms or jealous
diplomacy of other states; but here we have noth-
ing to fear. England, the only power able to molest
us, feels secure in the possession of Gibraltar, Malta,
and Corfu, and will view with indifference our ac-
quirements in the west. If Algeria is not, as
Egypt, on the high road to India, or to any mighty
emporium of wealth, still it enjoys redeeming
advantages. Napoleon himself would not have dis-
dained a country so rich in tropical productions, at
the distance of only three days' sail from Mar-
seilles. Once let us establish our Nouvelle France
on the other side of the Mediterranean, and who
shall limit our empire? Who can calculate the re-
sults that will flow from such a virgin field for
wealth and enterprise?
These were bright and not unnatural hopes—yet
how signally have they failed! . Since the capture
of Algiers, in 1830, the north of Africa; instead of
conferring riches and prosperity upon, France, has
been a constant object of anxiety and disappºint-
ment, and an incessant drain on her resources. The
profound tranquillity which has reigned in Europe,
has alone enabled her to maintain in Algeria 100,000
troops, with any regard to prudence. We could
almost venture to predict, that in the event of a con-
tinental war, she would be compelled, before six
months elapsed, to abandon all her African interior
possessions to the Arab tribes she is now endeavor-
ing to crush. *
It is the coast alone that is at present conquered.
Oran, Algiers, Bona, Phillipville, Constantina are
hers—but at the distance of ten miles from any
of these towns the farmer cannot visit his cattle;
the husbandman cannot till his ground, without the
226
AND PRESENT,
AIGERIA, PAST
protection of a patrol—and not even then without
a very fair chance of being riddled by a bullet, or
being dismembered by a yataghan.* And this is
the state of things after an occupation of fifteen
years—after the expenditure of money France can
ill afford to spare from her internal economy—and
after, the perpetration, on both sides, of outrages
which humanity shudders to remember?
That, as far as the Algerines were concerned,
the French were justified in expelling the dey, and
in taking possession of those territories to which he
had a rightful claim, we are prepared to admit. A
piratical state has a caput luminum, and may be ex-
terminated by the first who is sufficiently powerful;
nay, he who accomplishes the feat is entitled to the
gratitude of the rest of the civilized world. Eng-
land might with equal fairness have annexed Al-
giers to her colonial possessions in 1816; and that
we did not, resulted, perhaps, more from a cautious
regard to the national reputation, than from a con-
sideration of the best interests of Europe. England
felt at that period all the conscious pride of the
popular school-boy. We had “tamed the pride”
of the overgrown bully of Europe, and we felt un-
willing to hazard our well-earned character, by any
achievements, the motives of which might be ques-
tioned. Perhaps, too, the reflection, that while we
retained our possessions in the Mediterranean, we
might securely abandon the north-western coast of
Africa, was not without its influence in strengthen-
ing this commendable coyness.
rance, however, had the advantage of being en-
tirely unfettered by the trammels of propriety. She
had no character to lose ; and therefore did not hes-
itate to seize the opportunity of enriching herself,
by spoiling the Philistines. And, under the cir-
cumstances, she decided rightly. Her colonization,
as well as reduction, of Algiers and its circumjacent
territory, cannot, we think, be censured by even a
severe moralist. But we can go no further. Qui
non habet ille non dat. The dey of Algiers had
neither right nor title (not even that of seignorial
possession) to the country south of the plain of the
Metidja; and we must confess our sympathy with
the efforts the Kabyles of the highlands, and the
Bedouins of the plains, are making to preserve that
independence which they have enjoyed so long;
and which would seem intended by §º. to
be a kind of birthright to the inhabitants of such re-
gions, as a partial compensation for the rugged and
nomadic life they are destined to lead.
* “Nul ne peut se hazarder a une certaine distance
sans étre arméjusqu'aux dents. On va chercher de l'eau a
in fontaine voisine, le fusil sur l'epaule; on se visite
inarmeau bras d'une propriété à l'autre: Čette impossi-
bilité de se transporter ā la moindre distance, sans étre
accompagné d'une escorte estun supplice indefinissable
et quine permet pas de se croire un sºul instant dans un
pays civilizé.” “ º, &c., par M., Blanqui,” p. 17.
#The arrogance of the Algerines, and the amount of
contribution they levied from different, stºtes as a species
of blackmail, is most surprising. And it is curious to ob-
serve the cffect of Inutual jealousy among the continental
owers in elevating to such factitious impºſtance, a mere
den of robbers. France indeed, since the time of Henr
IV., paid no tribute except under color of rent for, the
coral banks of Bona; and the Roman states, enjoyed an
equal freedom. Turkey, too, prohibited an depredations
on Austrian or Russian vessels. But Sweden, Denmark,
Portugal, Tuscany, the Two Sicilies, Sardinia, and Han.
over, paid very heavily for the nominal friendship of the
dey; and it is a disgraceſul fact that England, even so
lately as 1806, made him a present of £600 whenever she
changed her consul, an event which of course the Algerian
vernment contrived to render tolerably frequent.”-
ide “L'Algérie,” par Baron Baude, vol. i., p. 264.
But their opposition would have long ago.5".
cumbed under the immense resources brought º'
bear against them, if they had not possessed a lead-
er who had influence among them sufficient to 9.
ganize that partial degree of combination whº
alone is suited to their genius. Unfortunately ſº.
France, such a man appeared at the precise mom.
when his presence became indispensable, if
Arabs were to offer any effectual resistance. Hº
name is familiar to all the world. There are fe"
indeed, who have not heard of Abd-el-Kader.
The father of this extraordinary man was a .
about of great celebrity, and lineally descendº
from Muley Abd-el-Kader, who is reverenº.
among the Arabs as the Elisha of Mahomet. His
mother too, who is still alive, is remarkable for!!”
grace and intelligence, and the young Abd-el-Ka);
enjoyed the advantage of an extremely cultiva":
eastern education. While yet a mere yout
thoroughly understood the character of his counº.
men, and used every effort to obtain that reputatiº.
for sanctity, without which he knew no perman”
influence among the Arab tribes could be hop”
for ; and to which his position as a marabout *
a pilgrim to Mecca entitled him to aspire.
On the death of his father, in 1836, the happy
effects of this foresight and youthful austerity wº:
immediately perceptible. He was unanimous
elected emir of his own tribe; and when he uſ.
furled the banner of Mahomet, proclaimed a holy
war, and undertook to drive the unbelievers frº
Africa, immense masses of tribes crowded to hº
standard from every quarter; and the young sult”
was enabled to commence that determined oppos.
tion to the French arms, the issue of which is evº"
yet doubtful, and which has fixed on him the *.
tention of the whole world. His career since th”
era has been chequered with disasters, but t
been on the whole successful. It is evidently."
his policy to risk his undisciplined troops in pitchº
battles against the French, and accordingly he hº
seldom attempted it; and in the few instances 1ſ!
which he has, even when supported, as in Isly,
the neighboring empire of Morocco, a signal deſ.
has been his fate. But in vain have general aſſº.
general attempted his destruction. A victory, h9.
ever decisive, has failed to crush him—has bº
barren of the usual consequences. In some qua.
ter where he is least expected, the ubiquitous º'
is certain to reáppear after the apparent demoliſ”
of his forces; to revenge himself for his previo".
discomfiture by some coup de main fit once T.
and successful, and to vanish as suddenly wheſ, ".
exploit is achieved: while the editor of the “ Mon.
teur Algerien” endeavors, with the legerdemain .
a French annalist, to turn defeat into victº. &
and a rapid retreat into a daring razzia ' T.
butcheries of Clauzel, Barthezene, and savery—º
courteous urbanity and judicious measures of La.
ricière—and the pompous manifestoes of Buge.
have proved equally inefficacious. Not only in º
more distant provinces, such as Oran and Constal.
na, but even in the immediate vicinity of Algº.
y itself, ebullitions and outbreaks of the most dangº.
ous character are continually occurring, and evcſ 1-
thing evidences the determination of the Muñº
men to shake off the hated yoke of the French *
the earliest opportunity.
The “Journal des Debats” of the 12th of p:
cember, 1845, contains an instructive expositiº º:
this hostility, from the mouth of Mohammed Abº.
lah, when a prisoner under sentence of death. . 6
had been convicted of instigating revolt among"
ALGERIA, PAST
AND PRESENT, 227
tºº. and was at one time supposed to
ined º Bou-maza, though afterwards ascer-
rison o be only that chieftain's brother. The
|d i. enumerates thirty-four different tribes who
act %; their faith to his brother, who is, in
Kaiº ough this has been denied,) one of Abd-el-
{lt i. humerous emissaries; and on being asked
.."; his countrymen to complain of on the part
* French, made this reply: “The Arabs de-
tº." because you are of a different religion;
tº. you are strangers; because you now take
ºn. of their country, and to-morrow will
It] their virgins and their children. They said
jºy brother, lead us, and let us recommence the
Christ $very day which passes consolidates the
iſºlans. Let us have done with them at once.”
off.". you may say,” rejoined the mortified
a. *, “there are many Arabs who appreciate and
W lººted to us!” “There is but one God,”
life º answer of the obstinate catechumen; “my
t sº in His hands, and not in yours. I shall,
Mus Qre, speak candidly. Every day you find
*ulmen come to tell you that they are attached
º, and that they are your faithful servants.
"ot believe them; they lie through fear or
§§gh self-interest. If you were to give every
€ a slice of roast meat every day, which they
not º well, cut from your own flesh, they would
i. less detest you; and every time that a chief
...Whom they believe capable of vanquishing
štia. they will all follow him, were it proposed to
belie. you in Algiers itself.” “Do you not
rab *"...persisted his interrogators, “that the
Can § will tire of dying for an enterprise which
qujº have any chance of success!”. But the
i." remained unanswered: refusing to be
up i any longer, the prisoner wrapped himself
sile " his haich, and relapsed into that obstinate
"ge from which it is hopeless to attempt to arouse
ld of the desert.
Peº this account of the state of the French pros-
Sours in Algeria, we give implicit credit; for the
ti.” 9 events during the period of their occupa-
ulati, ears with it concurrent testimony. The spec-
18." dreams to which the African expedition in
Ul gave birth have faded away, Algeria is yet
...bdued, an uncolonized, and an unproductive
* Would have been vexatious if the gallant Ara-
ºil..". has directed this opposition, had been
al. ugly or ferocious; and we are happy to be
° acquaint our readers, on the authority of M.
ºnce, (to whom we owe an apology for this
ice,) that he is by no means either the one
e other. That gentleman, has detailed his
b ...es among the Arab tribes, after having
sh. prisoner while absent from his ship on
which lºg party, in a simple and unaffected style
lowin ºdds to the interest of his story. The fol-
sij º: portrait of Abd-el-Kader, which, .
Captiv 5 t is from the pen of a Frenchman and a
*...* is sufficiently attractive.
ºl-Kader is little, being not more than
high; his face long, and of excessive pale-
his Tºlo º large black eyes are mild and caressing;
His º small and graceful; his nose aquiline.
Small . is thin, but very black. He wears a
tally fin ºustache, which gives his features, natu-
Comes . and benevolent, a martial air which be-
iognom ºn exceedingly. The ensemble of his phys-
told º: sweet and agreeable. M. Bravais has
80tten. b at an Arab chief, whose name I have for-
five-feet
less;
l
eing one day on board the Loiret,” in the
captain's state-room, on seeing the portrait of a
woman, Isabeau de Baviere, whom the engraver
had taken to personify Europe, exclaimed, “There
is Abd-el-Kader.” Abd-el-Kader has beautiful
small hands and feet, and displays some coquetry
in keeping them in order. He is always washing
them. While conversing, squatted upon his cush-
ions, he holds his toes in his fingers, or, if this pos-
ture fatigues him, he begins to pare the bottom of
the nails with a knife and scissors of which the
mother-of-pearl handle is delicately worked, and
which he constantly has in his hands.
“He affects an extreme simplicity in his dress.
There is never any gold or embroidery upon his
bernous.* He wears a shirt of very fine linen, the
seams of which are covered with a silken stripe.
Next to his shirt comes the haick.f. He throws
over the haick two bernous of white wool, and
upon the two white bernous a black one. A few
silken tassels are the only ornaments which relieve
the simplicity of his costume. He never carries any
arms at his girdle. His feet are naked in his slip-
ers. He has his head shaved, and his head-dress
is composed of two or three Greek caps, the one
upon the other, over which he throws the hood of
his bernous.”—p. 28.
The testimony paid by M. de France to the
courtesy, kindness and humanity of the emir, is
equally strong. The cruelties, indeed, practised by
the Arabs upon such unfortunate Christians as fall
within their clutches are most revolting in their de-
tails; but it does not appear that their enormities
are authorized, or even known by their sultan, i.
though doubtless his power rests on too precarious
a tenure to enable him to hold the reins of disci-
pline with too unyielding a hand.
But, though Sidi-l-Hadj-Abd-el-Kader-Mahidin
(which is his name in full) has been a very power-
ful obstacle to the progress of the French in Afri-
ca, he is by no means the only one with which they
have had to contend ; and we are inclined to doubt
whether if he had never existed they would have
had better fortune; or whether, if he were to be
slain to-morrow, their success would be materially
accelerated.
Among the primary causes of the failure of the
projected colonization of the north of Africa, may
be classed the profound ignorance which prevailed
among the French, on their first arrival, of the na-
ture of the country in which they found them-
selves. Intoxicated with the reports of the fertili-
ty of Algeria, they forgot the unhealthiness which
is usually its concomitant, and which, in fact, pre:
vails in very many parts of the regency to a fearful
extent. Immediately south of Algiers lies the Sa-
hel, which is an immense elevated tract of coun-
* The bernous is a woollen mantle without sleeves, but
with a hood. -:
f The haick is a covering of very thin wool, worn as a
wrapper over the head and shoulders. i.
f'An English vessel had been wrecked off the African
coast; the crew were on the point of heing sacrificed by
the natives when a detachment opportunely, arrived from
Abd-el-Kader, the officer in command of which thus ad-
dressed the Arabs:-" Unhappy people! What are you
about? In sacrificing these men you would commit a
most wicked action—an offence. Against God. Dread,
then, the anger of your sultan. These sailors are not of
the same religion as our enemies, the French; on the
contrary, their prophet is nºknowledged by ours.” So
completely overawed were, these ignorant people, that
their prisoners were conducted in safety to Abd-el-Kader,
who, after furnishing them with clothes, &c., sent them
to Gibraltar.—“Times” newspaper, 14th of January,
1846.
228
AND PRESENT.
ALGERIA, PAST
try, lying between the Mediterranean and the plain
of the Metidja. Its surface is crowded with little
valleys and intersected by deep ravines. Its gen-
eral appearance is rugged, sterile, and broken.
Here We find health indeed, though no greater sus-
ceptibility of culture than is afforded by similar
mountainous regions. . But, behind this stretches
the Yast plain of the Metidja, which science and
combination might render available, but which, in
its present state, confided to the isolated enterprise
of individuals, is more fatal to life than even the
Arab bullets.” -
The disappointment and reaction which followed
the discovery of the insalubrity of the “land of
promise” were greatly increased by the rash ea-
gerness of the first emigrants to purchase land
from the Mussulmen, though they J. not under-
stand the nature of the interests they were buy-
ing, and were, in fact, entirely ignorant of the
tenure of real property among the Algerines.
Dispositions of estates, entailed by a species of
mortmain, were extremely common. M. Blanqui,
who was deputed by L'Academie des Sciences at
Paris to investigate the causes of the failure of
colonization in Algeria, informs us that those pro-
erties are called habous or engagés, of which the
egal estate has been vested by some individual in
an eleeinosynary or other corporation, while the
beneficial interest is reserved to himself and his
successors, in some determinate line. The confu-
sion which would flow from this separation of the
legal ownership from the actual enjoyment, in the
alienation of land, may easily be imagined when
we reflect, that in general its existence was unsus-
pected by the credulous emigrant, and undisclosed
by the roguish vendor! The effect of these im-
provident or fraudulent transactions has been to
render the titles to property throughout the regen-
cy extremely insecure; and this, combined with
the destructive influence of malaria, has deprived
France of that nucleus of enterprising and thriving
colonists, without which any attempt to radiate
over a more extended region must be futile, or at
best unstable.
But as if France had been determined to aſſord
her infant colonies on the African coast no aid she
could possibly withhold, she has thought fit to fet-
ter their foreign traffic, by the perfect freedom of
which they could alone have hoped to surmount
their other disadvantages, with trammels which are
only suited to a city in its maturity. The tariff,
which is only an incentive to the opulent traders
of Marseilles, damps the enterprise of the Alge-
rines. They might well have imitated our exam-
ple at Singapore, which, itself also formerly a
mere nest of pirates, has, from the simple expe-
dient of throwing open its ports, become a thriving
city of 30,000 inhabitants; but the French, by es:
tablishing a douane before there was any commerce
* “Malheur au voyageur imprudent qui s'est aventuré
sans guide et sans précaution surge terrain ºn apparence
si uni et si facile à parcourir S'ily aborde au temps
des hautes herbes, il court le risque d'être enseveli dans
ces forêts de graminées colossales qui paraissent de loin
un tapis de gazon: S'il y circule à l'époque des chaleurs
de l’été, la terre entrouverte lui envoie des bouffées de
#. pestilentiels qui donnent la fièvre et la mort; enfin,
ans la saisons des pluies, tout se change ºn clonques
fangeux ou en marais profonds qui recélent autant de
piéges et qui Sont, plus dangereux que la fièvre.”—“Al-
erie. Par M. Blanqui,” p. 12. The attention of the
rench government has lately been ably called to the ne:
cessity of systematic cultivation. Vide. Memoires au Roi
sur la Colonisation de L'Algerie par L'Abbé Landmann.
Paris. 1845.
to tax, have rendered the first nugatory, and ha"
paralyzed the latter. II]
The peculiarities of the people among wº.
they were thrown, presented additional diſſºul.
to the French. The features of the Arab char” te
ter are strongly defined; and in a general way, .
tach to the Kabyles, the Bedouins, the Beni ith
mer, the Flittahs, and all that host of tribes, % ti-
the names of which the despatches of Marshal 3°
geaud have made us familiar. Avarice, restle.
ness, treachery, and fanaticism; hospitality, hº h6
hood, intelligence, and devotion, are some of X-
antagonistic traits which an Arab of the desert ;
hibits. In person, too, they all bear to each 9, 3ſ.
a strong family resemblancé. Well formed, clº r0
limbed, muscular, and of middle stature, they :
the very build for guerilla troops. Their cº,
ion is of a clear olive tint, often deeply browne".
exposure to the sun ; their eyes are dark .
sparkling; their hair black, coarse, and luxuriº"
Their senses are sharpened by constant exercisº fe
a degree rivalling the acuteness of the North Am.
ican Indians. A Bedouin will hear the murmur.
of distant warfare, or detect in a cloud of dus' ;
approaching caravan, where a European is utº. iſ
at fault. So far from dreading war, it is lº.
choice and their pastime. An Arabian in his Y.
saddle would not exchange his seat for the sº.
divan in Persia. To slay a Christian he ex"
.# sacrifices his own life—for he well believe”
that
“They that shall fall in march or fight
Are called by Allah to realms of light;
Where in giant pearls the houris dwell,
And reach to the faithful the wine-red shell;
With their words so sweet, and their forms?
fair, º
Their gazelle-like eyes, and their raven hair;
Where the raptured ear may drink its fill
Of the heavenly music of Izrahil;
And bending from Allah's throne on high
Is the Tree of Immortality 1"
Such is the crafty creed which the Koran incul
cates; and the Moslem too often shames the Ch
tian in his choice between the Future an
Present.
Thus warlike in their tastes, the Arabs
thrown themselves heart and soul into the me
Religion and interest, duty and pleasure, poin'
wards the same path; and it would requº.
more tact and circumspection than the Fre.
seem disposed to exert to divert them from its P'
suit: V6
But the truth is, that our volatile neighbors”
not the gift of colonization. They never have, º 3.
never will, succeed in attaching the affections eſ.
foreign people. The feelings of a nation, §
conquered, are in a high state of irritation. has
irritation must be allayed; but a Frenchman in
neither tact nor perseverance to do so. Ag”.
when once the solid fruits of victory have bee".
tained, a wise foe will refrain from glarying.
its opponent; but a Frenchman's vanity is strº.
than his prudence, and the bombastic manifestº 0
Bugeaud have uselessly exacerbated the enº's
the emir and his followers. Once more : tle.
no feeling stronger in the Arab bosom than * ...to
eration for domestic ties, and a regard for ".
purity. The French have violated the º, Cſly
have outraged the other;" and the result has *
have
Jée.
€3
* “Le grand argument,” says M. Blanqui, p. 10% “d
ALLIGATORS-VENICE. 229
º
sºng hatred of French habits and domination,
arm seems to leave no hope of conciliation. The
alº. now be one of extermination. The only
Vers lve is that of abandonment—a measure that
0 e * circumstances may hereafter force France
*race—but which we fear it would be vain
in." from her moderation or her magna-
*E*-–
ALLIGATORS.
Fº from the “North State,” in the
0tes ºnce Journal, gives several interesting anec-
3.3ſ the alligator and his habits.
sighte e alligator sometimes reaches the length of
four . feet, though seldom more than twelve or
and . He is a powerful reptile, though on the
that . bodily movements are necessarily so slow
Sen here is little danger from him when his
.* is known, even were he courageous.
whº." is a coward, and either on land or water,
m. tacked and pursued, is ever anxious to
"loves is escape. In circumventing his prey, he
Places i. stealthily as the midnight assassin, or
“pass imself in a position to secure his victim as
em. unsuspectingly almost in contact with his
pº jaws, or within reach of his long and
ºrity il tail, which he wields with as much dex-
wij". an elephant wields his trunk, and with
Stful a can strike, when on land, nearly as pow:
§ld bod low. The weapon is as long as the head
§ with y combined; and it is said he can brandish
lan.". such dexterity and power, that when on the
With * “wide awake,” he will parry with it,
Pºwerf the skill of a fencing-master, the most
of his ul and well directed blow aimed at any part
£g hºly or head.
impij covered with a coat of mail absolutely
Practi trable to buck shot or rifle ball, it requires a
dust ºed marksman to cause him to “bite the
Şith nam. the water he floats like a rotten log,
the .ght visible but his skull and a portion of
eye, i jaw; there is no vulnerable mark but the
ties."... by bare possibility, the mºnster lºy
mout, ºr a moment his yawning chasm of a
only. Tone or the other is your only chance. The
eye. * I ever saw killed was by a rifle ball in the
"earth.'. known a full-grown alligator to sport
Vºlley * shore and suffer himself to be amused with
halº ºf rifle balls from amateur sportsmen for
up.'... and then move off leisurely and in tri-
On". Without a wound as evidence of the conflict.
man.” land the sportsman has two additional
shot i.” under each shoulder—but though a
Prove º may wing the game, it is not certain to
$t
#
han * said that an alligator will not approach a
0 wi
foil.” faces him boldly. To this effect is the
truth"; narrative, which may be relied on, as
On the b widow and an only son resided together
Alliga ank of New River, much frequented by
ors in the summer and autumn. I have seen
time. *e in droves of more than a dozen at a
the wid "a bend of the river near the residence of
som." and her son was an extensive flat. For
ë
d tº. the young man wished to wade out
glanc *able distance from the shore. Taking a
form e up and down, he discovered nothing in the
lºgies. alligator, and ventured forth. Having
and t sºme hundred and fifty yards, he looked
pu ° his dismay saw one of the monsters at a
ritai
de . ...res *Arabes a toujours été la corruption
&ions. *rs plutót que la difference des deux reli-
considerable distance slowly and stealthily moving
towards him. Here was a dilemma. He was
satisfied that when he turned to flee his terrible
enemy would pursue, and that to reach the shore
before him was impossible.
“He had not even a club to defend himself with,
and he was at once satisfied that he must serve the
reptile for a meal unless he could save himself by
a stratagem. His measures were quickly taken.
He turned and waded deliberately toward the
shore, but neither fast enough nor far enough to
fatigue himself much. He then stopped and
turned suddenly round, and saw that the alligator,
which stopped also, had considerably lessened the
distance between them. A second trial, and a
third, produced a similar result...And so short
was the distance now between himself and his
deadly foe, that he was satisfied that to make a
fourth attempt to escape would prove fatal. But
he was now within hail of the house; and his only
chance of life was his rifle, which, like every
Carolinian, he kept primed and loaded. With the
energy of despair he called for his mother to bring
him his gun.
“She responded to his call, but on arriving at
the water's edge, and seeing the terrible situation
of her son, terror almost deprived her of the power
of action. Rallying, however, after a while, she
moved on through the water, and placed the rifle
in his hands. And here now were mother and son
both exposed to the same danger. Life or death
hung on the skill of the son as a marksman.
Realizing the great importance of well braced
nerves, a steady hand, and a good aim, he paused
till all agitation had passed away; and then, with
the same confidence as though in his favorite
grove he was about to bring down a squirrel in
sport, he raised his rifle—click—a sharp report—
and—he was saved The ball entered the eye of
the monster, and when the smoke cleared away,
he was floating on the water in the agonies of
death.
“The alligator has been so frequently described
that no description of mine is necessary. He is
no beauty, and the only mark of the beau monde
there is about him is, that he is so intolerably
scented up with musk that it is disagreeable to
approach him. His lank jaws and huge cavern of
a mouth give him a disgusting and frightſul ap-
pearance ; while his entire corporosity, besides his
apologies for legs and the monstrous appendage of
a tail, are by no means calculated to make you
look on him with feelings of complacency. . But
he is as his Creator formed him, and therefore a
right and proper alligator.”
–ºmsºmº
VENice.—It is stated that the Austrian emperor
has given permission for the congress of Italian
naturalists to be held in that city next year. , Ac-
cordingly, the Venetian municipality have deter-
mined upon preparing for the savan: a distin-
guished reception. It has been resolved to publish
an illustrated description of the city, in two
volumes, under the title of “Venice and its
Lagunes,” and present a copy to each member of
the congress; to put at the dispºsition of the meet-
ing a sum of 20,000 Austrian livres (about 800l.)
for experiments; to execute a colossal bronze
statue of Marco Paolo, for erection in front of the
church of San-Giovanni-Crisostomo, where the
famous traveller's bones repose, and inaugurate it
during the congress ; and to have a new grand
opera composed, for representation, at the Fenice,
on the evening of the opening day.—Critic.
230 MRs. souTHEY's PoEMs.
MRs. souTHEY’s PoEMs.
[From Mrs. Southey's (Caroline Bowles) Poems, just
reprinted by Wiley & Putnam, as two parts of their
Library of Choice Reading, we copy the following
pieces.]
DEDICATION,
TO THE RIGHT REveREND G. w. DOANE,
BISHOP OF NEW JERSEY.
ONCE have we met—once only face to face,
A brief half hour, by the pale taper's light;
Yet should I grieve to be forgotten quite
By one, whom Memory, while she holds her place
Will oft, with faithful portraiture, retrace.
There are whom in our daily path we greet
Coldly familiar—ev'n so to meet,
Mind to mind stranger: while a moment's space-
Mystical interchange of tone or look—
Binds us to others in strong sympathy,
Fast and forever . . . . Christian friend, this book
And its small fellow, I inscribe to thee
Memorial of a meeting—not the last,
If we believe, and hold the promise fast.
CAROLINE SouTHEY.
Greta Hall, Keswick,
Jan. 23, 1842
*mº
SUNDAY EVENING.
I sat last Sunday evening,
From sunset even till night,
At the open casement, watching
The day's departing light.
Such hours to me are holy,
Holier than tongue can tell,
They fall on my heart like dew
On the parched heather-bell.
The sunshad shone bright all day—
His setting was brighter still,
But there sprang up a lovely air
As he dropt down the western hill.
The fields and lanes were swarming
With holyday folks in their best,
Released from their six days’ cares
By the seventh day's peace and rest.
I heard the light-hearted laugh,
The trampling of many feet;
I saw them go merrily by,
And to me the sight was sweet
There's a sacred soothing sweetness,
A pervading spirit of bliss,
Peculiar from all other times,
In a Sabbath eve like this.
Methinks, though I knew not the day,
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all
Would tell me that Nature was keeping
Some solemn festival.
The steer and the steed in their pastures
Lie down with a look of peace,
As if they knew 't was commanded
That this day their labor should cease.
The lark's vesper song is more thrilling
As he mounts to bid heaven good-night;
The brook sings a quieter tune;
The sun sets in lovelier light:
The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers,
Are tinged with more exquisite hues;
More odorous incense from out them
Steams up with the evening dews.
So I sat last Sunday evening
Musing on all these things,
With that quiet gladness of spirit
No thought of this world brings:
I watched the departing glory,
Till its last red streak grew pale,
And earth and heaven were woven
In twilight's dusky veil.
Then the lark dropt down to his mate
By her nest on the dewy ground;
And the stir of human life
Died away to a distant sound:
All sounds died away—the light laugh,
The far footstep, the merry call—
To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart
Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall;
And, by little and little, the darkness
Waved wider its sable wings,
Till the nearest objects and largest
Became shapeless, confused things-
And, at last, all was dark—then I felt
A cold sadness steal over my heart;
And I said to myself “Such is life
So its hopes and its pleasures depart!
“And when night comes—the dark nigh' of
age
What remaineth beneath the sun
Of all that was lovely and loved 1
Of all we have learnt and done :
“When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear
To sweet music grows duli and cold,
And the fancy burns low, and the heart."
Oh, heavens: can the heart grow old"
“Then, what remaineth of life
But the lees with bitterness fraught !
What then 1’’—But I checked as it rose,
And rebuked that weak, wicked though"
And I lifted mine eyes up, and lo!
An answer was written on high
By the finger of God himself,
In the depths of the dark blue sky
There appeared a sign in the east—
A bright, beautiful fixed star !
And I looked on its steady light
Till the evil thoughts fled afar;
And the lesser lights of heaven
Shone out with their pale soft rays,
Like the calm, unearthly comforts
Of a good man's latter days;
And there came up a sweet perfume
From the unseen flowers below,
Like the savor of virtuous deeds,
Of deeds done long ago—
Like the mem'ry of well-spent time,
Of things that were holy and dear ;
Of friends, “departed this life
In the Lord's ſaith and fear.”
So the burden of darkness was taken ...
From my soul, and my heart felt light;
And I laid me down to slumber
With peaceful thoughts that night.
MRs. souTHEy's PoEMs.
231
ABJURATION.
—sweet time of youthful folly!
es I courted, feigned distress,
§§ the veiled phantom Melancholy
th Passion, born, like Love, “in idleness.”
There Was a time
W *htastic woes
00
And like a lover—like a jealous lover—
Les nine idol with a miser's art, , ,
O gar eyes her sweetness should discover,
* in the inmost chambers of mine heart—
And then I so
T From
9 wear
In gre
ught her—oft in secret sought her,
merry mates withdrawn and mirthful play,
away, by some deep stilly water
enwood haunt, the livelong summer day—
§hing the flitting clouds, the fading ſlowers,
Anº. flying rack athwart the waving grass;
ºrmuring oft—“Alack this life of ours —
* are its joys—so swiftly doth it pass!”
i. mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden :)
And .* the liquid grass like summer rain,
He 'ghs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden,
A *d the light heart that knew no real pain.
hd
T * I loved to haunt lone burial places,
Pace the churchyard earth with noiseless
To, tread,
. in new-made graves for ghastly traces—
"h crumbling bones of the forgotten dead.
O *
ºk of passing bells, of death and dying—
So . good, methought, in early youth to die,
Ved lamented —in such sweet sleep lying,
* White shroud all with flowers and rosemary
tuck ...,
"ck o er by loving hands !—But then, 't would
0 grieve me
I c. forsooth ! the scene my fancy drew—
And §ot bear the thought to die and leave ye,
I have lived, dear friends ! to weep for you.
h
§ |We lived to prove what “fading flowers”
Wi. iſ: s best joys, and all we love and prize—
Wh |ling rains succeed the summer showers'
And “bitter drops wrung slow from elder eyes!
Il
#. have lived to look on “death and dying,”
T iº, the sinking pulse—the short'ning
0. eath—
º the last faint life-streak flying—flying—
99p–to start to be alone with death !
hd * --
§ º lived to feign the smile of gladness,
Whe '', all within was cheerless, dark, and cold—
An †. *arth's joys seemed mockery and madness,
life more tedious than “a tale twice told.”
h nov
Noº Tand now—pale, pining Melancholy!
In º lºgº veiled for me your haggard brow
‘... sweetness, such as youthful folly
ondly °onceited; I abjure ye now !—
Wav
{ { ń." !—No longer now I call ye,
No lo ºnest Melancholy mild, meek maid!”
A Wi. may your siren spells enthrall me,
“Gi "g captive in your baleful shade.
W *
i. . the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter,
The lº ºrkling glance of pleasure's roving eye –
Ome lS Past-avaunt, thou dark hereafter 1–
° in h '* and drink—to-morrow we must die!”
In hi
The ...tº mood the fool hath spoken—
G
. yhose heart hath said “There is no
But for the stricken soul—the spirit broken—
There's balm in Gilead still: The very rod,
If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth,
Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart,
And “peace that passeth understanding” blendeth
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart.
Mine be that holy, humble tribulation—
No longer “feigned distress, fantastic woe ;”
I know my griefs—but then my consolation,
My trust, and my immortal hopes I know
** SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE EVIL
Thereof.”
OH ! by that gracious rule
Were we but wise to Steer
On the wide sea of Thought,
What moments, trouble-fraught,
Were spared us here !
But we, (perverse and blind,)
As covetous of pain,
Not only seek for more
Yet hidden, but live o'er
The past again.
This life is called brief—
Man on the earth but crawls
His threescore years and ten—
At best fourscore—and then
The ripe fruit falls.
Yet, betwixt birth and death,
Were but the life of man
By his thoughts measured,
To what an age would spread
That little span
There are, who 're born and die,
Eat, sleep, walk, rest between—
Talk—act by clockwork, too,
So pass, in order due,
Over the scene.
With whom the past is past,
The future, nothing yet;
And so, from day to day
They breathe, till called to pay
The last great debt.
Their life, in truth, is brief;
A speck—a point of time,
Whether in good old age
Endeth their pilgrimage,
Or in its prime.
But other some there are, *
(I call them not more wise,)
In whom the restless mind
Still lingereth behind,
Or forward flies.
With these, things pass away;
But past things are not dead;
In the heart's treasury, ..
Deep-hidden, dead they lie,
Unwithered.
And there the soul retires,
From the dull things that are,
To mingle, oft and long,
With the time-hallowed-throng
Of those that were.
232
MRs. souTHEY's POEMs.
Then into life start out
The scenes long vanished
Then we behold again
The forms that have long lain
Among the dead.
We seek their grasp of love,
We meet their beaming eye;
We speak—the vision's flown,
Dissolving with its own
Intensity.
Years rapidly shift on,
(Like clouds athwart the sky,)
And, lo! sad watch we keep,
When, in perturbed sleep,
The sick doth lie.
We gaze on some pale face,
Shown by the dim watch-light;
Shuddering we gaze, and pray,
And weep—and wish away
The long, long night.
And yet minutest things,
That mark time's tedious tread,
Are on the feverish brain,
With self-protracting pain,
Deep minuted.
The drops, with trembling hand,
(Love steadied,) poured out ;-
The draught replenished—
The label oft re-read
With nervous doubt.
The watch, that ticks so loud ;
The winding it, for one
Whose hand lies powerless;–
And then, the fearful guess—
“Ere this hath run . . . .”
The shutter, half unclosed
As the night wears away;
Ere the last stars are set—
Pale stars!—that linger yet,
Till perfect day.
The morn, so oft invoked,
That bringeth no relief:
From which, with sickening sight,
We turn, as if its light
But mock'd our grief.
Oh never, after-dawn,
For us the east shall streak;
But we shall see agen,
With the same thoughts as then,
That pale daybreak
The desolate awakening,
When first we feel alone!
“Dread memories” are these 4-
Yet who, for heartless ease,
Would exchange one
These are the soul's hid wealth—
Relics embalmed with tears.
Or, if her curious eye
Searcheth futurity—
The depth of years;
There º the deck of youth)
Enchanted land she sees;
Blue skies and sun-bright bowers
Reflected, and tall towers,
On glassy seas.
But heavy clouds collect
Over that bright-blue sky;
And rough winds rend the trees,
And lash those glassy seas
To billows high
And then, the last thing seen
By that dim light, may be
(With helm and rudder lost)
A lone wreck, tempest-tost,
On the dark sea!
Thus doth the soul extend
Her brief existence here,
Thus multiplieth she
(Yea, to infinity')
The short career.
Presumptuous and unwise !
As if the present sum
Were little of life's woe —
Why seeketh she to know
Ills yet to come 4
Look ". look up, my soul,
o loftier mysteries;
Trust in His word to thee,
Who saith, “All tears shall be
Wiped from all eyes.”
And when thou turnest back,
(Oh! what can chain thee here !)
Seek out the Isles of light,
On “Mem'ry's waste” yet bright;
Or if too near
To desolate plains they lie,
All dark with guilt and tears;
Still, still retrace the past,
Till thou alight at last
On life's first years.
There not a passing cloud
Obscures the sunny scene ;
No blight on the young tree;
No thought of what may be,
Or what hath been.
There all is hope—not hope—
For all things are possest.
No—bliss without alloy,
And innocence and joy,
In the young breast.
And all-confiding love,
And holy ignorance,
Thrice blessed veil' Soon torn
From eyes foredoomed to mourn
for man’s offence.
O, thither, weary spirit !
Flee from this world defiled.
How oft, heart-sick and sore,
I’ve wished I were once more
A little child :
GRACIOUS RAIN.
THE east wind had whistled for many a day,
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain ;
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robo of grº)"
Looked sullenly down on the plain.
MRs. souTHEY’s PoEMs. 233
Th
§ºly folded her wings as if dead,
E."...aked ere the full destined time;
9Wer shrank inward, or hung down its
Lik ead
** Young heart frost-nipped in its prime.
t
y #. *k and shivered, and eyed the cold earth,
Andi º heaven with comfortless looks:
nd *ened in vain for the summer birds' mirth,
* music of rain-plenished brooks.
Bu
t, #. While I listened, down heavily dropt
ge "fears from a low-sailing cloud :
and few they descended—then thickened—
en stopt,
Poured down abundant and loud
º of beauty, of sweetness, of sound,
Wi. *ºceeded that soft gracious rain :
A." ghter and singing the valleys rang round,
the little hills shouted again.
€ ur;
T jº sank away like a sleeping child's breath,
And ºilion of clouds was upfurled ;
Sii. Şun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death,
*d out on this beautiful world.
thi
his “ beautiful world,” such a change had been
hen
By tº."ght
On Som °se few blessed drops. Oh! the same
. . dh Stony heart might be worked too, me-
Shºought
unk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.
êW vi *
T.Virtuous tears by the merciful shed
Tººled its hardness, perhaps the good train
Was sown there and rooted, though long
Migjig dead,
d *Shoot up and flourish again.
Il
the Smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from
Mi gº. y º
And i. chase the dark clouds of despair;
ºrse, when the rock's flinty surface was
Miº.
8ush out and soften all there.
!
º to W º
º such a change—by God’s grace to
To º Soul from the death-sleep To this
T. that the angels partake, what were all
the Worldly and sensual call bliss:
TO A DYING INFANT.
Sleep, little baby! sleep !
N Not in thy cradle bed,
* on thy mother's breast
*forth shall be thy rest,
ut with the quiet dead.
Yes
With the quiet dead,
Oh I aby! thy rest shall be—
We many a weary wight,
*Y. of life and light,
ould fain lie down with thee!
Flee, little tender nursling !
Th Flee to thy grassy nest—
°º the first flowers shall blow,
°ºst pure flake of snow
hall fall upon thy breast.
P º
* t Peace! the little bosom
Cxxix abors with shortening breath.
* Living AGE. vol. xI. 15
Peace peace! that tremulous sigh
Speaks his departure nigh—
Those are the damps of death.
I’ve seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee;
But never then, wert thou
So beautiful, as now,
Baby! thou seem'st to me.
Thine upturned eyes glazed over,
Like harebells wet with dew—
Already veiled and hid
By the convulsed lid,
Their pupils darkly blue.
Thy little mouth half open,
The soft lip quivering,
As if, like summer air,
Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Thy soul were fluttering.
Mount up, immortal essence
Young spirit ! hence—depart
And is this death! Dread thing !
If such thy visiting,
How beautiful thou art
Oh! I could gaze forever
Upon that waxen face,
So passionless! so pure'
The little shrine was sure
An angel's dwelling-place.
Thou weepest, childless mother
Ay, weep—’t will ease thine heart;
He was thy first-born son—
Thy first, thine only one ;
'T is hard from him to part.
'T is hard to lay thy darling
Deep in the damp cold earth,
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery,
Late ringing with his mirth.
To meet again in slumber
His small mouth's rosy kiss,
Then—wakened with a start
By thine own throbbing heart—
His twining arms to miss.
And then to lie and weep,
And think the livelong night
(Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness)
Of every past delight,
Of all his winning ways,
His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry,
And all his little wiles.
Oh these are recollections *
Round mothers' hearts that cling!
That mingle with the tears
And smiles of aſter years,
With oft awakening.
But thou wilt then, fond mother,
In after years, look back
(Time brings such wondrous easing)
With sadness not unpleasing,
Even on this gloomy track.
234
MRs. souTHEY’s PoEMs.
Thou'lt say, “My first-born blessing !
It almost broke my heart,
When thou wert forced to go,
And yet for thee, I know
'T was better to depart.
“God took thee in his mercy,
A lamb untasked—untried—
He fought the field for thee—
He won the victory—
And thou art sanctified.
“I look around, and see
The evil ways of men,
And oh, beloved child !
I’m more than reconciled
To thy departure then.
“The little arms that clasped me,
The innocent lips that prest,
Would they have been as pure
Till now, as when of yore
I lulled thee on my breast!
“Now, like a dewdrop shrined
Within n crystal stone,
Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove!
Safe with the Source of love,
The everlasting One !
“And when the hour arrives,
From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await
The first at heaven's gate,
To meet and welcome me.”
* I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY.”
INEveR cast a flower away,
The gift of one who cared for me—
A little flower—a faded flower—
But it was done reluctantly.
I never looked a last adieu
To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain,
Even from their lifelessness to part.
I never spoke the word “Farewell,”
But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick longing for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.
“THERE IS A TONGUE IN Every LEAF.”
TheRE is a tongue in every leaf,
A voice in every rill'—
A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood and fire, through earth and air–
A tongue that's never still
'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through everything we see,
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious—Life and Death—
Time and Eternity.
I see him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud-
I hear him in the mighty roar,
That rasheth through the forest hoar
When winds are piping loud.
I see him, hear him everywhere,
In all things—Darkness, Light,
Silence, and Sound—but, most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall
At the dead hour of night.
I feel him in the silent dews
By grateful earth betrayed—
I feel him in the gentle showers, sº
The soft south wind—the breath of flower”
The sunshine and the shade.
And yet, ungrateful that I am
I’ve turned in sullen mood º
From all these things—whereof he said,
When the great work was finished,
That they were “Very good :''
My sadness on the fairest things
Fell like unwholesome dew—
The darkness that encompassed me,
The gloom I felt so palpably,
Mine own dark spirit threw.
Yet he was patient, slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked
By selfish pining, discontent,
Acceptance cold, or negligent,
And promises revoked.
And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart.
Not always so—I woke again
To join creation's rapt’rous strain—
“Oh Lord ; how good Thou art 1”
The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out—
And Love, and Hope, and Gratitude,
Dispelled that miserable mood
Of darkness and of doubt.
MY EVENING, r
FAREwell, bright Sun' mine eyes have watch”
Thine hour of waning light;
And tender twilight! fare-thee-well—
And welcome star-crowned night !
Pale ! serious ! silent! with deep spell
Lulling the heart to rest;
As lulls the mother's low sweet song,
The infant on her breast.
Mine own beloved hour !—mine own |
Sacred to quiet thought,
To sacred mem'ries, to calm joys,
With no false lustre fraught !
Mine own beloved hour ! for now,
Methinks, with garish day
I shut the world out, and with those
Long lost, or far away,
The dead, the absent, once again
My soul holds converse free—
To such illusions, life how dull
Thy best reality
The vernal nights are chilly yet,
And cheerily and bright
The hearth still blazes, flashing round
Its ruddy ſlick’ring light.
“Bring in the lamp—so—set it there,
Just show its veiled ray
(Leaving all clse in shadowy tone)
Falls on my book—and—stay—
t
MRs. southey's PoEMs.
235
#. ºy, work by me”—Well I love
?rly . needle's useful art;
"...bitious—womanly—
*ne’s a woman's heart.
t *
** | Ply with sempstress rage,
0, º ife, or bread ;
ºlo say—unconsciously
*ckening the half-drawn thread,
Լm fin
Pºi... that (as spell-bound) stop
Ming the neciº wrong, y
St."...towards the open book
“S dy oft, and tarry long.
t
i. ºp'. Leave open the glass-door
For S that winter bow: ;”
w.herein th' uprisºn moon
Pºur her silvery shower;
ill ol.
§ File: ºn those glossy leaves;
And da * White pavement shine:
Th.") with her eastern love,
"reathing jessamine.
jizy ! No ; there’s nothing more
Ohl y §"ing zeal can do;
Yes!—that gypsy flower,”
{{ * that heside me too.”— j
h in ſº $ ſº
ºat Ethiop, in its china vase ?”—
Shui º set it here;—that's right.
Iº.ºor after you.”—T is done;
Settled for the night.
8 * :
† . Snug ;—and first, as if
Blancº: to ascertain,
Ajºld, and stir the fire,
*m the lamp again.
*** fºrm
hy?...yflower. I stoop tº inhale
That *grance. Thou art one
No. º not the vulgar eye,
° broad staring sun;
ſ
er
sº I lovp thee!—(Selfish love
Th. th Preference º be ;)
Coy . Reservest all thy sweets,
W. "g ! for night and me.
at
I ...] was that? Ah, Madam Puss |
Th; : that tender mew—
Th. White face—those sea-green eyes—
iskers, wet with dew,
'ºhe cold
r glass—the greenhouse glass—
W. closely from without ;
Thou * Art heard—I'll let thee in,
**kulking home, no doubt,
tom
ºlº Prowl.—Ah, ruthless cat
Wi. d ºil hast thou done
Of..."; of rapine, the broad eye
...” wº
at
lsº, ""," feather plucked to-night!
With º thou W. tell g
nd v soft pur, those winking eyes,
*ing tail"—weil.
By i. Jºnd —But got thee in,
Na *ger stretch and doze;
º; #ºwl, old man her tail
isked across thy nose.
* The night-smelling stock.
But 't was no act premeditate,
Thy greatness to molest :
Then, with that long luxurious sigh,
Sink down again to rest;
But not before one loving look
Toward me, with that long sigh,
Says, “Mistress mine ! all 's right, all 's well
Thou'rt there, and here am I ?”—
That point at rest, we're still again.
I on my work intent;
At least, with poring eyes thereon,
In seeming earnest bent :
And fingers, nimble at their task,
Mechanically true; &
Tho' heaven knows where, what scenes, the while,
My thoughts are travelling to
Now far from earth—now over earth,
Traversing lands and seas;–
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood,
Such idle rhymes as these;—
Now dwelling on departed days—
Ah! that's no lightsome mood;—
On those to come—no longer now
Through hope's bright focus viewed.
On that which is—ay, there I pause,
No more in young delight;
But patient, grateful, well assured,
“Whatever is, is right !”
And all to be is in His hands—
Oh, who would take it thence?
Give me not up to mine own will,
Merciful Providence 1
Such thought, when other thoughts, may be,
Are darkening into gloom,
Comes to me like the angel shape,
That, standing by the tomb,
Cheered those who came to sorrow there.—
And then I see, and bless
His love in all that he withholds,
And all I still possess.
So varied—now with book, or work,
Or pensive reverie,
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights,
Or scribbling vein, may be;
Or eke the pencil's cunning craft,
Or lowly murmured lay
To the according viola—
Calm evening slips away.
The felt-shod hours move swiftly on,
Until the stroke of ten
(The accustomed signal) summons round
My little household. Then,
The door unclosing, enters first
That aged, faithful friend, g
Whose prayer is with her Master's child
Her blameless days to end.
The younger pair come close behind;
But her dear hand alone—
(Her dear old hand! now tremulous
With palsying weakness grown)—
236 Mrs. souTHEY's PoEMs.
Must rev'rently before me place
The Sacred Book. 'T is there—
And all our voices, all our hearts,
Unite in solemn prayer;
In praise and thanksgiving, for all
The blessings of the light ;
In prayer, that He would keep us through
The watches of the night.
A simple rite and soon performed ;
Leaving, in every breast,
A heart more fittingly prepared
For sweet, untroubled rest.
And so we part.—But not before,
Dear nurse ! a kiss from thee
Imprints my brow. Thy fond good-night!
To God commending me !
Amen l—And may His angels keep
Their watch around thy bed,
And guard from every hurtful thing
That venerable head
tºº-ſº
DEPARTURE.
WHEN I go away from my own dear home
Let it be at the fall of the leaf-
When the soulless things that to me have been
Like spirits peopling the silent scene,
Are fading, as if in grief.
When the strains of the summer birds have ceased,
Or in far-off regions swell—
Oh! let me not hear the blithesome song
Of that Blackbird I fed all winter long,
When I'm taking my last farewell.
The Robin-redbreast will come, I know,
That morn to the window pane,
To look, as wont, for the scattered feast,
With his large dark eyes:—and that day, at least,
He shall not look in vain.
Let the autumn wind, when I go away,
Make moan with its long-drawn breath—
“Fare thee well, sad one l’’ ‘t will seem to say—
“Yet a little while, and a little way,
And thy feet shall rest in death.”
And here, and there, an evergreen leaf
I'll gather from shrub and tree,
To take with me wherever I go;
And when this poor head in dust lies low,
To be laid in the coffin with me.
I go not like one in the strength of youth,
Who hopes, though the passing cloud
May pour down its icy hail amain,
That'summer and sunshine may break out again
The brighter from sorrow's shroud.
An April morn and a cloudy day
My portion of life hath been
And darker and darker the evening sky
Stretches before me gloomily,
To the verge of the closing scene.
Gloomily darkens the evening sky:
I shall go with a heavy heart—
Yet—would I change, if the power were mine,
One tittle decreed by the will divine !
Oh! no—not a thousandth part;-
In my blindness I’ve wished—in my feeblene”
Wept—
With a weak, weak woman's wail- t
But humbling my heart and its hopes in the .
(All its hopes that are earthly)—I’ve ancho
my trust
On the strength that can never fail.
T.
to My Little cousin, with iER first Boº"
FAIRIEs guard the baby’s bonnet-
Set a special watch upon it:
Elfin people ! to your care
I commit it, fresh and fair;
Neat as neatness, white as snow-
See ye make it ever so.
Watch and ward set all about,
Some within and some without ;
Over it, with dainty hand,
One her kirtle green expand;
One take post at every ring ;
One at each unwrinkled string;
Two or three about the bow
Vigilant concern bestow ;
A score, at least, on either side,
'Gainst evil accident provide;
(Jolt, or jar, or overlay;)
And so the precious charge convey
Through all the dangers of the way.
But when those are battled through,
Faries' more remains to do.
Ye must gift, before ye go,
The bonnet and the Babe also-
Gift it to protect her well,
Fays' from all malignant spell,
Charms and seasons to defy,
Blighting winds and evil eye.
And the bonny Babe on her
All your choicest gifts confer;--
Just as much of wit and sense,
As may be hers without pretence—
Just as much of grace and beauty,
As shall not interfere with duty—
Just as much of sprightliness,
As may companion gentleness—
Just as much of firmness, too,
As with self-will hath nought to do-
Just as much light-hearted cheer,
As may be melted to a tear—
By a word—a tone—a look—
Pity's touch, or Love's rebuke—
As much of frankness, sweetly free,
As may consort with modesty—
As much of feeling, as will bear
Of after life the wear and tear— herº
As much of life But, but Fairies' "
Ye vanish into thinnest air;
And with ye parts the playful vein
That loved a light and trivial strain.
Befits me better, Babe for thee
To invoke Almighty agency—
Almighty love—Almighty power
To nurture up the human flower;
To cherish it with heavenly dew,
Sustain with earthly blessings too :
And when the ripe full time shall be,
Ingraft it on Eternity. -
MRs. souTHEY's POEMs. 237
ON T
**Moval of some FAMILY poRTRAITs.
Silest friends! fare ye well—
Livi ſº Shadows adieu.
Wing friends long I’ve lost,
Now I lose you.
Bitter tears many I’ve shed,
D Ye've seen them flow ;
teary hours many I’ve sped,
Full well ye know.
Yet in my lº
* indly, methought
Still ye looked down on me, ght,
Mocking me not,
With light speech and hollow words,
T Grating so sore
he sad heart, with many ills
Sick to the core.
Then, if my clouded skies
S Brightened awhile,
°emed your soft, serious eyes
Almost to smile.
Silent friends fare ye well—
Livi Shadows 1 adieu.
Wing friends long I’ve lost,
Now I lose you.
*aken from hearth and board,
I When all were gone ;
looked up to you, and felt
Not quite alone.
Not quite companionless,
M While in each face
et me familiar
The stamp of my race.
Thine, gentle ancestress'
Melti Dove-eyed and fair,
elting in sympathy
Oft for my care.
Grim Knight and stern visaged
(S . Yet could I see
moothing that furrowed face)
Good-will to me.
*nd looks were beamin
Upon me, firew,
—bonnie lady l—
From you, and from you.
little think happy ones,
H Heart-circled round,
°W fast to senseless things
Hearts may be bound;
Fair sir
How, When the living prop's
Heart.st- Mouldered and gone,
*i-strings, low trailing left,
Clasp the cold stone.
Silent friends ! fare ye well—
is . . . . Shadows! adieu.
Living friends long I’ve lost,
Now I lose you.
Often when spirit-vexed,
Weary and worn,
To your quiet faces, mute
Friends, would I turn.
Soft as I gazed on them,
Soothing as balm,
Lulling the passion-storm,
Stole your deep calm—
Till, as I longer looked,
Surely methought
Ye read and replied to
My questioning thought.
f
“Daughter,” ye softly said—
** Peace to thine heart:
We too—yes, daughter! have
Been as thou art,
“Tossed on the troubled waves,
Life's stormy Sea ;
Chance and change manifold
Proving like thee.
“Hope-lifted—doubt-depressed—
Seeing in part—
Tried—troubled—tempted—
Sustained as thou art-
“Our God is thy God—what He
Willeth is best—
Trust him as we trusted : then
Rest, as we rest.”
Silent friends! fare ye well—
- Shadows 1 adieu-
One friend abideth still
All changes through.
THE CHILD’s UNBELIEF.
“CoME hither, my little Child' to me
Come hither and hearken now.
My poor, poor Child! is this a day
For thee to dance, and sport, and play,
Like blossom on the bough {
“Fair blossom' where's the fostering bough?
And where's the parent tree!
Stem, root, and branch—all, all laid low;
Almost at once—at one fell blow :
Dear Child ! cling close to me,
“(My Sister's Child!) for thou shalt grow
Into my very heart:
But hush that ringing laugh—to me
The silver sound is agony;
Come, hearken here apart,
“And fold thy little hands in mine,
Thus standing at my knee;
And look up in my face, and say-
Dost thou remember what, to-day,
Weeping, I told to thee!
“Alas! my tears are raining fast
Upon thine orphan head; .
And thy sweet eyes are glistening now—
Harry at last believest thou
That thy poor mother's dead!”
“No, no, my mother is not dead-
She can't be dead, you know :
Oh aunt! I saw my father die,
All white and cold I saw him lie—
My mother don't look so.
238
MRS. souTHEY's PoEMs.
“She cried when I was sent away,
And I cried very much;
And she was pale, and hung her head,
But all the while her lips were red,
And soft and warm to touch.
“Not like my father's—hard and cold—
And then she said, beside,
She'd come to England Soon, you know.”
“But, Harry ! that was months ago—
She sickened since and died:
“And the sad news is come to-day,
Told in this letter. Sce,
'Tis edged and sealed with black.”—“Oh! dear,
Give me that pretty seal. Look, here
I’ll keep it carefully,
“With all these others, in my box—
They’re all for her. Don’t cry,
I'll learn my lessons every day,
That I may have them all to say
When she comes, by and by.” * *
“Boy!, boy! thy talk will break my heart—
Oh Nature can it be
That thou in his art silent so?—
Yet what, poor infant! shouldst thou know
Of life's great mystery 1
“Of time and space—of chance and change—
Of sin, decay, and death:
What canst thou know, thou sinless one
Thou yet unstained, unbreathed upon
y this world's tainting breath?
“A sunbeam all thy little life
Thy very being bliss—
Glad creature! who would waken thee
To sense of sin and misery
From such a dream as this!”
THE RIVER,
River ! River! little River!
Bright you sparkle on 㺠way,
Q'er the yellow pebbles dancing,
Through the flowers and foliage glancing
Like a child at play.
River! River! swelling River!
On you rush o'er rough and smooth—
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping,
Like impetuous youth.
River! River! brimming River!
Broad and deep and still as Time,
Seeming still—yet still in motion,
Tending onward to the ocean,
Just like mortal prime.
River! River! rapid River!
Swifter now you slip away;
Swift and silent as an arrow,
Through a channel dark and narrow,
Like life's closing day.
River! River! headlong River!
Down you dash into the sea;
Sea, that line hath never sounded,
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded,
Like eternity.
TO THE LADY-BIRD.
“HADy:BIRD ! Lady-bird! fly away home”-
The field-mouse is gone to her nest,
The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes.
And the bees and the birds are at rest.
Lady-bird! Lady-bird! fly away home—
The glow-worm is lighting her lamp, ingº
The dºw’s falling fast, and your fine speckledw
Will flag with the close clinging damp.
Lady-bird! Lady-bird! fly away home—
Good luck if you reach it at last :
The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the ro
Sharp-set from their Ramazan fast.
aſſly
Lady-bird! Lady-bird! fly away home—
The fairy bells tinkle afar,
Make haste, or they’ll catchye, and harnessye
With a cobweb, to Oberon's car.
fast,
Lady-bird! Lady-bird fly away home–
But, as all serious people do, first
Clear your conscience, and settle
affairs,
And so be prepared for the worst.
Lady-bird! Lady-bird! make a short shriſt-
ere's a hair-shirted Palmer hard by:
And here's Lawyer Earwig to draw up yo
And we'll witness it, Death-Moth and Í.
lº. ! Lady-bird! don't make a fuss–
ou’ve mighty small matters to givo;
Your coral and jet, and—there, there—you can
A codicil on, if you live.
your world'ſ
llſ will
tack
lº. Lady-bird' fly away now
o your house in the old willow-tree, ant
Where your children, so dear, have invited the
And a few cozy neighbors to tea.
Lady-bird! Lady-bird! fly away home,
And if not gobbled up by the way,
Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car,
You're in luck—and that's all I’ve to say.
THE PAUPER’s DEATH-BED.
TREAD softly—bow the head—
In reverent silence bow—
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.
Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed—
One by that paltry bed,
Greater than thou.
Beneath that Beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state:
Enter—no crowds attend—
Enter—no guards defend
This palace gate.
That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands
Liſting with meager hands
A dying head.
LIEUT. Geo. M. BACHE.-R. P. WARD, ESQ.
239
No mingling voices sound—
º infant wail alone;
Sob suppressed—again
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.
*; change—Oh! wondrous change—
Thi urst are the prison bars—
his moment there, so low,
9 agonized, and now
Beyond the stars
Oh!
Th
change—stupendous change
here lies the soulless clod:
e Sun eternal breaks—
9 new Immortal wakes—
Wakes with his God.
*–
T From the Boston Daily Advertiser.
H
* ATE LIEUT. com. Geo. M. Bache.
T º
ºfficer, at the time of his death, was engaged
eries of
wij observations, the practical object of
ºil. to improve and perfect the thermometrical
vº. of our own coast, but which also lead to
B ºns of great interest inH. SC16I1Ce.
the . the descendant of Dr. Franklin, who was
te pe * to make systematic experiments upon the
alo *ure of the remarkable current that flows
Wit 8 Our shores, he had entered upon this duty
Suc Onorable zeal to continue, and carry to a
ºn his O Ul termination, the useful work, commenced
lts i. family, and associated with the name of
He 'gºlºl ancestor.
ents a.” qualified for his task both by natural tal-
hawal offic. an education quite uncommon for a
º; Passing his examination for promotion, he
fitted. Several years to a course of study, such as
the ... particularly for scientific observation; and
ºnjºn of his brother to the office of superin-
ºpp. the coast survey afforded him a suitable
kºjity for the employment of his talents and
.g.
With ºusly to this, however, he had been connected
lar duti *ame work in the performance of its regu-
ºccº. and nine years of assiduous and very
he jabor, have identified his usefulness with
so fjºr, part of the hydrography of this coast,
W * has been executed by the coast survey.
oil. of his date of commission were more
ter, ... ed in the general duties of the naval off-
et ºne excelled him in the number and vari-
§entle *ºmplishments which are becoming to a
ºldeed . ºn every station. In this latter respect,
than pi º was an ornament to the navy, and more
his prof the debt that every man is said to owe to
gh. ºon. He was a good seaman, and de-
We to a". exercise of an art especially attract-
last Wel old and enterprising spirit. During, the
St §gle Yº hours of his life, while engaged in a
At this. Yºth one of those destroying storms which
QVer ...” of the year sweep with fearful havoc
§hili. *st, he displayed perfect coolness and
Aſter. Yith the resources of seamanship, and
of the ...ful examination into the circumstances
ed an . it cannot be perceived that he neglect-
and §.ºry precaution, or that his judgment
He i.” not fully equal to every emergency.
las ** brave stand to save his vessel, and the
alone º he gave before being washed overboard
* *d her from total wreck.
acc
A short time before giving this order he called
upon his officers to observe that he had done every-
thing that was possible to preserve the vessel, and
the lives of those under his command. He died
with this expression of disinterested devotion to the
obligations of his responsible station on his lips—as
it becomes an officer, at his post—and as it becomes
a good man, thinking more of his duty than of him-
self.
Those who were intimately acquainted with his
habit of serious thought know that it was the noble
ambition of his life to be useful, working while it
was yet day. +- *
And this purpose he certainly attained, as well in
the profitable results of his life, which appear in nu-
merous records of the coast survey, as in the honor-
able example of his death, which found him labor-
ing in the cause not of his country alone, but of sci-
ence and humanity.
Robert PLUMER WARD, Esq.-On Thursday,
the 13th, at the residence of the lieutenant governor
of Chelsea Hospital, died Robert Plumer Ward, of
Gilston Park, in his 82d year. He held office in
the ordnance, and other departments, for the quarter
of a century whilst in parliament, and during the
tory administrations of Pitt, Perceval, and Liver-
pool ; and when released from the labors which
these duties entailed upon him, he, fortunately
for his future fame, turned his eminent talents to
the cultivation of literature. Twenty-one years ago
he published “Tremaine, or the Man of Refine-
ment.” . Success and popularity immediately at-
tended this novel; and just two years after appeared
from the same hand, “De Vere, or the man of In-
dependence.” The admirable study of George
Canning, among other well-known literary and
political characters, in these pages, helped to render
them still more popular than, with all their merits,
they might otherwise have been. Dr. Cyril Jack-
son was finely portrayed in this group, and a touch
of the autobiography of the author himself peeped out
in the episodes called “The Man of Imagination,”
and “The Man of Content.” And content he was to
remain ten years before he once more addressed the
public. His “Illustrations of Human Life” (like the
preceding, in 3 vols.,) issued from the press in the
spring of 1837, and was followed, in December,
1838, by “Pictures of the World,” 3 vols., re-
plete with variety, and, like a Macedoine jelly, full
of fine fruits—the results of “much reading, great
experience of the world, sensibility towards the
beauties of nature, a highly cultivated taste, and a
philosophical turn of mind.” In 1841, “ De Clif-
ford, or the Constant Man,” in 4 vols., worthily
crowned these excellent productions from Mr. Col-
burn's teeming printing-office; but if we remember
rightly, Mr. Murray, about 1838, also published a
work by Mr. Ward, entitled “An Historical Essay
on the real Character and Amount of the Precedent
of the Revolution of 1688.” Such are the literary
features in the life of this º English gen-
tleman, whose family and personal and political
career will be appropriately ſound in Burke's last
part of the “Gentry of England,” just published.
We had the honor and pleasure of Mr. Ward's
friendship for many years, and can, faithfully bear
witness to his fine intelligence and boundless infor-
mation, to the grace and courtesy of his manners,
to the charms of his conversation in society, of the
liberality of his spirit, to the integrity of his whole
life, firm in public principle and exemplary in pri-
240
DR. BOSTOCK–PHRENOLOGY OF TOM THUMIB.
vate intercourse. . During his later years he suf-
fered from the infirmity of deafness, but neverthe-
less displayed his intellect unaffected to the end,
and was as cheerful and instructive as we have
known him in earlier days. By a curious coinci-
dence, as if coming events did cast their shadows
before, he told us that in writing one of his first
works, he looked over a road-book to select the
name of an old English gentleman's seat congenial
to the scene he was about to paint, and pitched
upon Okeover as possessing the desirable sound.
Twenty years after, having never otherwise heard
or thought of it, he married the lady to whom that
estate belonged, and lived there during many years,
the guardian of her son by a former husband, its
owner. Mr. Ward, the member for Sheffield, and
the inheritor of much of his father’s abilities,
adopted a different line of politics, in which he has
distinguished himself, and is a member of the pres-
ent government. His highest wish may be, that at
the close of his career, his consistency and conduct
in every respect may cause him to be as widely es-
teemed and regretted as his honored father.—
Abridged from the Literary Gazette.
DR. Bostock.-Among the deaths recorded in
the public obituaries of the last fortnight will be
found that of Dr. Bostock, whose name has been
long associated with the progress of medical and
general science. He was a native of Liverpool,
and was the only child of Dr. Bostock, who, after a
bright but very brief career of practice in that town,
was cut off at an early age, in 1774. The subject
of the present notice was born in 1773. Under the
tuition of Dr. Priestley, Dr. Black, Dr. Monroe, and
Dr. Hope, he became imbued with an enthusiastic
love of science, more especially as connected with
physiology and the practice of medicine. Having
graduated at Edinburgh, in 1794, he settled in his
native town, where he was distinguished by a suc-
cessful practice, and by the most active encourage-
ment of the local charities and literary institutions.
He removed to London in 1817–influenced chiefly
by the larger facilities afforded by the metropolis
for the prosecution of his favorite study, and for en-
joying the society of his scientific friends. To those
already mentioned he was now able to add the illus-
trious names, of Davy, Wollaston, and Young.
Here he finally renounced the practice of physic,
and devoted himself entirely to literary and scien.
tific pursuits. Prior to this period, Dr. Bostock had
contributed many important articles to Brewster's
Encyclopædia, and to most of the leading journals;
and he now proceeded to publish his Elementary
System of Physiology—a work of greatimportancé,
containing the first connected view of the science
put forward in this country: The third and last
edition was published in 1837; , He afterwards
wrote a History of Medicing, which forms part of
the introduction to the “Cyclopædia of Practical
Medicine.” His other writings are very numer-
ous; but it is not possible, in a brief memoir, to
enumerate the titles even of all his separate publi-
cations, to say nothing of his contributions to the
cyclopædias and leading journals of London and
dinburgh. Since his residence in London, he has
been associated with most of the scientific bodies
there, and has taken an active share in the manage-
ment of many. In 1826, he was president of the
tiousness is conspicuous in the lateral aspect.
Geological Society; in 1832, one of the vice-prº
dents of the Royal Society; and several time.
has been on the councils of the Linnean, Zoolog”.
Horticultural, and Medico-Chirurgical societie...".
well as of the Royal Society of i. :
word, Dr. Bostock may be said to have held a º 3.W.
inent position among, those who have in our. al
united their energies in the advancement of mediº
and physical science. In private life he .
respected and beloved. He was at all times equº;
ready to impart the overflowings of his sens.
and affectionate heart, and the varied stores "
which his intelligent mind abounded.—Athena”
*
Phrenology of Tom Thumb.—The head of
General Tom Thumb has been examined by i.
Straton, who reports of it that the size of the bral
is the smallest recorded of one capable of san?”
somewhat vigorous mental manifestation.
º 3
“As regards the balance of the diſſerent paſſ
of the head, ‘General Tom Thumb' is a very º:
vorable specimen in most particulars. The .
rior and coronal regions are slightly below anº.
balance, the posterior is slightly above. Som: .
the individual organs present slight deviations ſº
the equal balance. In the anterior region, in º
uality, form, size, weight, locality, and eventuall'ſ!
especially, the last, are the largest organs. A
cerebellum seems to be very small, as defectiº
indeed as I have ever seen it in an infant of *
months. . . In this particular the ‘general' is a very
remarkable case against the doctrine held by son.
that the cerebellum is connected with the regº.
tion of muscular action; for, if there be any 9.
thing more than another, for which he can be sº
to be remarkable, apart from his diminutive º:
and fine proportions, it is his control over muse.
action. In his representations of the Grecian * i
ues, Napoleon, Frederick the Great, the Eng".
gentleman, the Highland chieftain, &c., the *.
ity with which he can change his posture, and
accuracy with which he can imitate the actions a"
attitudes—so far as mere muscular action is ° 35
cerned—of the objects represented, are regarded
very remarkable. His intellectual acquireme X-
are said to be very limited as yet. It will be *.
tremely important to note his progress in this §o
ticular. It is to be hoped that phrenologists.
happen to meet with the ‘general' will endeavº.
inform themselves as accurately as possible reg"
ing his progress and proficiency in intellectual.
suits, and report from time to time. His muse”
system has attained a degree of firmness, strº.
and maturity, quite equal to, or rather beyond.
average of his age. It is legitimate to pres"dé”
that the brain is matured in a corresponding m”
gree. His health is said to be excellent. “ gº.
eral Tom Thumb' is, then, I repeat, a case of º
usual interest to the phrenological world...
affords the extremely rare opportunity of solv! ſ
one question in the great problem: What 3.
of manifestation is a well-balanced and heal!
head of a given size capable of: The ‘g
certainly very near, if he does not actually
the extreme lowest point on the scale O
What, then, is a head of 66 or a brain of 40°
inches capable of attaining in his circumstancº”
—Critic.
*
is
176.
POWER OF ANIMALS TO SEE IN THE DARK, 241
ON T From Sharpe's Magazine.
* Supposed power of certAIN ANI-
MALS To see IN THE DARK.
isºlº belief that cats see in the dark de-
Of em. ºnt support from the recorded opinions
the cat * naturalists. Buffon says, “The eyes of
whi..."e in the dark somewhat like diamonds,
which º out, during the night, the º: with
the day y Were, in a manner, impregnated during
of th:... , Walmont de Bamare says, “The pupil
...sº
lth tº: during the night, still deeply imbued
of t ight of the day;” and again, “The eyes
light ti. are, during the night, so imbued with
hous: it they then appear very shining and lumi-
§'s, and Pallanzani says, “The eyes of cats, pole-
|ke'. Several other animals, shine in the dark
light º small tapers,” and he asserts that this
On P. osphoric. M. Dessaignes, in his Memoir
anim ls Phorescence, says, “The eyes of certain
Pear ºve the faculty of inflaming, and of ap-
says "...s if on fire in the dark.” Treviranus
light e.ºyes of the catshine where no rays of
ln jºinté, and the light must in many, if not
Same a. proceed from the eye itself.” The
lºs, ºrity also records the case of two Albi-
lt, pho §y and a girl, whose eyes were, as he calls
play. Orescent. Late in the evening they dis-
in fi * yellowish brightness, which darted forth
"f th: 99ruscations or globules from the interior
Years d. Michaelis relates, that, for many
ind."g the interval between day and night,
of li .g the night itself, he observed irradiations
that...ling from his eyes, sometimes so strong
...ld read the smallest print.
the a...ºf venturing to place in the above category
's sai *tion of another naturalist, that “a person
duº. 9 have recognized a robber by the light pro-
§ opi '' a blow on the eye,” and being strongly
ble". "n that the effects àescribed by so respecta-
dise. *uthority as Michaelis proceeded from
Spe. We would remark that the other authorities
88 º from experiment, but from cursory ob-
ºf the ... and the reports of others. That the eyes
true: “do shine in the dark is to a certain exten
Real i. We have to inquire whether by dark is
fºund th ° entire absence of light; and it will be
ºf s... the solution of this question will dispose
thanºl assertions and theories which, during
- jºries, have B.º.º. this subject.
lish. Cars ago, Dr. Karl Ludwig Esser pub-
*im. Šarsten's Archives the results of an ex-
the º tal Inquiry on the luminous appearance of
the i. 9f the cat and other animals; and about
ºn tº "...time M. Prevost also produced a Memoir
Dr i. subject.
Shimºjº is careful to distinguish between such
Weſleet .* really evolve light, and those which only
Ayiii. ... Among the former he recognizes the
ºãcts of ºf medusae which often light up large
He al the Ocean's surface ; and luminous insects.
Real º *mits that among the higher animals a
ligh 8 *Phorescence often occursº such is the
Ilo ...tº y the eggs of the lizard; the lumi-
the J. of the perspired matter in men and horses;
the *ical light evolved by stroking the back of
li His a *: , He next proceeds to inquire whether
Havi *ally evolved from the eyes.
e."8 brought a cat into a half darkened room,
.* a certain direction, that the eyes
Very i. when opposite the window, sparkled
*y, but that in other positions the light
*y vanished. On causing the cat to be held
so as to exhibit the light, and then gradually dark-
ening the room, the light entirely disappeared when
the room was made quite dark.
In another experiment, a cat was placed opposite
the window in a darkened room. A few rays were
permitted to enter, so as to fall upon the face of the
animal, while the observer stood with his back to
the window. The light of the cat's eyes was of a
beautiful green color, but it vanished entirely when
the observer turned his head, or the cat her eyes, a
little on one side. By adjusting the light, one or
both of the cat's eyes were made to shine. In pro-
portion as the pupil was dilated the eyes were
brilliant. By suddenly admitting a strong glare of
light into the room, the pupil contracted, and then
suddenly darkening the room, the eye exhibited a
small round luminous point, which enlarged as the
pupil dilated.
The eyes of the cat sparkle most when the ani-
mal is in a lurking position, or in a state of irrita-
tion. Indeed, the eyes of all animals, as well as of
man, appear brighter during rage than in a qui-
escent state ; a circumstance not forgotten by Col-
lins, in his Ode on the Passions, where he describes
Anger, “his eyes on fire.” It is said to arise
from an increased secretion of the lachrymal fluid
on the surface of the eye, by which fluid the light
is rendered more brilliant in consequence of in-
creased reflection. f
Dr. Esser examined the eyes of cats while under
the influence of rage and irritation; as also while
they were pleased and enjoying their food, and
while they were perfectly tranquil ; but, in places
absolutely dark, he never discovered the slightest
trace of light in the eyes of these animals, and he
has no doubt that in all eases where cats' eyes have
been seen to shine in dark places, such as a cellar,
that light penetrated through some window or
aperture, and fell upon the eyes of the animal, as
it turned towards the opening, while the observer
was favorably situated to obtain a view of the re-
flection.
To prove more clearly that this light does not
depend upon the will of the animal, nor upon its
angry passions, experiments were repeated on the
head of a dead cat. The sun's rays were admitted
through a small aperture, and falling immediately
upon the eyes, caused them to glow with a beauti-
ful green light, more vivid even than in the case of
a living animal, on account of the increased dilata-
tion of the pupil.
r. Esser remarked that black and fox-colored
cats evolved a brighter and more conspicuous light
than grey and white ones; that the ‘. of dogs,
horses, sheep, and hares, shone in dimly lighted
places, but that the light differed in color and inten-
sity in the different animals. He also mentions the
case of an Albino whose eyes were luminous; he
suffered so much from the dread of light that he
never ventured abroad except in twilight. .
On inquiring into the cause of this luminous ap-
pearance, Dr. Esser dissected the eyes of cats, and
exposed them to a small regulated amount of light
after having removed diſſerent portions. . The light
was not diminished by the remºval of the cornea,
but only changed in color. , The light still con:
tinued after the iris was displaced ; but on taking
away the crystalline lens it was greatly diminished
both in intensity and color. “It now struck me,”
says our ingenious authority, “that the tapetum in
the hinder part of the eye must form a spot which
caused the reflection of the incident rays of light,
and thus produced the shining. This was the more
242
OF SIBERIA,
GROUND-ICE
probable, as the light of the eye now seemed to
emanate from a single spot. After taking away
the vitreous humor, I observed that in reality the
entire want of the pigment in the hinder part of the
choroid coat, where the optic nerve enters, formed
d greenish silver-colored changeable oblong spot,
which was not symmetrical, but surrounded the
optic nerve in such a manner that the greater part
was above, and only a small part below it, and,
therefore, the greater part lay beyond the axis of
vision. It is this spot, therefore, that produces the
reflection of the incident rays of light, and beyond
all doubt, according to its tint, contributes to the
differing coloring of the light, to which, neverthe-
less, the remaining parts of the eye, when con-
joined, seem to be no less necessary.” ... . . .
The above quotation will be more intelligible if,
without entering into the anatomy of the eye, it be
simply explained that the interior of the eye is
coated with a black pigment, which has the same
effect as the black color given to the inner surfaces
of optical instruments; it absorbs any rays of light
which may be reflected within the eye, and pre-
vents them from being thrown again upon the
retina, so as to interfere with the distinctness of the
images formed upon it. The retina is very trans-
parent, and if the surface behind it, instead of being
of a dark color, were capable of reflecting light, the
luminous rays which had already acted on the
retina, would be reflected back again through it,
and not only dazzle from excess of light, but also
confuse and render indistinct the images formed on
the retina. Now, in the case of the cat and many
other nocturnal animals, this black pigment, or a
portion of it, is wanting ; and those parts of the eye
from which it is absent, having either a white or a
metallic lustre, are called the tapetum. The small-
est portion of light entering the eye is reflected by
it as by a concave mirror; and hence it is that the
eyes of animals provided with this structure are
luminous in a very faint light. Many animals
which hunt their prey by night are furnished with
a white, instead of a black pigment, whereby the
action of the luminous rays upon the retina is in-
creased.
Dr. Müller enumerates the animals in which the
tapetum is present, and whose eyes, consequently,
shine in the dark; these are the ruminating ani-
mals, the pachydermata, cetacea, owls, crocodiles,
rays, and sharks. It is wanting in man, in apes,
glires, cheiroptera, hedgehogs, and moles; in birds,
except owls, and in osseous fishes. . But the rodent
animals, bats, the hedge-hog, and the mole, all
obtain their food more by night than by day; and
many of them behave in the deepest darkness as if
they were directed by light:
But it has been suggested that the sense of touch,
indefinitely extended, or some other sense, new to
us, may assist these animals. Spallanzanideprived
bats of the use of their eyes, and they flew about,
through hoops, &c., precisely as if they saw. Thé
genera that see by night have so irritable a retina
that they can only see during a very feeble light,
but in those animals which see as well by day as
by night, the retina is less irritable. In the former
case the tapetum is spread over the whole of the
choroid, as is the case with the cetacea, owls, and
some amphibia and fishes; but in carnivorous and
ruminant animals this shining envelope occupies
orky the upper portion of the choroid. M. Prevost
has noticed the shining of the eyes of some in-
sects, among which he names the death's-head
moth. He also notices the color of the tapetum in
different animals. In the ox it is of a bº.
gold green, changing into sky blue; in the hº .
the goat, the .#. the deer, of a silvery º
changing into violet; in the sheep, of a pale 3.
green, sometimes bluish ; in the lion, the cat, beaſ
and the dolphin, of a pale gold yellow ; in .
dog, the wolf, and the badger, of a pure wº.
edged with blue. He is also disposed to doub" t d
opinion of Spallanzani, that cats, polecats,
some other animals, move with promptitude *
certainty in a medium totally deprived of light: ...
a state of nature they are never placed in suº.
cumstances, nor is it probable that total dark".
ever occurs to them in a domesticated state; ".
wherever they may be, there is always a cº,
amount of light, however small, and, in orde.
be able to see, they only require to have their
pil susceptible of great dilatation, and their re.
of an extreme sensibility. It is said that "...
shut up for a long time in a very dark dung”.
becomes at length able to read in it. The noc!” 4
birds which Spallanzani reared saw very we | in
place in which he himself could distinguish nº %
ject, and he admits that the eyes of these birds
not shine in the dark. Besides sheep, cow.
horses, and several other animals which have sh"
ing eyes, would, no doubt, find themselves .
embarrassed in absolute darkness. If some ani.
do move with promptitude and security in comple
darkness, it is certainly not to their eyes that §
are indebted for it, but to some other sense.
bats, in which Spallanzani discovered this fact!!.
owe it, according to him, to a sixth sense, of whic
we have no idea; and, according to Cuvier, to
extent of the membrane which their wing pres.
to the air, and which renders it capable of eeling
its resistance, motion, and temperature. ible
It appears certain that Albinos are never señº.
of the light in their eyes, which is visible toº.
and that, on the contrary, the flashes of light º
ceived when the retina is irritated, are unattº.
by any emission of light, and are, therefore, ºf
visible to any other person than the subjeº
them. inns
The foregoing experiments and observa";
seem sufficient to prove, first, that the shining.
the eyes of the cat and of other animals does "
arise from a phosphoric light, but only from *
!
& § s m0
flected light; that consequently, second, it jº
f
*
an effect of the will of the animal or of Vl
passions; third, that this shining does not aſ bl6
in absolute darkness; fourth, that it cannot e^*
the animal to move with security in the dark.
From Sharpe's Magazin.”
THE FROZEN sub-soil, or GRound-ICP
SIBERIA.
OBSERVATIONS hitherto made under the sº.
of the ground, all tend to prove that there is "...i.
tum, at the depth of from 40 to 100 feet, thrº.
out the whole earth, where the temperature is: ſers
riable at all times and seasons, and which "; h6
but little from the mean annual temperature *.id
country above. At the equator that stratum.”.”in
to be at the depth of little more than a foºd:
places sheltered from the direct rays of the º:
but in temperate climates it is at a much ...,
depth. In the course of more than half a ‘.
the temperature of the earth, at the depth of 99
ſº Yeſ
in the caves of the Observatory at Pâris, hº ...
been above or below 53°, which is only .* his
the mean annual temperature at Paris.
GROUND-ICE
OF SIBERIA. 243
20nº,
j ºted by the sun's rays from above, or by
Whence º heat from below, serves as an origin
§ated on effects of the external heat are esti-
the . * side, and the internal temperature of
§obe on the oth.;
º the last hundred years a vast number of
Hºpe an º have been made in the mines of Eu-
*mperatu ºrica, which agree in proving that the
ing tº. of the earth becomes higher in descend-
We pro *its centre. To this interesting subject
Our . to offer some further details hereafter;
ºmeno °ºt purpose being to notice a curious phe-
the j' ºnnected with the inquiry; viz., that in
ertain egions of the earth's surface, the soil, to a
"letºn *Ph, is always frozen, whatever may be
or of ºature of the air and vegetable soil above,
Some s *śtrata below. That this is the case, to
but ...! depth, has been long known in Siberia;
§.” only recently that the great thickness of the
his **um has been ascertained. Gmelin, in
short *"ºls in Siberia, states that at Yakutsk,
tent.ºr the foundation of that town, about a
"epth y. a half ago, the soil was found frozen at a
§ mnety-one feet, so that the inhabitants were
§ere * give up the sinking of a well. Persons
pties. out by the Academy of Sciences of St.
ºn."ºh, about the middle of the last century,
ºn. ºbservations on this subject; they all con-
"isºr. i. the general facts, but appear to have been
as l 1te by men of science. on Buch, so late
ºunts said, “I am fully convinced that the ac-
ſept, º the soil being frozen in summer to the
ing t ºf many feet, in districts capable of maintain-
Relie.growth of shrubs and bushes, are not to be
Was ; and that Gmelin's statement that the soil
feet . in a well at Yakutsk at the depth of 100
wº §ht no longer to be quoted in elementary
ºw. "Pon natural philosophy.” It will be seen,
that º that a much more striking statement than
"phers Gmelin is now believed by natural philos-
sº ears ago, a merchant at Yakutsk, of the
the .” chargin, began to sink a well, but found
\pſi.". frozen so hard that he was about to give
baij t"empt. Admiral Von Wrangel, the cele-
§til he ºveller, advised him, however, to proceed
lids, "...me to the bottom of the icy ground; he
P ets. sent to the Academy of Sciences at St.
to dig . a record of his proceedings. He had
hejºough a depth of 382 English feet, before
of t."º at the loose and unfrozen soil; the whole
tem.* intermediate mass of earth being at a
ºre, below the freezing-point, and almost
"ninfluenced by summer heats. The tem-
ln | Was about 18°Fahrenheit (14° under the
ÉPºint) at a few feet below the surface of
und; and gradually increased with the depth
depth...eezing-point was attained at about the
§ºn. above.
hce .**ion being deemed worthy of cre-
e is "º philosophers of Russia and Germany
Similar i ºnxious to collect additional facts of a
Soil ºl, in order to determine the limit of fro-
F' that is, the latitude at which the heats of
*hole of $ºome sufficiently powerful to thaw the
has fo...", ground frozen in winter. Humboldt
lat. ºnd the soil frozen at a depth of six feet in
ºature £ar Beresov, Erman has found the tem-
Snly jus of the soil, at a depth of twenty-three feet,
Was #3. ºve the freezing-point; and a dead body
of i. there, which had been buried upwards
show."o years in a bed of frozen soil, without
Signs of decomposition. Towards those
fre º
the
parts of Siberia which border on the Pacific Ocean,
no frozen soil has been found; but in the interior
many records have been collected of ground perma-
nently frozen. a *
It is desirable to explain somewhat more fully
what is meant by “frozen soil,” or, as it is some-
times termed, “ground-ice,” especially as the latter
expression is often used in a very different sense.
Professor Von Baer, in a communication to the
Geographical Society of London, describes the state
of the frozen ground very clearly. If the ground be
totally free from moisture, it cannot be frozen; but
the ground in high northern latitudes is never in
this state. Even the sand, though in the arctic
summer its surface may now and then be perfectly
dry, is always saturated with wet, before the winter
begins. If ground be examined which contains
only very little moisture in a frozen state, it is very
difficult to detect the ice, as it forms an extremely
thin partition between the single particles of the
earth. Should the moisture be somewhat more
considerable before the freezing comes on, small
pieces of ice are perceivable in the frozen earth,
wherever the spaces between the particles of the
soil are large enough to admit them. “These bits
of ice,” says Professor Baer, “which look like
small crystals, I have particularly noticed between
the upper layer of soil, which is thawed, and the
lower layer in a frozen state. But in the flat
marshy districts of the high northern latitudes,
which in Russia are called Fundun, (originally a
Finnish word,) there is so much water in the
ground, that the quantity of water frequently ex-
ceeds that of the soil mixed with it. If in the sum-
mer you drive a pole into the turf, which is here
formed by the grass or the moss, dirty water, mixed
with soil, spirts up in a stream, to a considerable
height.” He also states, that in Nóvaía-Zemlia,
the ground is frequently penetrated by perpendicu.
lar clefts or shafts of ice, never more than four
inches in thickness, and occurring, principally, in
loamy soils. The ground in that region is pene-
trated by fissures in all directions, which are the
result of contraction produced by the frost. In
these fissures, which are usually from one to three
inches in width, water is collected in summer, and
frozen in the following winter; if the fissures go to
any considerable depth, the water is never thawed.
This is especially the case if the spot be gradually
overgrown with a layer of moss.
The term “ground-ice,” which is certainly ap-
propriately applied to this frozen soil, is however
sometimes applied to ice which forms at the bottom
of rivers under certain circumstances, and which it
has been suggested to term “bottom ice,” to distin-
guish it from the former. That ice, which is
lighter than water, should be formed at the bottom
of rivers, while the liquid current flows over it,
though often asserted by some, has been strenuous-
ly denied by others; but recent observations have
confirmed the fact as a real occurrence; and, as the
mode of explaining it has some connexion with our
present subject, we will briefly allude to it. Dif.
ferent observers have found, that, at the bottom of
very rapid rivers, in cold climates, when the bulk
of the water is only just above, the freezing point,
ice may be seen, generally in small crystalliné
pieces, and apparently attached to the ground by a
slight cohesive force. Sometimes the pieces, with-
out any visible cause, become detached from the
bottom, and rise to the surface of the water, bring-
ing with them adherent fragments of sand and stone.
M. Weitz, the superior officer of the Imperial Rus-
244
POEMIS BY AMELIA.
sian Mining Corps, observed this phenomenon with
great attention in one of the Siberian rivers, and in
a Memoir, since translated from the Russian by
Colonel Jackson, he thus states his views of the
cause of this apparent anomaly. “I conceive that
the intensity and long continuance of the cold may
freeze the soil to the depth of the bottom of the
river, particularly where it is not deep, and that
there the diminished velocity of the water permits
its congelation, particularly if there be any hollows
where the water remains stagnant. So long as the
congealed masses continue small with regard to the
volume of water immediately above them, they ad-
here as if rooted to the bottom, but when by
degrees they increase in bulk, the difference in their
specific gravity operates to overcome their adhesion
to the bottom, and they rise, bringing with them
such gravel and stones as we find attached to
them.”
With respect to the depth at which the Siberian
ground is frozen, Professor Baer remarks that its
determination would throw great light on the nature
and formation of springs; because most of the Sibe-
rian springs, which have their source at a small
depth below the surface, cease to flow in winter, as
if their very sources were frozen up; whereas oth-
crs, which flow all the year round, are supposed to
have their source in the warm strata beneath the
frozen ground. That the Siberians are familiar
with the fact of the drying up of small streams in
winter, was shown by an odd incident which oc-
curred to Admiral Wrangel a few years ago. He
was riding (to the north of Yakutsk, in about 65°
N. lat.) over the ice of a pretty considerable river,
when the ice suddenly gave way, and his horse
sank : he was himself saved by being thrown on the
ice, at the moment his horse fell. e was lament-
ing the loss of his horse to the Yakutskers who ac-
companied him, as he knew not how to get another;
but they laughed at him, and assured him they
would soon get his horse back, and with a dry skin
too. They procured some poles and broke away
the ice, under which the bed of the river was per-
fectly dry, as well as the horse and his pack. The
cause of the phenomenon, which appeared to be
well understood by the natives, was this : the sur-
face of the river had become frozen before the Spring
itself, but when the latter froze likewise, the supply
to the river was cut off, and the river emptied itself,
and left a hollow shell of ice where the surface of
the water had once been.
The Academy of Sciences at St. Petersburgh,
esirous of ascertaining how far the influence of the
air and of summer heat affects the frozen ground,
caused a number of thermometers to be buried in
the earth at the sides of the deep well sunk through
the soil at Yakutsk. The thermometers were
placed at the depth of 1,3, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, 150,
200, 250, 300, and 350 feet, two at each depth, the
bulb of one immersed in the side earth to the depth
of a foot, and the other to that of a fathom. These
thermometers were to be observed daily for a lon
period, and there will doubtless be some valuable
results obtained from their indicatiºns, , , ...
Professor Baer has pointed out the desirability of
tracing a line round the northern hemisphere, be-
yond which, northward, there is permanent frozen
soil, or ground-ice; and also of determining the
depth to which the surface soil is affected by the
heat of summer, and the depth of frozen ground be:
neath. To aid in these investigations, he solicited
the coöperation of the Royal Geographical sº
of London, at whose suggestion. Dr. Bicha.
the able and enterprising Arctic traveller, has º:
up a series of instructions for the servants º
Hudson's Bay Company. The object is to col.
information, from every part of the Company ".
territories, in North America, respecting the *.
of the soil at various depths from the surface," g
in various latitudes. Investigations of this ki. oth
now being carried on in the northern parts 0 1 to
continents, and we may confidently look forwºº,
the acquisition of much valuable information 0° tll.
interesting subject.
statº
e ius'
PoEMs by AMELIA, is the title of a volum º
issued. Amelia is the name by which a liter.
tucky poetess, Mrs. Welby, is known to the l nd
ary world. She writes with great sweetnes”.
flow of versification, a graceful use of poetic.
ery, and often with a gentle, womanly pº.
Take, for example, the first five stanzas of the li
poem entitled
THE OLD MAID.
WIIY sits she thus in solitude 4 her heart
Seems melting in her eye's delicious blue,T
And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart
As if to let its heavy throbbings through ;
In her dark eye a depth of softness swells,
Deeper than that her careless girlhood worº
And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells
The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core.
It is her thirtieth birthday! with a sigh :ant
Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriº”
* bowers,
And her heart taken up the last sweet tie
That measured out its links of golden hours'
She feels her inmost soul within her stir
With thoughts too wild and passionate to S
Yet her full heart—its own interpreter—
Translates itself in silence on her check.
peak ;
Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flower.
Once lightly sprang within her beaming traº”
Oh, life was beautiful in those lost hours! f
And yet she does not wish to wander back!
No! she but loves in loneliness to think -
On pleasures past, though never more to be
Hope links her to the future—but the link
#. binds her to the past is memory!
From her lone path she never turns aside, li;
Though passionate worshippers before her fall;
Like some pure planet in her lonely pride, a
She seems to soar and beam above them alſº
Not that her heart is cold ! emotions new ingº
And fresh as flowers, are with her heart-st"
lºnit;
And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through
Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it.
For she hath lived with heart and soul alive
To all that makes life beautiful and fair; heir
Sweet * like honey-bees, have made
IWG
Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there;
Yet life is not to her what it hath been,_ 5°
Her soul hath learned to look beyond its glos
And now she hovers like a star between ſ
Her deeds of love—her Saviour on the Crº.
JEvening Post.
s
NOTHING IS USELESS.
245
X
From Chambers’ Journal.
NOTHING IS USELESS.
sº *told by old-fashioned economists to keep
ºne years, and in the end we shall find a
m. ºn maxim which receives striking con-
arts. *rom the recent progress of the useful
thent of ings which, SO lately âS the COIn Iſle InCe-
have Ilo °ºr journal, were laid aside as useless,
àt * become of value; and substances which
ºnces a. were looked upon as positive annoy-
Age. obstructions, have been turned to advan-
"lustrat * mean to adduce a few examples in
àS . of this fact—a fact doubly gratifying,
i.", not only upon what has been thus
natu."; but as pointing to every other object in
pres. "Qwever worthless in the esteem of our
. §gnorance.
wi. in the first place to agriculture, which,
Pºgº." last twenty years, has made astonishing
of . We are met at every step with evidences
Presen *t that nothing is useless. Before the
asjºnºury, the bones of animals were used to
*xtent in turnery and other arts; but the
º of them was thrown aside as offal, fit
* buried out of sight. Now, every scrap
ºnnel and kitchen is carefully collected;
untr º: e been erected in various parts of the
are . ºr crushing them; and in this state they
tºed as one of the finest manures for light
this p soils. So great has the demand been for
injal during the past fifteen years, that it is
and º rom foreign and even distant countries;
$nce. ..." considerable difficulty has been experi-
lies. i. obtaining a supply. At present, we be-
*śs..."? price of bone-dust ranges from 20s. to
i. ºperial quarter—a price so tempting, that
like "ºtion with slacked lime, sawdust, and the
º, not unfrequently resorted to. How our
{{bon. *...would have laughed at the prediction
ºn."...lº, and British soil fertilized with ship.
same ºnes from Germany and Prussia! The
and ū. be remarked of soot, night-soil, urine,
$º.” substances which used to flow from
boile. °, and from the factories of the soap-
Years’.” Sugar-refiner, and others. Not many
glee. these were wholly, or almost wholly;
$f; n. Clooked upon as nuisances to be got rid
ºmni.hey are carefully collected, and bring
agi."g rices. A story is told that the
*go, We *s of Edinburgh, some century and a half
the re. So thoroughly at a loss what to do with
État.” and oſſal on the streets, that they felt
§gh. they did not even proffer a reward, to a
Th; W ºg laird for carting it off to his land
'hora. y magistracy, however, were not more
... a mu !",their corporate than other people were,
lies;". later period, in their individual capaci.
§anuj "most of the substances now valued as
§º. "ere then nuisances and obstructions.
º *" thrown to the winds, is now carefully
and oth and sold at so much per bushel ; urine,
jetly ...liquid, for which the farmer used for-
from ... sewer, that it might be carried away
his lan.**instead, is now tanked, and poured over
of urine' *ě urate of commerce is but a mixture
sº "d calcined gypsum ; and night-soil is
in jºy prepared with gypsum or lime,
.* and sold under the name of poudrette,
lime, and animal charcoal, which had
° purposes of the sugar refiner, used to be
i.º.º. waste; now, in the south of
'** sold under the name of “animalized
charcoal,” and has, according to Professor John-
stone, risen to such a price, that the sugar refiners
actually sell it for more than what the unmixed
blood and animal charcoal originally cost them :
Guano, though long used by the Peruvians as a
manure, was disregarded by us till within the last
eight or ten years. In 1830, a shipowner would
much sooner have loaded his vessel with profitless
hallast than with this substance ; and yet, in 1845,
irs importation gave employment to a large portion
of our mercantile navy, and cvery rock and islet of
the Pacific and Atlantic was visited, lest, happily,
a few hundred tons of this deposit might reward
the search. Though now reduced to £8 or :E10
a ton, seven years ago its price was more than
double that sum ; and this, be it observed, for a
substance which in our boyhood had no mercantile
value whatever. The ammoniacal liquor of gas-
works, which used to be carried off by covered
drains as a nuisance, is now sold to the farmer at
so much per gallon. And so rapid are revolutions
of this kind, that a gas company, which, to our
knowledge, paid several hundred pounds to obtain
sewerage for this article, would now reckon its
waste to let a single gallon pass that way. And
so will it shortly he with the sewer-water of our
large cities, to which our ancestors never directed
a thought, but which is at present engaging the
attention of the scientific, that it may be converted
into a source of wealth, instead of being, as it has
hitherto been, a source of nuisance and disease.
Nor do we need to look to agriculture alone for
illustrations of our maxim: mining and metallurgy
are equally rich in cxamples. Cobalt, which
yields the valuable blue pigment of that name, was
for ages accounted a very troublesome article to
the miner; copper pyrites, the common available
ore in England, was, till recently, thrown aside as
rubbish by the miners of South America. Mr.
Darwin, speaking of the Chilian method of mining,
observes, that “the two principal improvements
introduced by foreigners have been, first, reducing
by previous roasting the copper pyrites, which,
being the common ore in Cornwall, the English
miners were astounded on their arrival to find
thrown away as useless; secondly, stamping and
washing the scoriae from the old furnaces, by which
process particles of metal are recovered in abun-
dance. I have actually seen mules carrying to
the coast, for transportation to England, a cargo
of such cinders. But the first case is much the
most curious. The Chilian miners were so con-
vinced that copper pyrites contained not a particle
of copper, that they laughed at the Englishmen for
their ignorance, who laughed in turn, and bought
their richest veins for a few dollars. It is very
odd that, in a country where mining had been (2X-
tensively carried on for many years, so simple, a
process as gently roasting the ore, to expel the
sulphur previous to smelting it, had never been dis-
covered.” At the beginning of the present cen-
tury, the black-band ironstone—which has added
an unknown value to the west of Scotland, and
materially influenced the iron trade of the world—
was treated as so much rubbish : no iron-founder
would have taken a gift of it: “For several years
after its discovery,” says Mr. Mushet, to whom
the credit of first employing the black-band is due,
“this ironstone was confined to the Calder iron
works, erected by me in 1800–2, where it was em-
ployed in mixture with other ironstones of the
argillaceous class. It was afterwards used in mix-
ture at the Clyde iron works, and, I believe, no-
246
NOTHING IS USELESS.
where else. There existed on the part of the iron
trade a strong feeling of prejudice against it.
About the year 1825, the Monkland Company
were the first to use it alone, and without any
other mixture than the necessary quantity of lime-
stone for a flux. The success of this company
soon gave rise to the Gartsherrie and Dundyvan
furnaces, in the midst of which progress came the
use of raw pit coal and hot-blast—the latter one of
the greatest discoveries in metallurgy of the prep-
ent age, and, above every other process, admirably
adapted for smelting the black-band ironstone.
The greatest produce in iron-furnace, with the
black-band and cold-blast, never exceeded sixty
tons a week; the produce per furnace with hot-
blast now averages ninety tons. Instead of
twenty, twenty-five, or thirty hundred weight of
limestone, formerly used to make a ton of iron, the
black-band now requires only six, seven, or eight
hundred weight for the production of a ton. This
arises from the extreme richness of the ore, when
roasted, and from the small quantity of earthy
matter it contains, which renders the operation of
smelting the black-band with hot-blast more like
the melting of iron than the smelting of an ore.
When properly roasted, its richness ranges from
sixty to seventy per cent., so that little more than
a ton and a half is required to make a ton of iron.”
Here was an El dorado for our country; and yet,
when the present century commenced, no man re-
garded it; nay, it is only about twenty years since
any company was found bold enough to use it with-
out admixture with other ores . The same re-
marks apply with equal force to anthracite, or non-
bituminous coal, which, ten or twelve years ago,
was known only by the depreciatory names of
“stone-coal” and “blind-coal.” In our own coun-
try this anthracite occupies about one-third of the
mineral basin of South Wales; it is found also in
France, Austria, Bohemia, and Sardinia; and it
constitutes the great bulk of the North American
coal-fields, whose dimensions are computed at
eighty thousand square miles—about sixteen times
as much as the coal-measures of all Europe. At
the time we mention, any of these countries would
have gladly exchanged its supply of anthracite for
a single seam in the Newcastle coal-field; but
now, by the application of the hot-blast in iron-
smelting and founding, the “stone-coal” of our
fathers is employed with as great facility and suc-
cess as the best bituminous coal. In 1840, at a
dinner given at Pottsville, Pennsylvania, by W.
Lyman, Esq., on the occasion of his having suc-
cessfully introduced the smelting, of iron with
anthracite, Mr. Nicolas Biddle, who attended to
witness the result of the experiments, after ex-
pressing his entire satisfaction in their success,
thus observes:—“And this, after all, is the great
mystery, the substitution of what is called the hot-
blast for the cold-blast. Let us, see the changes
which this simple discovery is destined to make.
As long as the iron ores and the coal of the anthra-
cite region were incapable of fusion, the ores were
entirely useless, and the coal nearly unavailable for
manufactures; while as the disappearance of the
timber made charcoal very expensive, the iron of
eastern Pennsylvania was comparatively small in
quantity and high in price, and the defective com-
munications with the interior made its transporta-
tion very costly. The result was, that, with all
the materials of supplying iron in our own hands,
the country has been obliged to pay enormous sums
l
alone—1836–7—the importations of iron and º
amounted to upwards of twenty-four million* in
dollars. It is especially mortifying to see.” the
Pennsylvania, there has been introduced with!" u!”
last seven years, exclusive of hardware aſ that
lery, nearly eighty thousand tons of iron, "...is
of these there were about forty-nine thousand 3.
of railroad iron, costing probably three milliº. ing
a half of dollars. Nay, this very day, in j
your mines, we saw, at the farthest depths ofi irod
subterranean passages, that the very coal aſ rail.
were brought to the mouth of the mines. 9" ...d
tracks of British iron, manufactured in Bria. º
sent to us from a distance of three thousand º
º eſ?
Such was the state of matters in 1840; now. s in
are about one hundred anthracite furnaº.
America; iron, lead, and copper are no", ºr
duced in abundance, and exports, instead . ſfu
ports, may be shortly expected. What wo" *.
results have thus been fanned into existenº beeſ
current of heated air : Even a use has 3c6,
found for the iron dross or slag of the fuº".
which is generally thrown aside as cumbº
refuse. This refuse, while in a fluid state...,
into iron forms, which are previously broug'.er.
red heat by being placed so as to receive the 5. th9
fluous flame which issues from the mouth ºn
furnace. The forms, with their contents, arº ndſ
to Europeans for this necessary. In two years
allowed to cool slowly by being placed in .
just as glass is annealed to render it less brittº.
more compact. By this procedure, it is assº.
that the discoverer (a French mechanic) has j.
ceeded in forming paving-stones, flags, large tll of
ing blocks, and even pipes, of any given ſº
a degree of hardness and polish equal to thº.
hewn natural granite, and at the most trifling
conceivable. is
The progress of chemistry likewise fuſſ"
abundant evidence that nothing in nature. '
less; in fact the whole history of the sci.ſo
one continued exposition of the doctrine.
a single example from Baron Liebig’s .
Letters. Soda has been used from time imº.
rial in the manufacture of soap and glašº. in
chemical productions, which employ and keº
circulation an immense amount of capital:...g.
the present century, this substance was 0%.sc.
from kelp, barilla, and the like, at great exſ.w,
and even in limited and uncertain quantities.l.,
it is procured, to any amount, from commº e iſ
and in this process muriatic acid is set ſº.;
abundance. “At first,” says Liebig, “thºſe
upon the soda was so great, that no one tº"...sº
trouble to collect the muriatic acid; it ran tº . pi.
—it had no commercial value. A profitablº º: 3.
cation of it, however, was soon discovered : "... be
compound of chlorine, and this substance " ſcè.
obtained from it purer than from any other "...eſ
The bleaching power of chlorine has long gº
known, but it was only employed upon ...atiº
scale after it was obtained from residuary " with
acid; and it was found that, in combinatºſhou!
lime, it could be transported to distances w. ſoſ
any inconvenience. Thenceforth it was "... new
bleaching cotton, &c.; and but for tº been
bleaching process, it could scarcely ºisi
possible for the cotton manufacture of Gre... i.
to have attained its present enormous ex. and
could not have competed in price with Frane very
Germany. In the old process for bleachiºring
piece must be exposed to the air and light ºnally
several weeks in summer, and kept com" adow
moist by manual labor. For this purpose."
heş
56°
o “.
Fami.
MORAL INFLUENCE OF THE WAR WITH MEXICO.
247
º situated, was essential. But a single
.."...ºnent near Glasgow bleaches fourteen hun-
W.” *ces of cotton daily throughout the year!
purch." sº capital would be required to
Would it and for this purpose." How greatly
es increase the cost of bleaching to pay inter-
Fig. his capital, or to hire so much land in
~this nº nd yet the object of this vast saving
tººl aid to our manufacturing great-
est., not many years ago, run into the near:
val." sewer as a thing “ of no commercial
Which h ay, we believe the huge chimney stacks
int... been erected within the last five years
car. and other places, for the purpose of
acid .. off the deleterious fumes of the muriatic
how ...gº. in the manufacture of soda, are
acid."ºred superfluous, by the conversion of the
* the a mercantile commodity. So blind are we
*tts ma emands which the progress of the useful
to get º make, that one year we lay out vast sums
Care ld of a substance, which in the next we are
Anoth tº preserve as a source of pecuniary profit."
an.* example from the fertile field of chemistry,
wº", have done. It is known that a fleece of
e..." its natural state, is impregnated with
tºº, which has to be got rid of, as far as
§ocess. before it can be subjected to the ulterior
Onis **, of manufacture. This necessary purga-
throu "lººken by the woolwashers. The waters
ºl...which the wool is passed and purified be:
thu "ecessarily the receptacle of all the fatty stuff
last ...harged. The habit with the woolwashers
won." to throw away these greasy washings as
of...if in country districts, to the pollution
Tij °ighboring streams; and if in towns, to the
her. of the streets and thoroughfares. . In sum:
ſºil. and hot weather, the decomposition and
§. exhalations of those washings becºme an
§bj cause of disease in towns such as Rheims,
F. &c., where the woollen manufactures of
ºver, , *re most largely carried on. Now, how-
Only' ºn ingenious appliance, the evil may not
Šain to 9bviated, but converted into a source of
Public the manufacturer, and healthy profit to the
§ty of nº the simple addition of a certain quan-
has * 9tash and slacked lime, M. Pagnon-Vautrin
lºgs .* the saponification of the greasy wash-
the i. d employs the soap so formed for scouring
*s it wº * or threads of carded wool—thus making,
**, the fleece scour itself.
§tends * a few illustrations—and they could be
thas..." almost indefinitely—of the old-fashioned
know. O With which we headed this paper. We
§atifyin "9, fact in our economical progress more
Period § than that we should, within such a brief
pleas.”e converted to our use, comfort, and
usel.” many substances hitherto considered as
§ end i. even as detrimental. Nor does its bear-
ii, .*; it points us hopefully to the future;
Warns º nothing in nature as worthless, and
haust.” to throw nothing aside until we have ex-
We 9 ºr ingenuity to turn it to, advantage;
us to...hen the history of the past must compel
forth.'" that we have failed in our efforts only
rejec ...ºnt, and that a time will come when the
: Jºct shall assume its value. If the last
in." century has furnished us with more
nly b of our maxim than any former period,
*ause human energy and invention has,
al º ſºme, been more vigorous and more
le
Ulman in
|
|
l
!
rected towards it; and it is mainly for want of
this that so many objects lie worthless or unim-
proved around us.
From the St. Louis Union.
MORAL INFLUENCE OF THE WAR WITH MEXICO.
THAT war is an evil, is unquestionable, and that
it is to be avoided, so far as may be consistent with
honor, is equally true; but there are few evils with-
out a countervailing good. . . . -
Civilization has been the legitimate consequence
of national conflicts, the justice nor the seeming
propriety of which the world could applaud: Col-
iision of arms has brought collision of minds, and
general intelligence has increased and gained
strength by its very diffusion. Knowledge grows
not by hoarding, but, like other wealth, adds to
itself by being judiciously imparted.
Whether the present Mexican race is susceptible
of much enlightenment, is a matter into which it
is not now our purpose to inquire. Sufficient is it,
that these people cannot but be measurably improved
by the acquaintanceship they must necessarily ex-
perience from the existing attitude of the two
countries. But a greater benefit than this, or any
other which the present race may experience, will
be the dispelling of the charm which has so long
veiled that country from the rest of the world, as
an almost unknown land. The barbarism of the
Mexican nation, and the unsettled condition of its
government, have conspired to keep hidden one of
the first agricultural and manufacturing countries
on earth. In future, here will men of enterprise
meet from every country, and either elevate the
national character of the native Mexicans, or raise
up a nation of their own.
This war will facilitate the march of improve-
ment in many respects. The day is not very dis-
tant when a race of civilized men must people the
shores of the Pacific lying in comparative neigh-
borship with China. A trade so valuable as one
which might readily be established between the
Atlantic coast and China, across this continent,
cannot for many years be neglected. Opening a
path, then, to these distant regions, bringing the
Californias near to us, by acquaintanceship, teach-
ing our young men the route to the future homes
of many of them, constitute a national good, the
benefits of which will be felt when all the evils of
the existing war shall have been forgotten . .
he acquirement of a more just appreciation of
the Anglo-American character, by the Indians.will
be another benefit springing from this war. Here:
tofore the Indians of the southwest have derided
all efforts to civilize them, for the reason that those
who essayed the task were neither physiºglly nor
mentally their superiors. The effeminate Spaniard
or mongrel Mexican, has been their object of con-
tempt, rather than emulation. Of other white
races they have seen but little, and scarcely dream
they are so nearly neighbored by a powerful and
highly civilized nation. The Indians of the west
and northwest are but little better informed. They
have occasionally met with an American trapper,
or a missionary, and have learned to fear the one,
and respect the other ; but as to our national
strength, the number of our people, or the condition
of the useful arts, among us, they know nothing.
ºre is scarcely any difficulty that They have considered our reputed power as a
tellect may not conquer, provided fable, and in more than one instance, it is said, have
~y * º *
‘gorous, concentrated thought—be di- punished, even with death, those who have repre-
248
OF THE MICROSCOPE.
COMMERCIAL VALUE
sented the number of white people as being greater
than their own.
A military expedition, then, to the interior of
that vast region over which so many savage tribes
roam—but above all, the subjugation of a nation
whom they well infer had injured us, will produce
an effect among the amazed red men which cannot
but be a guaranty of future friendliness. Convince
them that we have the power to punish, and they
will take for granted the will. As we have before
observed, an intercourse must soon spring up be-
tween two branches of a great nation -at two
extremes of the continent, and anything which
will add to the security of that intercourse is man-
ifestly desirable.
COMMERCIAL VALUE OF THE MICROSCOPE.
We lately had occasion to point out the advanta-
ges resulting from the study of the microscope, even
in a commercial point of view, as exemplified moré
particularly in the article on the fraud practised by
dishonest leech-dealers, an account of which we
gave a few days ago. We have now to direct at-
tention to the means for detecting the adulteration
of musk, by the aid of the microscope, and for which
we are indebted to Dr Neligan, the lecturer on
materia medica in the Dublin medical school:—This
gentleman states, that owing to the high price and
great demand for musk, which, as is now generally
very well known, is the secretion from the male
musk animal, the moschus moschiferus, and that it
is generally imported into the British market from
China, in the natural bags of the animal, by whole-
sale London druggists, by whom it is retailed to the
trade, many of them finding it very much adulter-
ated, prefer purchasing the unopened bag; this pre-
caution, however, is often found not a sufficient pro-
tection against fraud, as spurious musk bags are
very common, and so well, prepared by the ingen-
ious Chinaman, that even the most experienced eye
is often unable to distinguish the true from the
false: it appears that the Chinese, finding a greater
demand for musk than they are able to supply with
the genuine article, squeeze out some of the secre-
tion, which is fluid in the recent state, and mix it
with, it is believed, the dried blood of the animal;
this compound, which presents the same physical
characters as true musk, they put into small sacs
made of pieces of the skin cut off from other parts
of the animal's body, and prepared with the usual
ingenuity of this people, so much so, indeed, as almost
to defy detection with the naked eye. The method
hitherto adopted for detecting this, sophistication,
has been the peculiar position of the hairs, which
are arranged in a circular manner around the orifice
in the genuine musk pod: The means which are
now proposed to detect the fraud depend on the
microscopic character of the hairs, which grow on
the sac of the musk animal, and which differ very
remarkably from those of the false sacs which are
met with in commerce. On placing hairs from both
under the microscope, it will be seen that those from
the natural sac of the animal are furnished in the
interior with distinct, regular, color cells, while in
hairs taken from other parts of the animal's bod
those cells appear to be obliterated, as is generally
the case in this and the allied tribes of animals.
The method above proposed to detect imposition is
a very simple one, and of easy application now that
every pharmaceutist is supposed to be provided with
a microscope, without which he could not possibly
8
detect the adulteration of arrow root and of th
other ſeculas of commerce.—Critic.
º eſ!
LITERATURE For THE Colonies.—It will º:
from the following abridgment of an article 1 t
Montreal Courier, that the attempts of some sp"
English publishers to supply cheap books tº º
colonies have not yet filled up the blank occa."
by the Copyright Act. The privation, we º:
from an extensive private correspondence, has,'.
sionéd great dissatisfaction in the British Nº.
American provinces. We believe that nothing lis
an international copyright, to protect the Dng d
publisher, and the adoption of the cheap Amer”
book style to its full extent, can set mattºº 63
rights:– “The inhabitants of the United St" i
actively engaged in agriculture or commer.
possessing in but a small degree the aſſ!".
necessary to the cultivation of letters, depend, #.
great measure, upon the literature of Europe.
supply of the best European authors upon a!:
jects, which their cheap presses issue at less thº'
tithe of their cost to other countries, a sy.
more than doubtful morality, has tended to the
couragement of their own authors. This sys. .
unjust as it is to the European author and pullis.
and detrimental also to the American writer, ;
has been of vast advantage to the mass of º
people, by placing within the reach of the pool.
classes the best authors of modern Europe.
only in fiction, but the higher branches of litera!!" 6
The price of European works is such as to Pº
them beyond the reach of any but the most wealth):
The publishing price of one of Bulwer's or Jaſ.
novels, or that of any other first-class writer, is ". 9
Sterling, and the consequence is, that but few º:
are sold except to circulating libraries; but sº. ilº
taneously with its appearance in London, wh l!"
noble ladies besiege the librarian for the next P*
sal of the much-coveted book, the New York ‘.
or daily laborer luxuriates in a copy of his .00
purchased for a sixpence. And, while the Lo" old
publisher congratulates himself upon having .
an edition of 3,000 in twelve months, the same wº S5
has issued from a dozen presses in America ".
than as many days, and each publisher ha.
perhaps 30,000 copies, which have been distriº its
through every village in the Union; and, whi" nd
merits are being canvassed by the quarterlies.
in the clubs, they are also under discussion.}} ſks
bar-room and the shanty of the Far west. W.
of the higher class are in Europe still more es.
sive, j their circulation consequently more %.
fined; take, for example, ‘Alison's History of {!
rope,’ published, we believe, at £13, 2s. iy:
price which excludes it from all but the we".”in
the same work was issued in the United Stºj
16 monthly parts at 25 cents, thus bringing it ºf
the reach of the humblest. The consequel. W!!
this system is, that British authors are better.
in the United States than they are in Great º, {}
and more copies of their works are to be fou"...re
single city there than in the whole country ... to
they were produced. The same remarks ºad.
this colony, but here we labor under greater iºd
vantages. Until within a late period we ough
our reading chiefly from the same sources thr hat
their means; but now we are shut out frº” y
advantage, and although colonial editions.”
excellent works are furnished to us at a chº"
through our enterprising citizens, Messrs.
and Ramsay, yet the supply is limited, tardy,
costly.”—Critic.
LITTELL's LIVING AGE.-No. 130—7 NOVEMBER, 1846.
From the Critic.
... + Mohammed Khan, of Kabul;
his Political Proceedings towards the Eng-
chºi, ussian, and Persian Governments, in:
.# the Victory and Disasters of the British
... tº Afghanistan. By MoHAs LAL, Esq.
"ls. 8vo. Longmans.
Life %f the Amir Dost
with
º: a specimen of the art of boºk-making as
hack '*S produced by the most skilful bookseller
Nota in those palmy days when cheap books had
Tw jºred to disturb the calculations of the Row:
Khan Yolumes on the life of Dost Mohammed
minute Surely, this must be an ample memoir,
much. almost to tediousness.
...terial have come !
* collected -
N.'" mystery is not so profound as it appears.
'** half of the whole is devoted to the biogra-
Othe the other is eked out with selections from
taries °ºks, parliamentary papers, and commen-
pº things in general, and the Indian war in
§te i * , Mohan Lal has been, however, fortu-
§. subject. Considerable curiosity is felt in
Whence could so
How, and when, and
him. l about the fortunes of a foe who has proved
a. f so formidable as Dost Mohammed IChan,
the .ºw of the more interesting passages from
of th moir will not be unacceptable to the readers
° Critic.
Ous . Mohammed Khan is one of a very numer-
wººly ... His father was distinguished for his
Wäs . *chievements, and to his skill and bravery
Qt. ah Zaman indebted for his throne. But, as
Tom "nfrequent in the strange drama of Eastern
Strin °, services were rewarded with the bow-
ºist
i. eXcu
adow
factor
mad
twen
he possessor of the throne feared the
ower of the man who placed him there.
Se was readily found for removing a
from the path of the despot. The bene:
"is murdered by the sovereign he had
ty is family were reduced to beggary, and
º *ºns were thrown upon the charity of the
Šhan After many changes of fortune, Fatah
th un the eldest son, raised an army, dethroned
deat i.e. Shah Zaman, avenged his father's
his ! Y Putting out the prisoner's eyes, placed
bein *her Mahmud on the vacant throne, and
him. ** a great man, took the boy, Dost Mo-
trem.º.º his service, and finding him ex-
§ "telligent, admitted him to his confidence.
ºrus *ene was shifted. Another revolution
Shah s. Mahmud, and raised another brother,
Yasi, º, tº the unstable throne. His first act
Dost” ºst the man who had placed him there.
gather. Inmed, with characteristic energy,
roi." Ҽmy and hastened to the rescue of his
treas.” besieged Kandahar, and starved the
was .s.,prince into submission. Fatah Khan
'ºnge ; and the brothers determined to re-
Shoº C ºnselves by restoring Mahmud. After a
Hibited ... ign, in which fost Mohammed ex-
Shāī §. courage and address, the army of
§stored. ... was completely routed, Mahmud
vić.ºalah Khan toºk office as his chief
exxx *the young Dost Mohammed vigorously
" .. , LiVING AGF. vol. xI. 16
employed himself in removing, perfas aut nefas,
all who stood in the way of the ease or the am-
bition of his brother. How this was done appears
by the following account of the murder of Mirza
Ali Khan :- -*. '-
“On receiving the orders of the Vazir, Dost
Mohammed armed himself cap-à-pie, and taking
six men with him, went and remained waiting on
the road between the house of Mohammed Azim
Khan and the Mirza. It was about midnight, when
the Mirza passed by Dost Mohammed Khan, whom
he saw, and said, “What has brought your high-
ness here at this late hour? I hope all is good."
He also added, that Dost Mohammed should freely
command his seryices if he could be of any use to
him. He replied to the Mirza that he had got a
secret communication for him, and would tell him
if he moved aside from the servants. He stopped
his horse, whereupon Dost Mohammed, holding
the mane of his horse with his left hand, and
taking his dagger in the right, asked the Mirza to
bend his head to hear him. While Dost Moham-
med pretended to tell him something of his own
invention, and found that the Mirza was hearing
him without any suspicion, he stabbed him between
the shoulders, and, throwing him off his horse, cut
him in many places. This was the commencement
of the murders which Dost Mohammed Khan after-
wards frequently committed.”
After a series of such deeds of violence, Fatah
Khan's ruin came upon him unexpectedly. The
Persians had attacked Herat; he proceeded with
his brother to its relief; Dost Mohammed was
directed to besiege the city and seize the palace.
This monstrous act of treachery was unhesitatingly
performed, although they had been received by the
prince with entire confidence and friendship.
“He entered the city, as was arranged, with
his retinue, and after the sun rose and the Shah
Zadah's courtiers had gone out to Fatah Khan, as
usual, the Sardar Dost Mohammed IChan massa-
cred the palace-guard and seized the person of the
Shah Zadah Firoz. Afterwards he commenced to
plunder and to gain possession of all the jewels,
gold, and treasure of the captive prince, and even
went so far as to despoil the inmates of the house-
hold; and committed an unparalleled deed by
taking off the jewelled band which fastened the
trowsers of the wife of the Prince Malik Qasim,
the son of the captive, and treated her rudely in
other ways. The pillaged lady was the sister of
Kam Ran, to whom she sent her profaned robe;
and the Shah Zadah, or her brother, resºlved, and
swore to revenge the injury. Fatah Khan was
informed of the immense booty which the Sardar
had taken, and also his improper conduct towards
the royal lady; and the Vazir planned to take the
plundered property from the Sardar Dost Moham-
med Khan, and to chastise him for his deeds in the
palace. The Sardar, having heard of this, made
his way through the mountains to join his brother
Mohammed Azim Khan, the governor of Kashmir.
He was there put under restraint by the direction
of the Wazir, who was, preparing again to wage
war with the Persians.” -
250
LIFE OF THE AMIR DOST MOHAMMED KHAN.
The treachery, was amply avenged. The prince
seized Fatah Khan by a stratagem. His end is
thus told :-
“No tragedy of modern days can be compared
with that barbarous one that ended the life of the
Vazir. He was conducted, blind and pinioned,
into the presence of Mahmud Shah, whom he had
clevated to the throne. The Shah asked him to
write to his rebellious brothers to submit; to which
he replied with fortitude that he was a poor blind
prisoner, and had no influence over his brothers.
Mahmud Shah was incensed at his obstinacy, and
ordered him to be put to the sword; and the Wazir
was cruelly and deliberately butchered by the
courtiers, cutting him limb from limb, and joint
from joint, as was reported, after his nose, ears,
fingers and lips had been chopped off. His forti-
tude was so extraordinary that he neither showed
a sign of the pain he suffered, nor asked the per-
petrators to diminish their cruelties, and his head
was at last sliced from his lacerated body. Such
was the shocking result of the misconduct of his
brother the Sardar Dost Mohammed Khan towards
the royal female in Hirat. However, the end of
the Wazir Fatah Khan was the end of the Sadozai
realm, and an omen for the accession of the new
dynasty of the Barakzais, or his brothers, in Af-
ghanistan.”
Thenceforth, for many years, anarchy prevailed.
Kings were set up and bowled down, passing
across the stage as fast as the phantom progeny of
Banquo. Victory ultimately rested with Dost
Mohammed, who secured Cabul, while various
provinces were possessed by his brothers. How
he did this, and how he wielded the power he had
won, will appear by the following extract:—
“The Sardar stated on his return from Qand-
har, that he had got rid of one enemy in the per-
son of Shah Shuja, now defeated, but another was
powerfully wounding his heart and honor by the
constant turn of affairs, and by the remembrance
of the inroads made by an infidel into the Mahome-
dan land. In this he alluded to the conquest and
possessions of the Sikh army at Peshavar; he
planned to declare a religious war, in the view that
having no money himself to levy troops, he could
hardly persuade the people to take up his cause;
whereas, under the name of a war for the sake of
religion, he might be successful. . The priests were
accordingly consulted, and all the chiefs, as well
as his counsellors, and Mirza Sami Khan, concur-
red in the opinion that the Sardar Dost Moham-
med Khan should assume the º title, and pro-
claim himself as king ; because the religious wars,
fought under the name and flag of any other than à
king, cannot entitle the warriors to the rights and
honors of martyrdom, when they fall. in the field.
The Sardar was not altogether disinclined to
assume royalty; but the want of means to keep up
that title, and the unanimous disapproval of his re-
lations, prevented him from adopting the name of
king. The Sultan Mohammed Khan was so
jealous of the Sardar's taking the royal title, that
he left Kabul on the pretence of going to Bajaur.
In the mean time, the Sardar, without any prepara-
tion or feast, went out of the Bala Hisar with some
of his courtiers; and in “Idgah' Mir Vaiz, the
head priest of Kabul, put a few blades of grass on
the head of the Sardar, and called him “Amir-ul-
momnin,' or, commander of the faithful. The
change of title from Sardar to the higher grade of
Amir-ul-momnin, made no change nor produced
any effect upon the habits, conduct, and appear-
ance of Dost Mohammed Khan, except that *
became still plainer in attire and in talk, and e”.
of access. The only difference we find now is .
of addressing him from this time as Amir. Bº.
the Amir came to the final determination of exº
tion, the head-priest, Khan Mulla Khan, satº º:
him by saying that it was not contrary to the
homedan law to snatch money from infidels, Suc
as Hindu bankers, if it was disbursed among
warriors of the true faith. As the Amir W3
really in pecuniary wants, and had the sanction .
the priest, he therefore seized all the Shikar!”
merchants, and demanded three lakhs of rupee
from them. The Amir sent openly, as well
clandestinely, his confidential men in all parº i.
the country, who spared no time in forcing t
payment of the demands of their employer ; 3ſ,
where he had given orders to raise a certain *.
from certain bankers of a district, the persons ºf
ployed on this occasion did not forget to fill the 6
iwn pockets besides. Those who fell intº
hands of these official banditti were tortured .
deprived of their health before they would...
with their wealth; and those who escaped suffº.
by the confiscation of their movable º
Sham-shuddin Khan at Ghazni, Mohammed †.
Khan at Balabagh, and Mohammed Akbar in º 9
labad, as well as the other petty governors of t Iſl
various small districts, received instructions fro sº
the Amir to follow his example in seizing an ".
turing, and thus depriving the wealthy of thél
money. This method of extortion did not remº.
limited in application for the infidels alone, C
gradually it involved the Mahomeians. In tº
city many principal persons suffered, and among
them a rich trader of the name of Sabz Ali, "
was commanded to pay thirty thousand rupees, *.
having refused the payment of so large a su.
was confined in prison, and torture of every hº.
description was inflicted on him by the A*. ſl
Some days he was branded on his thighs ; sº.
other days, cotton, dipped in oil, was tied ove.
fingers, and burnt as a torch ; and after many .
of agony the poor man expired. On this occº.
the Amir only uttered a word, that he wante
money and not his death ; which, however, cº S
not make him a loser, for he forced the rºle.
of this victim to pay, and thus obtained this †:
The whole country at this time was an appall ed
picture of extortion and torture, and he cont.
to spread havoc all around till a sum of five º
of rupees was thus unjustly gathered up for
religious war of the faithful.” 010
And here let us introduce some passages fr
while
his private life.
“It should not be omitted to mention that. d by
the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan was occup!" fr!"
day in endeavoring to increase his power and j
tory, he was not less active at night in plan à
the augmentation of the number of his wives,
he might complete the cabinet of his pleasures.
some instances, however, his matrimonial 99"
tions were merely political expedients, and In 0 fied
any domestic comforts. The number of his mat U3
wives is not under fourteen, besides the nu. of
retinue of slave girls. At present the mº 16 th9
Mohammed Akbar is his favorite, and takes C3”
freedom to give him her opinion on important.” ut
sions. She is descended from a high fº.
is very jealous of the other wives of the ice, *
Every one of them has a separate allowaºiſ.
slave girl, and a slave boy; and they oº::
Il
eC’
of
ferent rooms in the palace of Haram Sarai,
LIFE OF THE AMIR DOST MOHAMIMED KHAN.
251
*... by a high wall.
ra º, ommunication, where a few men, gene-
t ºi. old age, (Qabchis,) are stationed. When
from . boy is absent, the slave girl brings orders
Or for er mistress to the “ Qabchi’ for a purchase,
memb *y other purpose from the inside. If I re-
mir er the name well, one of the wives of the
º is named Bibi, Gauhar, excited the
Jalousy and animosity of the mother of
tº. Khan, who always sought for an excuse to
again the suspicions and the wrath of the Amir
; the rival lady. One evening, there was a
º of firewood in the establishment of Bibi
piled *r, and her slave boy brought a quantity of it
O His eyes were, on
Only one door is
enteri n the back of the seller. *
Wra ing the palace-door, blindfolded, and his face
bo Pped in a cloth, while he was conducted by the
he w After unloading the burden from his back,
Out º In the same manner brought back and let
tail. the Haram Sarai. Hereupon the pene-
this § and jealous mother of Akbar Khan thought
i. besi opportunity to excite some abusive but
lotd §§picion of her character in the heart of the
Io, he Amir was quietly asked in through
i.º.d Akbar Khan; and the mother of the
gº.g him aside, stated that it was a dis-
Ami ul thing that her ‘ambagh,' rival wife of the
Il . WaS visited by her paramour, who came in
fj the disguise of a wood-seller; and she then
e *ed sufficient stories to make the Amir pre-
jº meet her object, for he appeared incensed,
th.ºnsidered that it was not a fabrication; and
ing ; lady, who a little before was the charm-
b. *% ºf the Amir, was sent for and ordered to
of §. for her misconduct. Her assertions
thed Were not listened to, and he told Moham-
throw; kbar Khan to wrapher all in a blanket, and,
Stick "g her on the ground, to strike her with
8.
{{
Susy he son was now perfectly aware of the jeal-
to i $f his own mother against her, and did not fail
he "ºmany most severe, and cruel blows upon
appsa." was not released until she ſainted, and
Wººl quite motionless in the bloody blanket.
fou. .ºne time, when she recovered, the Amir
mo."ºt he had been deceived by his wife, the
foº. of Akbar, and he apologized to the sufferer
of t; sad mistake, and punished the fair inventor
to ..ºy (Akbar's mother) only by not going
§s th *partment for a few days. Bibi Gauhar
Moi...Widow of Mahmud Shah, afterwards of
Ajºied Azim Khan, and is now one of the
Dos! ū Wives. At breakfast one day the Amir
ea."ºhammed Khan asked one of his guests to
read...ºg; to which he replied, that he had al-
*en a considerable number of slices of roast
§f ... feared, an egg might cause an attack
lau.8°stion. This made the Amir burst into
iſ: °, and he said that the Amir Bangashi's
$ggs . * more masculine taste and appetite for
this .. his noble guest, who appears to yield in
Voice . tº a female. In an amusing tone of
cle of . Mohammed Khan entertained the cir-
When * °ourtiers with the following anecdote :-
teve."...to the Bangash country to collect the
induce * of that district, political circumstances
§ward * to marry the daughter of the chief, af.
Kha *known as the mother of Mohammed Afzal
the par °ording to the custom of the Afghans,
fruit. .* of the lady place several baskets of
$ggs, . * Sweetmeats, and one or two of boiled
"ewly . *d, variously, in the chambers of the
*ied pair. After the dinner was over,
I
the Amir with his bride retired; and while amus-
ing themselves with conversation, he took a fancy
for some grapes, and the bride handed him an egg,
which he found, in fact, to have a better taste than
any he had ever had before. He added that he
saw his bride using her fingers with admirable
alacrity in taking off the skin preparatory to swal-
lowing an egg, and that this activity continued till
she finished the whole basketful, to his astonish-
ment; and he remarked that there were not less
than fifty eggs in the basket!—In the number of
his wives the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan has one
from the royal family, which case is unprecedented
in record or even in rumor, for no one ever was al-
lowed to make a matrimonial connexion with the
royal or Sadozai females. On the contrary, it was
considered a great honor if any descendant of the
Sadozai would marry a female from the Barakzai
tribe, namely, that of the Amir, or indeed of any
other tribe besides their own. When the decline
of that dynasty commenced, she attracted the sight
and attention of the Sultan Mohammed Khan, the
brother chief of the Amir, at Peshavar, and a cor-
respondence began between them. She prepared
to leave Kabul to be married with her intended
husband, under whose escort she was proceeding.
The Amir had also lost his heart for her beauty,
and got hold of her by force and married her imme-
diately. This at once created, and has ever since
maintained, a fatal animosity between the brothers;
and the Sultan Mohammed Khan has often been
heard to say that nothing would afford him greater
pleasure, even at breathing his last, than to drink
the blood of the Amir. Such is the nature of the
brotherly feeling now existing between them ; and
the Amir has often and justly mentioned that these
three words, commencing with the Persian letter
‘ze,” and pronounced like z in English, are the
principal and deadly causes of quarrel among men,
namely, ‘zan,' (female,) ‘zar,’ (money,) and ‘za-
min,’ (land.)”
Mohan Lal enters at great length upon the his-
tory of the origin of the Affghan war. It seems
that a prominent cause of quarrel was the jealousy
entertained by the Afghan chiefs of the English
officers, who were continually intriguing with their
wives. One instance of this will suffice.
“A gentleman who had taken up his quarters at
the house of the Navab Jabbar Khan, won the
heart of the favorite lady of his neighbor Nazir Ali
Mohammed, and she, crossing the wall by the roof,
came to him. The Nazir waited upon me, and I
reported the circumstance to Sir Alexander Burnes
while the defendant was breakfasting with him.
He, of course, denied ever having seen the lady.
on which the Nazir was dismissed, and I myself
was always disliked from that day by that gentle-
man for reporting that fact. The Nazir then com-
plained to the minister of the king, and he sent us
a note demanding the restoration of the fair one.
The constable saw her in the house, and gave his
testimony to this as a witness; but Sir Alexander
Burnes took the part of his countryman, and gave
no justice. One night the very same gentleman
was coming from the Bala. Hisar, and abused the
constable for challenging him, and next day stated
to Sir Alexander Burnes that he was very ill used,
on which Sir Alexander Burnes got the man dis-
missed by the king. The lady was openly shel-
tered at the house of the same gentleman after
some time, and came to India under the protection
of his relatives. Nazir Ali Mohammed and the
constable (Hazar Khan Kotwal) never forgot these
252
HON. H. S. FOX.
DEATH OF THE
acts of injustice of Sir Alexander Burnes, and thus
they were stimulated to join with Abdullah Khan
Ackakzai, and to strike the first blow in revenging
themselves on that officer. A rich merchant of
Nanchi, near the city, had two years previously
fallen in love with a lady at Hirat, and after great
pains and exorbitant expense he married her, and
placed her under the protection of his relations,
while he went on to Bokhara to transact his com-
mercial business. In the absence of the husband,
a European subordinate to the staff officer contrived
her escape to his residence in the cantonment.
The wretched man, on hearing this catastrophe,
left all his merchandise unsold, and hastened back
to Kabul; and there were no bounds to his tears
and melancholy. IIe complained to all the author-
ities, and offered a very large sum to the king to
have his fair wife restored to him ; but she was not
given up. He at last sat at the door of Sir William
Macnaghten, and declared that he had resolved to
put an end to his own life by starvation. When
that authority appeared partly determined to order
the lady to be given to her lawful husband, she
was secretly removed to a house in the city.
Hereupon the envoy appointed two of his orderly
men to enter the house, and to give her into the
charge of the plaintiff; but now the very officer
who had offended Nazir Ali Mohammed and Hazar
Khan Kotval, came to Sir Alexander, and begged
him to pacify the envoy, which he agreed to do.
On this a sum of four hundred or five hundred ru-
pees was offered to the husband, if he would give
up his claim to his wife ; and Sir Alexander
Burnes employed Nayab Sharif and Hayat Quaf-
lahbashi to persuade the poor husband of the lady
to accept these terms, stating that otherwise he
will incur the displeasure of that authority. The
poor man had no remedy but to fly to Turkistan,
without taking the above-mentioned sum. When
her paramour was killed, during the retreat of our
forces from Kabul, she was also murdered by the
Ghazis, with the remnant of our soldiers who had
succeeded in making their way forcibly as far as
Gandumakh.”
Although Dost Mohammed is reigning in full
enjoyment of power, his manner of life is repre-
sented as debauched and dissipated in the ex-
treme; but Mohan Lal is nevertheless of opinion
that, with all his faults, he is the only man who
could govern the .# whose energy and firm-
ness can keep the rebellious chieftains in check.
He says, -
“On the whole, whatever odium may be attached
to the Amir of Kabul, it is an unquestionable fact
that he is the only person ſit to rule Kabul. Dost
Mohammed Khan is of the Sunni religion, being
tho son of an Afghan; but as his mother is a Shia,
he is therefore suspected to be of her greed, though
he does not confess it openly. He has indulged
in all sorts of dissipation, and experienced all kinds
of hardships. When he gained power; he prohib-
ited the sale and the use of wine, and prevented
dancing girls from remaining in his kingdom, while
the dance performed by boys was considered law-
ful! One day he was informed that some women
were drinking and dancing privately in the house
of Husain, the servant of Nayab Abdul Samad, on
which the Amir sent people to seize them. The
punishment inflicted upon them for drinking wine,
against Jhe Mohammedan law and his own notifi-
cation, was the infliction of deformity instead of
their beauty, in order to prevent them from appear-
ing again in drinking parties. Their heads were
shaved, and the beard of the host was burnt by º
flame of a candle The Amir Dost Mohamm"
Khan always gets up before it is dawn, takº. 6
bath, makes his prayers, and reads a portion of º
* Qoran' every morning. After that, Mahmud
hund Zadah gives him some lessons in history.
well as poetry. He receives afterwards the s”
people privately in the dressing-room of the lºº.
and then comes out to hold his court. He sits thº’
generally till 1 P. M. Now he had his breakº.
or I may say his dinner, as it is just the same *.
receives after sunset." When he has finished º
breakfast or midday meal, he sleeps till 4 P. .
He then discharges his prayers, and proceeds ".
ally to ride, sees his stud, and returns to the P.
acé, where he dines with his immediate cour*.
and friends. There is then some talk of his e”.
proceedings and of his future plans; and the wº.
der, the jealousy, and the ascendancy of for;”
powers are discussed. Sometimes chess, an º
other times music, were the favorite amuseº.
of the evening. He amused himself general.
this manner till one hour past midnight. All th r
chiefs are then dismissed, and on retiring the A.
resides in the apartments of his wives. They .
in separate parts, and the Amir pays a visit to º
lady one night, and to another wife the next nig".
and no one is visited two nights successively. “
cept the mother of Mohammed Akbar Khan.”
DIED, 13th October, at his residence in this city:
the Hon. HENRY STEPHEN Fox, late envoy extraº.
dinary and minister plenipotentiary of her Britanº
majesty, near this government, in the 56th year."
his age. ided
Of this distinguished gentleman, who has resid:
so long among us, we are able now to present onl
the following short *g. sketch.
The Hon. Henry Stephen Fox was born iſ,
1791; and was the son of General Henry Edw.
Fox, third son of Henry Fox, the first Lord Ho
land. He was thus the nephew of the jº.
Charles James Fox, and cousin of the late amiab
and enlightened Lord Holland. We may *.
moreover, that through one of his female ancestoº
he inherits the blood of merry King Charles Il."
and consequently of Henry IV.
In his younger days, Mr. Fox was well knº.
in the beau monde of London, as one of a cº.
of elegant, gay, and witty gentlemen of high bº
among whom were Lord #. Lord Kinna”
and others more or less celebrated in their tº:
whose deeds and sayings are recorded by Moor”
his life of Byron. h6
After the general peace in 1815, he visited '.
continent, and by remaining too long in Romº
contracted the malaria fever, which brought hi.
the verge of the grave, and produced an eſ.
most deleterious upon his constitution. He .
entered the diplomatic career, in which his ad.
was rapid, in consequence of his talents, as wellcal
º the influence of his noble and poliº
connexions. He was the first minister plenipº C
tiary of Great Britain to Buenos Ayres, from whi
he was transferred in the same capacity toº.
Janeiro, and thence to this government in 18
Of the talent displayed in his corresponde.
many delicate and difficult questions of inte.
law, of his uniform courtesy, of the amenity "."o
manners in society, it is unnecessary for have
speak. They are all attested by those whº
been placed in a situation to observe him.-W"
ington Union.
eſ!”
*
THE CONDE's DAUGHTER.
253
From Blackwood's Magazine.
THE CONDE’s DAUGHTER.
\{ {
º SHOULD think we cannot be very far from our
.**ion by this time.”
y, were one to put faith in my appetite, we
"Q been at least a good four or five hours
already ; and if our Rosinantes are not
Wii. get over a misère of thirty or forty miles
9 now making as many grimaces about it as they
for.” " they are not the animals I took them
must ha
Ҽ route
able
{ {
pº come—abuse your own as much as you
tho. " this much I will, say for my Nero,
$oadsid e has occasionally deposited me on the
least º is not apt to sleep upon the way at
Wager ay, so sure am I of him, that I would
than you ten Napoleons that we are not more
men º: or five miles from the chateau at this mo-
$
to Pass; béte, mon cher. I am not fool enough
. . precious Naps in jeopardy, just when I
to this eucedly in want of them, too. But a truce
Speaki nonsense. Do you know, Ernest, seriously
fools .# I am beginning to think we are great
Qus . our pains, running our heads into a peril-
Severe Venture, with the almost certainty of a
eve." Reprimand from the general, which, I think,
fro your filial protestations will scarcely save you
Wha? * ever we return alive; and merely to see,
'...' dare say, after all, will turn out to be only
face.”
hat!—already faint-hearted —A miracle of
Such as Darville described is well worth
one's neck to gaze upon. Besides, is not
.." vocation 1—and as for reprimands, if you
º as often as I do, you would soon find out
thºse things are nothing when one is used to
beau
ty
peril;
jg
§ {
the * miracle —ah, bah It was the romance of
whi.” the artful grace of the costume,
... ', 'ascinated his eyes.”
Dari. no! he just. Recollect that it was not
iss * alone, but Delavigne; and even that con-
... in female beauty, Monbreton himself, diſſi-
º: he is, declared that she was perfect. She
fauli i a wonder, indeed, when he could find no
$t with her.”
fully * it so. I warn you beforehand that I am
We a ºpºſed to be disappointed. However, as
tlSt SO far embarked in the affair, I suppose we
.*complish it.”
ºf assuredly, unless you wish to be the
"8-stock of the whole regiment for the next
for, notwithstanding Darville's boasted
ºf discretion, half the subalterns, no doubt,
this ºssion of the secret of our cscapade by
hug.
hont]
are ;
{ % tº:
this Well, then, Ernest, as we are launched on
ion . }* expedition, let me sermonize a small por:
Yours ºnce into that most giddy brain of
Spania d emember that, after all, if those ruthless
ing t . * Were to discover the trick we are play-
too d; they would probably make us pay rather
'*ty in i. for the frolic. In short, Ernest, I am
light º | afraid that your étourderie will let the
gain. too soon into the thick skulls of those
{ { Pre Ilt. hidalgos.” rº
...i.º.º.º. in allºn.
ligibjºrnest, I give you up; you are incor-
the jºined the other, turning away to hide
gh which the irresistibly comic expression
his f º: *
Tle º: *
"threw into his countjanº had ºcted. |
And who were the speakers of this short dia-
logue! Two dashing, spirited-looking young men,
who, at the close of it, reined in their steeds, in the
dilemma of not knowing where to direct them.
Theirs was, indeed, a wild-goose chase. Their
Chateau en Espagne seemed invisible, as such cha-
teaua usually are ; and where it might be found,
who was there to tell!—Not one. The scene was
a desert—not even a bird animated it; and just be-
fore them branched out three roads from the one
they had hitherto confidently pursued.
After a moment's silence, the cavaliers both
burst into a gay laugh. tº
“Here's a puzzle, Alphonse !” said the one.
“Which of the three roads do you opine !”
“The left, by all means,” replied the other; “I
generally find it leads me right.”
“But iſ it should n’t now l’’
“Why, then, it only leads us wrong.”
“But I don’t choose to go wrong.”
“And what have you been doing ever since you
set out 7”
“True ; but as we are far enough now from
that point, we must e'en make the best of the
bad.”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why, if one only knew which was the best.”
At this moment the tinkling of a mule's bells,
mingled with the song of the muleteer, came on
the air.
“Hist! here comes counsel,” exclaimed the
young man whom the other named Ernest. “Hol-
la, señor hidalgo ; do you know the castle of the
Conde di Miranda?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
** Where it was.”
• * Near !”
“That’s as one finds it.”
“And how shall we find it!”
“By reaching it.”
“Come, come, hidalgo mio.”
“I’m no hidalgo,” said the man, roughly.
“But you ought to be. I’ve seen many less
deserving of it,” resumed the traveller.
“I dare say,” retorted the muleteer.
“If you 'll conduct us within view of the castle
you shall be rewarded.”
“As I should well deserve.” *.
“Ah, your deserts may be greater than our
purse.”
But the man moved on.
“Halte-la, friend I like your company so well
that I must have it a little longer.” And the offi-
cer pulled out a pistol. “Will you, of will you
not, guide us to the castle of the Conde 4
“I will,” gruffly replied the man, with a look
which showed that he was sorry to be forced to
choose the second alternative. .
“Can we trust this fellow !” said the younger
officer to the elder.
“No-but we can ourselves; and keep a sharp
look-out.” º *
“Besides, I shall give him a hint. Hidalgo
mio ” he began.
“Señor Franzese,” interrupted the muleteer.
“What puts that into your head, hidalgo!
Franzese—why, Don Felix y Cortos, y Sargas, y
Nos, y Tierras, y, y-don't you know an English-
man when you see him?” ºf
“Yes,” muttered the Spaniard—“Yes, and a
Frenchman, too.” -
“No, you don't, for here's the proof. Why,
254
THE conDE's DAUGHTER.
what are we, but English officers, carrying de-
spatches to your Conde from our general?”
The muleteer looked doubtingly.
“Why, do you suppose Frenchmen would trust
themselves amongst such a set of"—
: I “Patriots!” exclaimed the other stranger, has-
tl! W.
... “All I say,” observed the man drily, “is, that
if you are friends of the Conde, he will treat you
{13 sº deserve. If enemies, the same. So, back-
W H rºl.
“Onward, you mean.”
“Aye, for me; but not for you, señores, you
have left the castle a mile to the left.”
“I guessed right, you see,” said Alphonse,
“when I guessed left.”
| º: muleteer passed on, and the horsemen fol-
(). W'601.
“I say, hidalgo mio,” called out Ernest, “what
sort of a don is this same Conde 1'.'
“As how !” inquired the muleteer.
“ is he rich 4”
** Yes.”
{ { Proud !”
& # Yes.”
{ { Old !”
{ % No.”
** Has he a wife 2''
{ { No.”
** Has he children º’’
& £ No.”
“No” exclaimed the cavalier with surprise.
** No child '''
“You said children, señor.”
“He has a child, then?”
§ { Yes.”
** A Son 1’’
{ { No.”
“A daughter!”
“Yes.”
“Why, yes and no seems all you have got to
Sºl .” --
Y. It seems to answer all you have got to ask,
señor.”
“Is the Doña very handsome "interrupted Al-
phonse, impatiently.
“Yes and no, according to taste,”
muleteer.
“He laughs at us,” whispered Ernest in French.
The conversation with the muleteer had been, thus
far, carried on in Spanish—which Ernest spoke
fairly enough. But the observation he thought-
lessly uttered in French seemed to excite the peas-
ant's attention. º
“Do you speak English!” asked Ernest.
“Yes,” was the reply, in English. “Do
you?”
“Me English! ab course. Speak, well Eng-
lish,” replied Ernest, in the true. Gallic-idiom.
Then relapsing into the more familiar tongue, he
added, “But in Spain I speak Spanish.”
By this time the trio had arrived within view of
a large castellated building, whose ancient towers,
glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, rosé
inajestically from the midst of groves of dark cy-
press and myrtle which surrounded it. .
The mulêteer stopped. “There, señores,” he
słii, “stands the castle of the Conde. Half-a-
mile further on lies the town of R–, to which,
señores,” he added, with a sarcastic smile, “you
can proceed, should you not find it convenient to
remain at the Castello.
replied the
ebullition of his feelings was not loud enouſ;
And now, I presume, as
I have guided you so far right, you will suffer mº
to resume my own direction.” ... n (ſ
“Yes, as there seems no possibility of mº
any more mistakes on our way, you are free".
plied the gravest of the two. “But stop one * S-
ment yet, amigo,” and he pointed to a little .
road which, a little further on, diverged from
camino real, “where does that lead to ?” h
“Amigoſ” muttered the man between his teeth,
“say enemigo rather 1’’ ;,] the
“An answer to my question, villano,” said º
young Frenchman, haughtily—while his hand
stinctively groped for the hilt of his sword.
“To R ,” replied the man, as he
silently and sullenly to retrace his steps. W6
“Holla, there !” Ernest called out; “you i.
forgotten your money;” and he held out a º;
but the man was gone. “Wa done, et que led”.
temporte, brutal * added Ernest de Lucenº.
taking good care, however, this time, th.
reach the ears of the retreating peasant. “ .
found it! I would rather follow the track of a .
through the pathless depths of an Indian jº"*
alone, than be led by such a savage cicerone."...i.am
“Never mind the fellow ; we have more º:
enough to think of in our own affairs,” exclai.
his friend, impatiently. Let us stop herº º
ment and consult, before we proceed any furth.
One thing is evident, at all events, that wer.
contrive to disguise ourselves better if we wish
pass for anything but Frenchmen. With "te
knowledge of the English language, and acquº;
ance with their manners and habits, trifling asiº.
I am perfectly certain of imposing on the SP .
iards, without any difficulty; but you will as :
tainly cause a blow-up, unless you manage to º:
your whole style and appearance. I dare say 7
have forgotten all my instructions already.” stag
“Bah! Alphonse. Let me alone for puzzl.
the dons; I'll be as complete a Goddam in.
minutes as any stick you ever saw, I wan"
you.” ge
“Nothing can appear more perfectly unº
lish than you do at present. That éveillé lº.
yours is the very devil;” and Alphonse shook
head despondingly. - five
“Incredulous animal! just hold Nero ſº.
minutes, and you shall have ocular demonsº.
of my powers of acting. Parbleu ! you shall *.
that I can be solemn and awkward engº.
frighten half the petites maitresses of Paris in.
vapors.” And so saying, De Lucenay º:
from his saddle, and consigning the bridle inº.h
friend's hands, ran towards a little brook, " Oſſ!
trickled through the grass at a short distance ſ
the roadside; but not before he had made his fri
promise to abstain from casting any profane gº
on his toilet till it was jº. m$6
Wisely resolving to avoid temptation, Alph9
turned away, when, to his surprise, he Pºio
the muleteer halting on a rising ground at ". º
distance. “By Jove; that insolent dog hºle
watching us. Scoundrel, will you move on: ily;
exclaimed, in French, raising his voice anº.
*
when, suddenly recollecting himself, he tºº.
the unfinished phrase by “Sigue tu camin' ing”
ro! Bribon / " while he shook his pistol men. eſſ,
ly at the man's head—a threat which did not...is
to intimidate him much, for, though he res. ant"
journey, his rich Sonorous voice burst tº: i. ng
ly forth into one of the patriotic songs; ”
turned
The conDE's DAUGHTER.
255
d º
º from their eyes, the usual
...le, "Vita Fernando! Muera Napoleon"
#, upon the air.
e 1S shºrt interval had more than sufficed for
his i. s mysterious operations. And before
Spain º, was tired of ſuming and sacreing against
shoul º Spaniards, Ernest tapped him on the
anger º,and, for once both the young officer's
i." habitual gravity vanished in an uncon-
tº." of laughter. “By Jupiter' it is in-
°,” he gasped forth, as soon as returning
ld allow him to speak; while Ernest
.*.*ntly enjoying his surprise.
Tlot , Well, what think you ! It will do, will it
Are you still in fear of a fiascot"
*ath wou
$4
will *y My only fear now is, that the pupil
i. the master, and that the more shining
shad * your talents will cast mine utterly into the
i. By heavens ! the transformation is in-
lmit:
|ºle. our own father would not know
{ % -
unh He would not be the only one in such an
§. case, then.”
t *ing certainly could have been more absurd
9 complete metamorphosis which, in those
in ... ºuts, De Lucenay had contrived to make
Water ..ºneº, With the aid of a little fresh
the j the rivulet, he had managed to reduce
Qual. ºurly locks of his chestnut hair to an almost
ºn." flatness; the shirt collar, which had been
Ones ºwn, was now drawn up to his cheek-
the cº, and with his hat placed perpendicularly on
tails . of his head, one arm crossed under the
º is coat, and the other balancing his whip,
w."le resting on his lips, the corners of which
C
i. eyes staring vacantly on the points of his
ton, '' he stood the living picture of an automa-
{{
lar ºll, would you not swear that I was a regu-
i ºule-dog Anglais ?” exclaimed Ernest, stalk-
. and down for his friend's inspection, while
in "ºnded his shoulders, and carried his chin
blan ° air, in order to increase the resem-
lºg.
liºlent !—only not so much laisser aller; a
oh, it ore stiff—more drawn up ! That will do—
*peal ...! !” And again Alphonse burst into
Stå i. laughter, in which De Lucenay, notwith:
refrai § his newly-assumed gravity, could not
*** from joining.
... nº see—that coat fits a great deal too
waii. close. We must rip out some of the
Qught . Just to let it make a few wrinkles; it
chi.” hang quite loosely, in order to be in
ºcter.”
3S hº tly, mon cher 1" interposed De Lucenay,
Qu, I .d drew out a pen-knife. “To satisfy
idj. We injured the sit of my cravit; I have
§royed". classic contour of my neck, I have de-
those. the Antinöus-like effect of my coiffure—
!h con "rls which were the despair of all my rivals
ºnpa *st—I have consented to look like a wretch
. thus renounce all the bonnes fortunes
r ited me during the next four-and-twenty
$ºoles: and now you venture to propose, with the
fic jºudacity, that I should crown all these sacri-
figure.” §terly destroying the symmetry of my
ºut you...', º, mon cher! that is too much;
friend. self up as you please, but spare your
º
rawn puritanically down, and his half-
that º: * f : .
laughed Alphonse. “It is lucky
*e absorbed such an unreasonable pro-
|
portion of vanity that you have left none for me.
To spare the acuteness of your feelings, I will be
the victim. Here goes!” And, so saying, he
ripped up the lining of his coat, and scattered a few
handfuls of wadding to the winds. “Will that
do?”
“Oh, capitally I would rather you wore it
than me; it has as many wrinkles as St. Marceau's
forehead.”
“Forward, then, et vogue la galère !” exclaimed
Alphonse, as De Lucenay vaulted into his saddle,
and the cavaliers spurred on their horses to a rapid
Canter.
“Apropos!” exclaimed De Lucenay, as they
approached the castle; “we ought to lay our
plans, and make a proper arrangement beforehand,
like honest, sociable brothers-in-arms; it would
never do to stand in each other's light, and mar our
mutual hopes of success by cutting each other's
throats for the sake of the bella.”
“Oh, as for me, you are welcome to all my
interest in the Doña's heart beforehand ; for I never
felt less disposed to fall in love than I do at pres-
ent.”
“You are delightful in theory, caro mio; but as
your practice might be somewhat different, suppose
we make a little compact, upon fair terms, viz.,
that the choice is to depend on the señora herself;
that whoever she distinguishes, the other is to re-
linquish his claims at once, and thenceforth devote
all his energies to the assistance of his friend. We
cannot both carry her off, you know ; so it is just
as well to settle all these little particulars in good
time.”
“Oh as you please. I am quite willing to
sign and seal any compact that will set your mind
at rest ; though, for my part, I declare off before-
hand.”
“Well, then, it is a done thing; give me your
hand on it. Parole d'honneur !” said De Luce-
nay, stretching out his.
“Parole d’honneur,” returned his friend, with a
smile.
“But to return to the elopement”—
“Gad! How you fly on There will be two
words to that part of the story, I suspect. Doña
Inez will probably not be quite so easily charined
as our dear little grisettes; and she must be con-
sulted, I suppose; unless, indeed, you intend to
carry the fort by storm ; the current of your love
may not ſlow as smoothly as you expect.”
“Oh, as for that, leave it to me. Spanish
women have too good a taste, and we Frenchmen
are too irresistible to leave me any fears on that
score ; besides, she must be devilishly difficult if
neither of us suit her. You are dark, and I fair-
you are pensive, and I gay—you poetic, and I
witty. The deuce is in it, if she does not fall in
love with either one or other l’’ º
“Add to which, the private reservation, no
doubt, that if she has one atom of discernment, it is
a certain volage, giddy, young aide-de-camp that
she will select.”
“Why, if I had but fair play; but as my tongue
will not be allowed to shine, I must leave the cap-
tivation part to my yeur dour. Who knows,
though "- º
“Oh, vanitas vanitatum !” exclaimed Alphonse,
with a laugh.
“I might say the same of a certain rebellious.
aristocrat, who lays claim to the euphonious patro-
nymic of La Tour d'Auvergne, with a pedigree that
dates from the flood, and a string of musty ances-
256
THE CONDE's DAUGHTER.
tors who might put the patriarchs to the blush ; but
I am more generous;” and De Lucenay began
carelessly to hum a few bars of La Carmagnole.
& 4 Softly !” said his more prudent friend. “We
are drawing near the chateau, and you might as
well wear a cockade tricolor as let them hear
that.”
It was an antique, half-Gothic, half-Saraccnic
looking edifice, which they now approached. A
range of light arcades, whose delicate columns,
wreathed round with the most graceful foliage,
seemed almost too slight to sustain the massive
structure which rose above them, surrounded the
pian terreno. Long tiers of pointed windows,
mingled with exquisite fretwork, and one colossal
balcony, with a rich crimson awning, completed
the façade. Beneath the portico, numbers of ser-
vants and retainers were lounging about, enjoving
the fresco. Some, stretched out at full length on
the marble benches that lined the open arcades,
were fast asleep; others, scated a la Turque upon
the ground, were busily engaged in a noisy game
of cards. But the largest group of all had col-
lected round a handsome Moorish-looking Anda-
lusian, who, leaning against the wall, was lazily
rasping the chords of a guitar that was slung over
his shoulder, while he sang one of those charming
little Tiranas, to which he improvised the usual
nonsense words as he proceeded; anon the deep
mellow voices of his auditory would mingle with
the “Ay de mi chaira mia Luz de mi alma '''
&c., of the ritournelle, and then again the soft
deep tones of the Andalusian rang alone upon the
{tl|r.
As no one seemed to heed their approach, the
two young men stood for a few moments in silence,
listening delightedly to the music, which now
melted into the softer strain of a Seguidilla, now
brightened into the more brilliant measure of a
Bolero. Suddenly, in the midst of it, the singer
broke off, and sprining on his feet as if inspired, he
dashed his hands across the strings. Like an elec-
tric shock, the well-known chords of the Tragala
aroused his hearers—every one crowded round the
singer. The players threw down their cards, the
loungers stood immovable, even the sleepers
started into life ; and all chorusing in enthusiasti-
cally, a burst of melody arose of which no one
unacquainted with the rich and thrilling harmony
peculiar to Spanish voices, can form an idea.
“ Ernest,” said La Tour d'Auvergne in a
whisper, “we shall never conquer such a people :
Napoleon himself cannot do it.” .
“Perhaps,” replied his friend in the same tone.
“They are desperately national ; it will be tough
work, at all events. But, come on ; as the song
is finished, we have some chance of making our.
selves heard now.” And De Lucenay spurred his
horse up to the entrance. At their repeated calls
for attendance, two or three servants hastened out
of the vestibuie and held their horses as they dis-
mounted. They became infinitely more attentive,
however, on hearing that the strangers were Eng-
lish officers, the bearers of dispatches to their mas-
ter; and a dark Figaro-looking laquey, in whose
lively roguish countenance the Frenchmen would
have had no difficulty in recognizing a Biscayan,
even without the aid of his national and picturesque
costume, offered to usher them into the presence
of the Conde.
Their guide led the way through the long and
lofty vestibule, which opened on a superb marble
colonnade that encircled the patio or court, in the
centre of which two antique and Helly scº
fountains were casting up their glittering jets-4. d
in the proscribed form of fleurs-de-lis, to be recciº.
again in two wide porphyry basins. Traves":
the patio, they ascended a fine marble staire”.
from the first flight of which branched off sº.
suites of apartments. Taking the one to the riš".
the young men had full leisure to observe the sple
dor that surrounded them, as they slowly follº.
their conductor from one long line of magnifiº
rooms into another. Notwithstanding many.
ern alterations, the character of the whole bull.
was too evidently eastern to admit a doubt as ".
Moorish origin. Fverywhere the most prº.
marbles, agates, and lapis-lazuli, Oriental jº.
porphyry of every variety, dazzled the eye. It' |
centre of many of the rooms there played a s”.
fountain; in others there were four, one in *.
angle. Large divans of the richest crimson .
. violet brocades lined the walls, while ample .
tains of the same served in lieu of doors. ..." nt
what particularly struck the friends was the bill.
beauty of the arabesques that covered the ceiliº.
and the exquisite chiselling of the cornices, an
frame-work of the windows. ;4 the
“The palace is beautiful, is it not 1" said .
Biscayan, as he perceived the admiring glamº it
they cast around them. “It ought to be, fº.
was one of the summer dwellings of il rey Mº.
and those creticos malditos cared but little wi.
treasures they lavished on their pleasures. It gº.
into my master's possession as a descendant of *
Cid, to whom it was given as a guerdon for hi
services.” 0
“What a numerous progeny that famous her.
must have had He was a wonderful man!'
cxclaimed De Lucenay, with extreme gravity, , ,
“Si, señor—un hombre maravilloso en. º
replied the Spaniard, whom, notwithstanding .
natural acuteness, the seriousness of De Lucenº.
manner and countenance had prevented from º
covering the irony of his words. “But .
señores,” he continued, as they reached a gol xt
tissue-draped door, “we are arrived. The º
room is the comedor, where the family arº
supper.” i!C.
“Then, perhaps, we had better wait a wh
We would not wish to disturb them.” ſi-
“Oh, by no means ! The Conde would be fu
ous if you were kept waiting an instant.
English are great favorites of his. Besides,
must have finished by this time.” And raisin; !]
curtain, they entered an immense frescoed .
which was divided in the centre by a sort of tº
parent partition of white marble, some fourtº".
fifteen feet in height, so delicately pierced º
chiselled, that it resembled lace-work much by
than stone. A pointed door-way, supported m3.
twisted columns, as elaborately carved and 9.
mented as the rest, opened into the upper P. jo
the hall, which was elevated a step higher. .
centre of this, a table was º; laid out Yº.
service of massive gold ; while the fumes of er-
viands was entirely overpowered by the heavy p od
fume of the colossal bouquets of flowers which .
in sculptured silver and gold vases on the plate Cr-
Around the table were seated about twenty P of
sons, amongst whom the usual sprinkliº ble-
sacerdotes was not wanting. A stern, but '...,
looking man sat at the upper end of the f thé
and seemed to do the honors to the rest *
company.
g º * Oſl
The Conde—for it was he—rose immediately
The conde's
DAUGHTER,
257
larger
who CO
- ended
- two º * *
ºf...º.de-camp to his kindness—the politeness
i
repli
e plied
W
- m W
Starti
shed
lºng the message which the young officers had
in º While they waited its answer in the oriel
moni W, being unwilling to break in so uncere-
*sly, upon a party which seemed so much
prepa. ind more formal, than any they had been
**ed to meet. Their host received them most
y as they presented their credentials—
a letter from the English general, Wilson,
**nanded the forces stationed at the city of
As th 'é out sixty miles distant from the chateau.
whi. onde ran his glance over its contents—in
Or fo the general informed him that within three
.."; days he would reach R—, when he in-
0 avail himself of the Conde's often prof-
Ospitality, till when he recommended his
ºmely,
fered h
diali º: welcome changed to the most friendly cor-
' ' ( ; *
jº he said, “I am most grateful to his
c.ºy for the favor he has conferred on me, in
. my house during his stay here. I feel
Qury i. happy to shelter beneath my roof any of
i.e., and brave allies—But you must have
.*hard day's ride of it, I should think.”
º y, yes, it was a tolerable morning’s work,”
De Lucenay, who felt none of Alphonse's
"...ºrassment.
* *
H
... the ſºlº, place seats for their excellencies,” said
Moun * to one of the domestics who stood
lis...} while he motioned to the soi-disant Eng-
jº to enter the supper-room, in which the
is..." of tongues and plates had sensibly dimin-
bus.since the cºmmencement of the mysteri;
its pi "ference which had been taking place beyond
so ºts, “You must be greatly in want of
the refreshment, for the wretched posadas OIn
bl.;" cannot have offered you anything eata-
( ;
ever They were not very tempting, certainly; how-
ti ...We are pretty well used to them by this
re... plied De Lucenay. “But, Señor Conde,
pany ,” are scarcely presentable in such a com-
to. He added, as he looked down on his dust-
º! boots and dress.
.'" "at matter 4 You must not be so cere-
- Ill -
oft.* with us; you cannot be expected to come
lad *...they as if you had just emerged from a
“Bes; ºudoir,” answered the Conde with a smile.
whº... these are only a few intimate friends
ſets. assembled to celebrate my daughter's
tabi. And, so saying, he led them up to the
B. presented them to the circle as Lord
to ū. and Sir Edward Trevor, º
§ust i. Wilson. “And now,” he added, “
ºugh. *oduce you to the lady of the castle : my
ºleft. Doña Incz;” and turning to a slight
jºking girl, who might have been about
§entle * Seventeen, he said—"Mi queridita, these
... ºbtaight me the welcome new that
Or fo º . English general will be here in three
§artered ºys at the latest; the corps will be
his aide in the neighborhood, but the general and
§ the *de-camp will reside with us. Therefore,
doo g * likely to remain some time, we must all
gijº to render their stay amongst us as
‘‘I sl *º them as possible.”
as it jº l be most happy to contribute to it as far
y slight power,” replied Doña Inez in
d i. IIl
-- w is w * º º
t '* voice, while she raised her large lus-
uS
last ń. to those of Alphonse, which for the
"ß. had been gazing as if transfixed
II. "autiful countenance.
* * if from a dream, he stammered out,
16#
“Señorita, I—I-,” when fortunately Le Lucenay
came to his assistance, with one of those little well-
turned flattering speeches for which French tact is
so unrivalled; and as the company politely made
room for them, they seated themselves beside her.
“Don Fernando,” said the Conde to a haughty,
grave-looking man, who sat next to De Lucenay,
while he resumed his place at the head of the
table, “you and Inez, 1 trust, will take care of our
new friends. Pobrecitos, they must be half-fam-
ished by their day's expedition, and this late
hour.”
But the recommendation was superfluous; every
one vied with his neighbor in attending to the two
strangers, who, on their part, were much more
intent on contemplating the fair mistress of the man-
sion, than on doing honor to the profusion of frian-
dises that were piled before them.
Doña Inez was indeed beautiful, beyond the
usual measure of female loveliness: imagination
could not enhance, nor description give an idea of
the charm that fascinated all those who gazed upon
her : features cast in the most classic mould—a
complexion that looked as if no southern sun had
ever smiled on it. But the eyes!—the large,
dark, liquid orbs, whose glance would now seem
almost dazzling in its excessive brightness, and now
melted into all the softness of Oriental languor, as
the long, gloomy Circassian lashes drooped over
them . As Alphonse looked upon her, he could
have almost fancied himself transported to Moham-
med's paradise, and taken the Spanish maiden for
a houri; but that there was a soul in those mag-
nificent eyes—a nobleness in the white and lofty
brow—a dignity in the calm and pensive calmness,
which spoke of higher and better things.
But if her appearance enchanted him, her man-
ners were not less winning ; unembarrassed and
unaſſected, her graceful and natural ease in a few
moments contrived to make them feel as much at
home as another would have done in as many
hours. Much to the young Frenchman's regret,
however, they were not long allowed to enjoy their
aparté in quiet; for a thin, sallow-looking priest,
whom Doña Incz had already designated to them
as the Padre Confessor, interrupted them in a few
minutes, and the conversation became general.
“It is a great satisfaction to us all to see you
here, señores,” he said. “First, as it procures us
the pleasure of becoming personally acquainted
with our good friends and allies the English ; and,
secondly, as a guarantee that we are not likely to
have our sight polluted by any of those sacrilegious
demons the French, while you are amongst us.”
“Gracias a Dios " energetically rejoined the
cappellan—a fat, rosy, good-humored looking old
man, the very antipodes of his grim confrère.
“The saints preserve me from ever setting eyes on
them again You must know, señores, that some
six weeks ago I had gone to collect some small
sums due to the convent, and was returning quietly
home with a lay brother, when I had the misfor-
tune to fall in with a troop of those sons of Belial,
whom I thought at least a hundred miles off.
Would you believe it, señores! without any re-
spect for my religious habit, the impious dogs laid
violent hands on me; laughed in my face when I
told them I was almoner to the holy community of
Sancta Maria de los Dolores; and vowing that
they were sure that my frock was well lined, actu-
ally forced me to strip to the skin, in order to
despoil me of the treasure of the Church : , Luck-
ily, however, the Holy Virgin had inspired me to
*
w * *. 3. s:
* . . . . . . . *... .
$:
* * * * *
# Tº ‘
258
The conde's DAUGHTER.
hide it in the mule's saddle-girths, and so, the
zechins escaped their greedy fangs. But I had
enough of the fright; it laid me up for a week.
Misericordia what a set of cut-throat, hideous-
looking ruſſians! I thought I should never come
alive out of their hands !”
... “Jesus?” exclaimed a handsome bronzed-look-
ing Castilian, whom De Lucenay had heard ad-
dressed as Doña Encarnacion de Almoceres; “are
they really so wicked and so frightful!”
“Without doubt; true demons incarnate,” re-
plied the veracious priest.
“Come, come, reverendissimo padre; you are
too hard upon the poor devils; I have seen a good-
looking ſellow amongst them, now and then.”
* Bondad sua, señor, I’ll be sworn there is not
onc fit to tie the latchet of your shoe in the whole
army.”
“Yet how strange, then,” recommenced Doña
Encarnacion, “the infatuation they excite? I am
told that it is inconceivable the numbers of young
girls, from sixteen and upwards, who have aban-
doned their homes and families to follow these
brigands. Their want of mature years and under-
standing,” she continued, with a significant glance
at Doña Inez—her indignation having been gradu-
ally aroused as she perceived the admiration lav-
ished on her by the strangers, and the indifference
with which they viewed her riper charms—“may
be one reason ; but if the French are so unattrac-
tive, such madness is inexplicable.”
“Arts, unholy arts all !” cried the confessor.
“Their damnable practices are the cause of it.
They rob the damsels of their senses, with their
infernal potions and elixirs. The wretches are in
league with the devil.”
“Assuredly,” replied Don Fernando, gravely,
“you must be right. No woman in her senses
would condescend to look at those insignificant
triflers, while a single caballero of the true old type
is to be found on Spanish soil;” and he drew him-
self still more stiffly up. -
“The Holy Virgin defend me from their snares!”
ſervently ejaculated a thin wrinkled old woman,
who until then might easily have been mistaken for
a mummy, casting her eye up to heaven, and cross-
ing herself with the utmost devotion.
A suppressed laugh spread its contagious influ-
ence all round the table. -
“Doña Estefania, have no fear; you possess an
infallible preservative,” exclaimed the cappellan.
“And what may that be * responded the an-
tiquated fair, somewhat sharply:
“Your picty and virtue, sciora,” rejoined the
merry cappellano, with a roguish smile, which was
not lost on the rest of the company, though it evi-
dently escaped the obtuser perceptiºns of Doña
Estefânia; for drawing her mantilla gracefully
around her, and composing her parched visage into
a look of modesty, she answered in a softened tone,
while she waved her abanico timidly before her
face, “Ah, Padre Anselmo you are too partial;
you flatter me!” º ...
This was too much for the risible faculties of the
audience; even the grim Don Fernando's imper-
turbable mustache relaxed into a smile ; while to
avert the burst of laughter which seemed on the
point of exploding on all sides, Doña Inez inter-
rupted—
“But, señora, I should hope there is much false-
hood and exaggeration in the reports you allude to.
I trust there are few, if any, Spanish maidens.
is the pearl of Andalusia; there is not a "
and wealth would entitle him to anything sho"
capable of so forgetting what is due to themselº"
and to their country.” º
“Nevertheless, the contrary is the case,”
plied Doña Encarnacion, with asperity. ... …
“Oh no, no—it cannot be I will not believe
it; it is calumnious—it is impossible ! What . f
ing, with one drop of Spanish blood within thcl
veins, would be so debased as to follow the inva"
of their country, the destroyers, the despoilers
their own land!” Doña Inez, led away by
own enthusiasm, colored deeply, while Doña
carnacion seemed on the point of making an alſº
retort, when the count gave the signal to i
The rest followed his example, and the Conde le. * ,
the young Frenchmen to a window, where he ºl
versed a little with them, asked many quest”.
about the forces, about the general who was tº. '3
their inmate, &c.—to all which De Lucenº.
ready wit and inimitable sang froid furnished . r
with suitable and unhesitating replies. The Coſì 0.
then concluded with the information, that as th.
was to be rather a larger tertulia than usual .
evening, perhaps they would wish to make s”.
alteration in their dress before the company
rived. 6
The officers gladly availed themselves of "
permission, and followed the maggior-domo. P.;
massive flight of stairs, into a handsome suite ". .
three or four rooms, assigned entirely to their 1150.
After having promenaded them through the who
extent of their new domicile, the maggior-dº.
retired, leaying them to the attendance of theſ -
former guide, Pedro, who was deputed to ser
them in the capacity of valet-de-chambre. iſi-
The young men were astonished at the mag”
cence of all that met their eyes: walls cover
with the finest tapestry; ewers and gobles".
chased and solid silver; even to the quilts and ‘.
opies of the bed, stiff with gold embroidery. h6 +
they were too much absorbed by the charms ºf .
Conde's daughter, and too anxious to return tºº.
centre of attraction, to waste much time in admir
ing the splendor of their quarters. --
“How beautiful Doña Inezis?" said De Lu%
nay, as, in spite of all prudential consideration*, S5
tried to force his glossy locks to resume a le
sober fashion... “She must have many admire”
should think!” h6
“By the dozen,” answered the Spaniard. “ ;
cll
re-
her ,
caballero in the whole province that would not *
his soul to obtain a smile from her.”
“And who are the favored ones at present
“Qh, she favors none; she is too proud tº.
a look on any of them : yet there are four hidºl.
on the ranks at present, not one of whoſ. .
haughtiest lady in Spain need disdain. Don Al th.
de Mendoce, especially, is a cavalier whose º:
1” - -
ast
royalty; not to speak of the handsomest face, º:
finest figure, and the sweetest voice for a ser?” in
of any within his most Catholic Majesty's dº”
ions.”
“And is it possible that the Doña can be ob
to such irresistible attractions!” has
Pedro shrugged his shoulders. “Why; she Oſ3
not absolutely refused him, for the Conde i. 3 .
his suit; but she vows she will not grant his .
thought till he has won his spurs, and proº hosº
atriotism, by sending at least a dozen of t
rench dogs to their father Satanasso.” e!”.
“A capital way to rid one's self of a b%
duratº
The conde's DAUGHTER.
259
$xclaimed De Lucenay,
Word
while he cast a last glance
d glass. “So you are ready, milor,” he
ºrning to his friend, who, notwithstanding
5 d ...rence, had spent quite as much time in
* , ºg himself. Ånd, Pedro preceding them,
."ºng men gayly descended the stairs.
air. jºing the salon, they found several groups
in, . Yassembled. Doña Inez was standing speak-
& ° two or three ladies; while several cavaliers
* round them, apparently delighted at every
that fell from her lips. She disengaged her-
, , , a t €
add
his
. . ºom her circle, however, on perceiving them,
fore
the jºlly approached the window to which
| “... had retreated.
step \hat a lovely evening !” she exclaimed,
i. j out upon the balcony, on which the moon
‘, ‘the all, casting a flood of soft mellow light on
*ulptured façade of the old castle, tipping its
j 3f tapering pinnacles and the towering sum-
* , Il Q of the dark cypresses with silver. “You do
... "...ºf such starlit skies in England, I believe?”
ow have enjoyed many a delightful night in my
‘. hiº. señora, and in others, but such a
ed. A * this, never—not even in Spain!” answer-
a me Phonse, fixing his expressive eyes on her with
... .ºng not to be mistaken. . .
of th lat a pity it is that we cannot import a few
* for . Soft moonlights to our own chilly clime,
* futur *...benefit of all lovers, past, present, and
º's p . .." said De Lucenay gayly. “It is so much
*... sha i.e. to make love in a serenade, with the
ºn. of some kind projecting buttress to hide
eelin lushes, a pathetic sonnet to express one's
3 s p. infinitely more eloquently than one can in
. . moonlight and a guitar to cast a shade of
ºnce over the whole, and a moat or river in
Wl * i º
... j." tº terrify the lady into reason, if necessary—
making a formal declaration in the broad
º .light, looking rather more bête than one has ever
h . €e
- destin
laugh
Señor
º your del
* * *hºl
°d before, with the uncharitable sun giving a
Vr per glow to one's already crimson countenance.
jº still, if one is compelled to torture one's-
9t, an hour or two over unlucky billet-dour,
"d to divert the lady and all her confidants
* next six months. Oh evviva, the Spanish
- .*...nothing like it, to my taste, in the world!”
Aſisericordiñº, exclaimed Doña inez with a
“you are quite eloquent on the subject,
But I should hope, for their sakes, that
ºaſion of lovers in England is not a very
One.
{{ To the life, on my honor.”
Or th
in ºly they do not devote quite so much
- t
... the Scie
r
#
*:
'. ;
§ {
he is
lt as our caballeros, who are quite adepts in
nee.”
º Alvar de Mendoce, for example,” mut-
“W 'phonse, between his teeth. † - -
at where?” cried the young girl, in an
tone ; “who mentioned Don Alvar ! Did
... “ I”, ut no—impossible!” she added hurriedly.
prisº. ºxºlaimed Alphonse, with an air of sur;
is moſ I did not speak. But, pardon, señora!
..iº.;" cavalier you have just named, your
No, Señor—I have no brother; that caballero,
ºnly a-a friend of my father's,” she an-
Confused]
º host in excuse me,” said Alphonse, with the
4.
2.
º
... hajj,”cent air imaginable; "I thought you
The - • * ~
º retij Was a moment's pause, and Doña Inez
*apidly #le saloon, which was now beginning
“I am afraid I must leave you, señores; the
dancing is about to commence,” she said, “and I
must go and speak to some young friends of mine
who have just come in. But first let me induce
you to select some partners.”
“I did not know it was customary to dance at
tertulias,” observed Ernest.
“Not in general, but to-night it is augmented
into a little ball, in honor of its being my dia de
cumpleaños. But come, look round the room, and
choose for yourselves. Whom shall I take you
up to 4”
“May I not have the pleasure of dancing with
Doña Inez herself!” said De Lucenay. -
* Ah no I would not inflict so triste a partner
on you; I must find you’a more lively companion.”
And as if to prevent the compliment that was hov-
ering on Ernest's lips, she hurried on, while she
pointed out a group that was seated near the door.
* There ! what do you think of Doña Juana de
Zayas ; the liveliest, prettiest, and most remorseless
coquette of all Andalusia; for whose bright eyes
more hearts and heads have been broken than I
could enumerate, or you would have patience to
listen to.”
“What! that sparkling-looking brunette, who
flutters her abanico with such inimitable grace!”
“The same.”
“Oh! present me by all means.”
“And you, señor,” said Doña Inez, returning
with more interest to Alphonse, who had stood
silently leaning against a column, while she walked
his friend across the room, and seated him beside
Doña Juana, “will you be satisfied with Doña
Mercedes, who is almost as much admired as her
sister; or shall we look further ''
“But you, so formed to shine—to eclipse all
others—do you never dance, señorita 4” . .
“Seldom or ever,” she answered sadly. “I
have no spirit for enjoyment now !” -
“But wherefore ? Can there be a cloud to dim
the happiness of one so bright—so beautiful!” he
answered, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.
“Alas!” she said, touched by the tone of in-
terest with which he had spoken—“is there not
cause enough for sadness in the misfortunes of my
beloved country; each day, each hour producing
some fresh calamity? Who can be gay when, we
see our native land ravaged, our friends driven from.
their homes ; when we know not how soon we
may be banished from our own 4” • -
“Deeply—sincerely do I sympathize with, and
honor your feelings; but yet, for once, banish care,
and let us enjoy the present hour like the rest.”
“Indeed, } should prove a bad danseuse; it is so
long since I have danced, that I am afraid I have
almost forgotten how.” º .
“But as I fear nothing except ill success, let me
entreat.” º
“No, no—I will provide you with a better part-
ner.”
“Nay, if Doña Inez will not favor me, I re-
nounce dancing, not only for to-night, but for-
ever.”
“Oh! well then, to save you from such a mel-
ancholy sacrifice, I suppose I must consent,” re-
plied Doña Inez with a laugh; and as the music
now gave the signal to commence, she accepted his
proffered arm; and in a few moments she was
whirling round the circle as swiftly as the gayest
of the throng. The first turn of the waltz sufficed
to convince Alphonse that his fears on one score, at
least, were groundless; for he had never met with
260 .
THE conDE's DAUGHTER."
a lighter, or more admirable talscuse—a pleasure
that none but a good waltzer can appreciate, and
which, notwithstanding all her other attractions,
was not lost upon the young Frenchman; and be-
fore the termination of the waltz, he had decided
that Doña Inez was assuredly the most fascinating,
as she was undoubtedly the most beautiful, being
he had cver beheld.
“Santa Virgen tº exclaimed De Lucenay's
lively partner, after a moment's silence, which
both had very profitably employed; he, in admir-
ing her pretty countenance, and she in watching the
somewhat earnest conversation that was kept up
between the French officer and Doña Inez, as they
reposed themselves on a divan after the fatigues of
the waltz. “It seems to me that our proud Inesilla
and your friend are very well satisfied with each
other. I wonder if Don Alvar would be as well
pleased, if he saw them. Grandios! there he is, I
declare :”
Instinctively De Lucenay's eyes followed the di-
rection of hers, and lighted on a tall striking-look-
ing cavalier, whose handsome features were con-
tracted into a dark frown, while he stood silently
observing the couple, the prečccupation of whom
had evidently hitherto prevented their perceiving
him. “ Do, per caridadº go and tell your friend to
be a little more on his guard, or we shall certainly
have a duel: Don Alvar is the first swordsman in
Spain, jealous as a tiger, and he makes it a rule to
cripple, or kill, every rival who attempts to ap:
proach Doña Inez. ...Your friend is such a good
waltzer, that I should really be sorry to see him
disabled, at least till I am tired of dancing with him.”
“Your frankness is adorable.”
“Why, to be sure—of what use are you men ex-
cept as partners! unless, indeed, you are making
love to us; and then, I admit, you are of a little
more value for the time being.”
“The portrait is flattering.”
“Assuredly; you are only too fortunate in being
permitted to worship us.” º:
“In the present instance, believe me, I fully ap-
preciate the happiness.”
“ Braco, bracissimo I sce you were made for
me; I hate people who take as much time to fall
in love as if they were blind.”
“I always reflect with my eyes.”
“All that is the true way; but come,” rattled
on the merry Juanita, “go and give your friend a
hint, and I will employ the interim in smoothing the
ruffled plumes of an admirer of mine, who has been
scowling at me this last half hour, and whose
flame is rather too fresh to put an extinguisher on
just yet.” ſº º:
“A rival!” exclaimed Ernest in a tragic tone;
“he or I must cease to exist.”
“Oh don't be so valiant,” cried Doña Juana,
leaning back in a violent fit of laughter. “You
would have to extinguish twenty of them at that
rate.”
“Twenty is a large number,” said Ernest re-
flectingly. -
“Yes, yes—be wise in time,” said the pretty
coquette, still laughing. “If you are patient and
submissive, you have always the chance of rising to
the first rank, you know. "I am not very exacting,
and provided a caballcro devotes himself wholly to
my service, enlivens me when I am dull, sympa-
thizes with me when I am sad, obeys my commands
as religiously as he would his confessor's, antici-
pates my every wish, and bears with every caprice,
is never gloomy or jealous, and is, moreover, up
conscious of the existence of any other woman *
the world beside, I am satisfied.”
“Is that all! Upon my word your demands ar"
moderate.” ... "
“Yes, but as our pious friend Doña Estefan
says, perfection is not of this world, and so I cº"
tent myself with a little,” replied the animated irl,
imitating the look of mock humility, shrouding
herself in her mantilla, and wielding her abani"
with the identical air and grace which had so com"
pletely upset the gravity of the supper-table an hou.
before. “And then, consider,” she continued, *
suddenly resuming her own vivacity, “how much
more glorious it will be to outstrip a host of com.
petitors, than quietly to take possession of a hea.
which no one takes the trouble of disputing with
you.”
“Your logic is positively unanswerable."
laughed De Lucenay. *
“Ah, per piedad! Spare my ignorance the inflic"
tion of such hard words, and be off.”
“ But ” murmured the reluctant Ernest.
“Obedience, you know !” and Juanita held UP
her finger authoritatively.
Never had Ernest executed a lady's behests with
a worse grace, nor was his alacrity increased by
perceiving that, ere he had even had time 10
cross the room, his place was already occupied,
as much apparently to the satisfaction of his substir
tute, as to that of the faithless fair one herself. But
Alphonse and his partner had disappeared, and De
Lucenay went towards the balcony, to which he
suspected they had retreated ; but there was no
one there, and De Lucenay stood for a few mo:
ments in the embrasure of the window, irresolute
whether he should seek out his friend or not, whilº
he amused himself contemplating the animate
coup-d'oeil of the saloon. The dark-eyed Spanish
belles, with their basquinas and lace mantillas;
their flexible figures, and their miniature feet S9
exquisitely chaussečs; the handsome caballeros,
with their dark profiles and black mustaches,
their sombre costume, brilliantly relieved by the
gold tissue divans, and varied arabesques of th9
glittering saloon, they looked like the noble pig.
tures of Velasquez or Murillo just stepped out 0
their frames As Ernest was reëntering the sº
loon, the voices of a group of ladies, from whom hº
was concealed by the crimson drapery of the cur
tains, caught his attention. -
“Ah! Mariguita mia,” said one,
am to meet you here !
since I saw you last.”
“Queridita mia,” responded a masculine tong:
very little in harmony with the soft words "
uttered ; “in these terrible times one dare not veſ."
ture a mile beyond the town. As for me the me."
barking of a dog puts me all in a ſlutter, and sen";
me flying to the window. You know the news,
suppose; Doña Isabel de Peñaflor has quarrel.
with her cortejo, and he has ſlown off in a rage *
her cousin Blanca.”
“Misericordia que lastima, they were such .
handsome couple 'But it cannot last; they will
make it up again, certainly.” -
“Oh no ''' interposed another; “her husband,
Don Antonio, has done all he could to reconcil”
them, but in vain—ho told me so himself.”
“Well, I am sure I don't wonder at it; she
such a shrew there is no bearing her.”
“No matter,” resumed the first speaker,
“how glad I
Que gusto! It is a century
is .
tº the
The conde’s DAUGHTER.
261
ºple is Scandalous, and should not be suffered.
it is all the fault of that artificious Blanca:
**w she would contrive to get him at last.”
troposito, what do you think of the two new
stars ?”
V “Oh, charming ! delightful ''' cxclaimed a
... whose light silvery tone doubly enhanced the
º of its praise to the attentive listener in the
*ck-ground.’ “ Only I fear they will not profit us
*h; for if my eyes deceive mé not, both are al-
º captured.”
"No doubt, child,” said a voice which had not
Yet spoken; ºt good looks and good dancing are
º enough to constitute your standard of perfec-
“At all events,” interrupted another, “ they are
ºy unlike Englishmen. Do you know,” she con-
"ed, lowering her voice to a whisper, “that Don
War swears they are nothing else than a pair of
*nch spies; and as he speaks English very well,
*\cans to try them by and by.”
th he intelligence was pleasant; and Ernest seized
. first instant when he could slip out unobserved,
hi $9 in search of his friend. . After looking for
. in vain amidst, the dancing, and chattering
W . he wandered into an adjoining, gallery,
ºose dark length was left to the light of the
*on, in whose rays the gloomy portraits that cov-
§d the walls looked almost spectrally solemn.
d 9 gallery terminated in a terrace, which was
...ted with colossal marble vases, and stunted
... gº trees, whose blossoms embalmed the air
. their fragrance. As Ernest approached, the
º of whispered words caught his ear. He stood
an instant, hidden by the porphyry columns of
|Portico, -
t Indeed, indeed, I must return; do not detain
; it is not right; I shall be missed; I cannot
i. to you,” murmured the low voice of Doña
Z.
We
O “Qne moment more. Inez, I love, I adore you!
h, do not turn from me thus—the present instant
i. is ours; to-morrow, to-night, this hour per-
|... I may be forced to leave you; give me but
tl Pº; one smile, one word, and I will live upon
º hope—live for the future—live for you alone,
º one: till we compel ſate to reinite us, or
not sºut you will not say that word; you care
... mººyou,love another!” said lºº
il °rly. “Would that I had never seen you, you
§ "old, heartless! or you could not reject thus a
. so ardent, so devoted, as that I fling at your
h But why this impetuosity—this unreasonable
**! If you love me, there is time to-morrow,
...ſº but this is madness. I love no one—I
#. on Alvar; but your love is ſolly, insanity.
*e hours ago you had never seen me, and now
. swear my indifference will kill, you. Oh!
i. Señor! I am but a simple girl—I am but
t * Seventeen ; yet I know that were it even true
* you love me, a love so sudden in its birth must
*ish as rapiá.
not t * is not true you know—you feel that it is
is .."...º.dº not think what you say! There
tree ºve which, like the lightning, scorches the
ou which it strikes, and blasts it forcver; but
{{ jº-you do not love—fool that I am '''
are h' let me go—do not clasp my hand so—you
..ºel!” and Inez burst into tears.
his "º mºſſ-oh, forgive me, best beloved :
“,@e mi alma pº
*und of approaching footsteps on the marble
below startled them, and Inez darted away like a
frightened fawn and flew down the gallery.
“Well, stoical philosopher 1’’ exclaimed Ernest,
as his friend emerged from behind the orange-
trees; “for so indifferent and frozen a personage,
I think you get on pretty fast. Ca ira! I begin
to have hopes of you. So you have lost that frozen
heart of yours at last, and after such boasting, too!
But that is always the way with you braggadocios.
I thought it would end so, you were so wondrously
valiant.”
“But whoever dreamed of seeing anything so
superhumanly beautiful as that young girl? Nothing
terrestrial could have conquered me; but my stoicism
was defenceless against an angel.” -
“Bravo! your pride has extricated itself from
the dilemma admirably. I must admit that there is
some excuse for you ; the pearl of Andalusia is
undoubtedly ravissante. But your pieces of still
life never suit me. I have the bad taste to prefer
the laughing black-eyed Juanita de Zayas to all the
Oriental languor, drooping lashes, and sentimental
monosyllables of your divinity.”
“Oh, sacrilege the very comparison is profana-
tion 1’’ exclaimed Alphonse, raising his hands and
eyes to heaven.
“Hold hard, mon cher. I cannot stand that l’”
responded Ernest energetically.
“Then, in Heaven's name, do not put such a
noble creature as Doña Inez on a level with a mere
little trifling coquette.” -
“Oh she is every inch as bad. I watched her
narrowly, and would stake my life on it she is only
the more dangerous for being the less open.
Smooth water you know however, you have
made a tolerable day's work of it.” -
“Either the best or the worst of my life, Er
nest ſº said his friend passionately.
“What! is it to come to that?—so hot upon it!
But while we are standing trifling here, we ought
to be discussing something much more important.”
And here De Lucenay repeated the conversation he
had overheard. “In short, I fear we are fairly
done for,” he added, in conclusion. “I hope you
are able to bear the brunt of the battle, for my
vocabulary will scarcely carry me through ten
words.” - -
“Oh, as for me, I shall do very well; it must
be the devil's own luck if he speaks English better
than I do,” said Alphonse; “and as for you, you
must shelter yourself under English morgue and re-
serve.” ...
“Confound him!” muttered de Lucenay; “jeal-
ousy is the very deuce for sharpening the wits.
But no matter, courage 1”—And so saying, the
friends sauntered back into the circle.
They had not been long there when the Conde
came up and introduced his friend Don Alvar, who,
as they had expected, addressed them in very good
English; to which Alphonse replied with a fluen-
cy which would have delighted his friend less, had
he been able to appreciate the mistakes which em-
bellished almost every sentence. To him Don
Alvar often turned; but as every attempt to engage
him in the conversation was, met by a resolute
monosyllable,heatlast confined himself to Alphonse,
much to De Lucenay's relief. . His manners, how-
ever, were cautious and agreeable; and as, after a
quarter of an hour, he concluded by hoping that ere
long they should be better acquainted, and left
them apparently quite unsuspicious, the young men
persuaded themselves that they had outwitted their
malicious inquisitor. Their gay spirits thus re-
262
THE CONDE's DAUGHTER.
lieved from the cloud that had momentarily over-
shadowed them, the remainder of the evening was
to them one of unmingled enjoyment. In the so-
ciety of the beautiful Doña Inez, and her sparkling
friend, hours flew by like minutes; and when the
last lingering groups dispersed, and the reluctant
Juanita rose to depart, the friends could not be con-
vinced of the lateness of the hour.
“Well, Alphonse so you are fairly caught at
last !” said De Lucenay, as, after dismissing Pedro
half-an-hour later, he stretched himself full length
on the luxurious divan of the immense bedroom,
which, for the sake of companionship they had de-
termined on sharing between them. “After all, it
is too absurd that you, who have withstood all the
artillery of Paris, and escaped all the cross-fire of
the two Castiles, should come and be hooked at last
in this, remote corner of the earth, by the inexpe-
rienced black eyes of an innocent of sixteen.”
“Good heavens ! do cease that stupid style of
ersiflage. I am in no humor for jesting.”
“Well, defend me from the love that makes
people cross! My bonnes fortunes always put me
in a good humor.”
“Will you never learn to be serious !
surd manner of talking is very ill-timed.”
Ernest was on the point of retorting very angrily,
when the sound of a guitar struck upon their cars;
and, with one accord, the friends stole silently and
noiselessly to the balcony—but not before Ernest,
with the tact of experience, had hidden the light
behind the marble pillars of the alcove. By this
manoeuvre, themselves in shade, they could, un-
perceived, observe all that passed in the apartment
opposite to them, from which the sound proceeded;
for the windows were thrown wide open, and an
antiquo bronze lamp, suspended from the ceiling,
diffused sufficient light over the whole extent of the
room to enable them to distinguish almost every-
thing within its precincts. The profusion of flow-
ers, trifles, and musical instruments, that were dis-
perscd around in graceful confusion, would alone
have betrayed a woman's sanctum sanctorum, even
had not the presiding genius of the shrine been the
£rst and most prominent object that met their eyes.
Doña Inez—for it was she—had drawn her seat to
the verge of the balcony; and, her guitarresting on
her knee, she hurried over a brilliant prelude with
a masterly hand; and in a pure, rich voice, but
evidently tremulous with emotion, sang a little
plaintive seguidilla with exquisite taste and feel-
ing. The two young men listened in hushed and
breathless attention; but the song was short as it
was sweet—in a moment it had ceased ; and the
young girl, stepping out upon the balcony leaned
over the balustrade, and looked anxiously around,
as if her brilliant eyes sought to penetrate the very
depths of night.
“Well, Álphonse,” said De Lucenay, “let me
congratulate you. This serenade is for you; but
I presume you will no longer deny the coquetry
of your innamorata ?” . .
* Hush, hush!” exclaimed his friend, hastily,
as Doña Inez resumed her seat; “be sure there is
some better motive for it.”
The music now recommenced, but it was the
same air again. *
“This is strange " muttered Ernest : “her
repertoire seems limited. Does she know nothing
else, I wonder?”
“Silence?” replied the other. “Did you mark
the words?” exclaimed Alphonse, hurriedly, as
That ab-
the music concluded. “Descuidado caballero; es”
lecho es vuestra tumba, &c.” ..
“No, indeed ; I was much better employed º
watching the fair syren herself. Foi de drago"
she is charming. #. half a mind to disputº
her with you.”
“She has something to communicate 1" e.
claimed Alphonse, in an agitated voice; we are lº
danger.” And, running rapidly into the room, hº
replaced the light on the table, so that they wer”
full in view.
His conjecture was right; for no sooner did the
light discover to her those whom she was looking
for, than, uttering a fervent “gracias a Dios!
she clasped her hands together, and rushed intº
the apartment, from which she almost instantaneº
ously returned with a small envelope, which she
flung with such precision that it fell almost in th’
centre of the room, with a sharp metallic sound.
It. was the work of an instant to tear open th?
packet, take out the key which it contained, an
decypher the following words:— *
“Señores,—Strange, and I trust unjust suspi;
cions have arisen concerning you. It is whispere
that you are not what you appear; that secret ºn
traitorous designs have led you amongst us. Tº
morrow's dawn will bring the proof to light. But,
should you have anything to fear, fly instantly-
not a moment must be lost. Descend by the sma
staircase; the inclosed is a passe-partout to open the
gate, outside which Pedro will wait you with your
horses, and guide you on your way, till you nº
longer require him. Alas! I betray my belove
parent's confidence, to save you from a certain an
ignominious death. Be generous, then, and bury
all that you have seen and heard within these walls
in oblivion, or eternal remorse and misery must be
mine.—INEz.”
“Generous, noble-minded girl!” enthusiastical:
ly exclaimed Alphonse, as he paced the room wit
agitated steps. “Scarcely do I regret this hour
of peril, since it has taught me to know thee!”,
“For Heaven's sake, Álphonse, no heroics now!'
cried De Lucenay, who, not being in love, esti"
mated the value of time much more rationally than
his friend. “Scribble off an answer—explain that
we are not spies—while I prepare for our depart"
Be quick!—five minutes are enough for
Alphonse followed his friend's advice, and, in an
incredibly short space of time, penned off a tolerº
bly long epistle, explaining the boyish frolic intº
which they had been led by getting possession of
the despatches of an imprisoned English aide-dº.
camp, and the reports of her beauty; filled up with
protestations of eternal gratitude and remembrance,
and renewing all the vows and declarations of th:
evening—the precipitancy of which he excus?
by the unfortunate circumstances under which he
was placed, and the impossibility of bidding her
adieu, without convincing her of the sentiments
which filled his heart then and forever. The letter
concluded by intreating her carefully to preserº
the signet-ring which it contained; and that shou
she at any future time be in any danger or distress,
she had only to present or send it, and there wº
nothing, § their power, himself or his friends
would not do for her. Having signed their re.
names and titles, and despatched the billet-dour *
the same manner as its predecessor, the young mº"
waited till they had the satisfaction of seeing º:
Inez open it; and then, waving their handkerchiº
The conDE's DAUGHTER.
263
º *ºn to your quarters, for
#. ºf adieu, Alphonse, with a swelling heart,
'owed his friend down stairs. All happened as
º: young girl had promised, and in a few mo-
... they were in the open air and in freedom.
“Señores,” said Pedro, as they mounted their
°S, “the Senorita thinks, you had better not
º on Alvar is such a
ºil when his jealous blood is up, that he might
£ºsue you with a troop of assassins, and murder
§§on the road. She desired me to conduct you
road. . ; whence you may easily take the cross-
*i; in any direction you please.”
The Senorita is a pearl of prudence and dis-
§ºtion: do whatever she desired you,” said Al-
Phonse.
Pedro made no answer; but seemingly as much
"Pressed with the necessity of speed as the young
*n themselves, put the spurs to his horse; and in
* moment they were crossing the country at a
Speed which bid fair to distance any pursuers who
Yere not gifted with wings as well as feet; nor did
jºy slacken rein till the dawn of day showed
*m, to their great joy, that they were beyond the
**h of pursuit, and in a part of the country with
which they were sufficiently well acquainted to en-
ºble them to dispense with the services of Pedro—a
‘scovery which they lost no time in taking advan-
*gº of, by dismissing the thenceforth inconvenient
$ºide, with such substantial marks of their grati-
'qe as more than compensated him for the loss of
* night's rest. A few more hours saw them
*ſely returned to the French camp, without hav-
"g suffered any greater penalty for the indulgence
their curiosity than a night's hard riding, to the
} small discomfiture of the friendly circle of frères
} ºrmes, whose prophecies of evil on the subject
*d been, if not loud, deep and numerous.
$ tº: * jº 3.
It was on a somewhat chilly evening, towards
the beginning of winter, that Alphonse was writing
, letter in his tent; while De Lucenay, who, when
There were no ladies in question, could never be
Yºy long absent from his Pylades, was pacing up
*d down, savoring the ineffable delights of a long
- §ouque, when the orderly suddenly entered, and
* a letter on the table, saying that the bearer
"ºited the answer. Desiring him to attend his
*9ts outside, Alphonse broke open the envelope.
“What the devil have you got there, Al-
º exclaimed De Lucenay, stopping in the
. st of his perambulations, as he perceived the
ºted countenance and tremulous eagerness with
...ich his friend perused the contents of the letter.
must be a powerful stimulant, indeed, which
§º make you look so much more like yourself than
Yºu have done for these last five months. You
º lot been so much excited since that mysteri-
º blank letter you received, with its twin sprigs
...ºne not and myrtle. I began to fear I
. have that unlucky expedition of ours on my
..ºnce for the rest of my days. You have
.*.heen the same being since.” *
i.hº-judge for yourself...exclaimed Al-
jº, flinging him the note after, he had hurri-
i. Pressed it to his lips, and rushed out of the
hors
th It was with scarcely less surprise and emotion
. De Lucenay gianced over the following
hes:—
: { -
yº": and gratitude have any claims upon
pled ºrts, now is the moment to redeem the
ge they gave. Danger and misfortune have
*" upon us, and I claim the promise that, un-
asked, you made; the holy Virgin grant that it
may be as fresh in your memory as it is in mine.
I await your answer.—INEz.” The signet was
inclosed. Scarcely had De Lucenay read its con-
tents when his friend reëntered, leading in a trem-
bling sister of charity, beneath whose projecting
hood Ernest had no difficulty in recognizing the
beautiful features of Doña Inez di Miranda. ".
“This is indeed an unlooked-for happiness!”
passionately exclaimed Alphonse, while he placed
the agitated and almost fainting girl on a seat.
“Since that memorable night of mingled joy and
despair, I thought not that such rapture awaited
me again on earth.” tº
“Oh, talk not of joy, of happiness!” imploring-
ly exclaimed the young girl. “I have come to
you on a mission of life or death. . My father—my
dear, my beloved father—is a prisoner, and con-
demned to be shot. Oh, save him Save him ſ”
she cried wildly, falling on her knees.--"If you
have hearts, if you are human-save him; and
God will reward you for it; and I shall live but to
bless your names every hour of my existence.”
Fxhausted by her emotion, she would have fallen
on the ground, had not Alphonse caught her and
raised her in his arms.
“Calm yourself, calm yourself, sweet child!”
he whispered, soothingly: “our lives, our blood is
at your service; there is nothing on earth, which
my friend and I would not do for you.” m
A declaration which De Lucenay confirmed with
an energetic oath.
Somewhat tranquillized by this assurance, she at
last recovered sufficiently to explain that her father
was at the head of a guillera band which had been
captured, having fallen into an ambuscade, where
they left more than half their number dead on the
field. Some peasants had brought the news to the
chateau, with the additional information that they
were all to be shot within two days. . . ~~
“In my despair,” continued the young girl, “I
thought of you; and, ordering the fleetest horses in
the stable to be saddled, set off with two servants,
determined to throw myself on your pity; and if
that should fail me, to ſling myself on the mercy
of Heaven, and lastly to die with him, if I could not
rescue him. But you will save him will you
not?” she sobbed with clasped hands—and a look
so beseeching and so sorrowful, that the tears
rushed involuntarily into their eyes. ‘. . . . .
“Save him oh yes, at all costs, at all hazards!
were it at the risk of our heads! But where is
he where was he taken! where conveyed to $.”
“They were taken to the quarters of the gen-
eral-in-chief in command, and it was he himself
who signed their condemnation.” * s
“My father " said De Lucenay, in a tone of
surprise. º '. *
ºf Ernest!” exclaimed his friend, “they must be
those prisoners who were brought in this morning,
while we were out foraging.” sº i
“No doubt, no doubt, you are right,” replied
De Lucenay, his countenance lighting up with
pleasure. “Oh, then, all is well! I will go in-
stantly to my father; tell him we owe our lives to
you—and that will be quite sufficient. Have no
fear—he is saved l’’. . * * * 1.
“He is saved He is saved t” shrieked Doña
Inez. “Oh, may Heaven bless you for those
words!” and with a sigh—a gasp-she fell sense
less on the ground. * . . *
“Poor girl!” said De Lucenay, pityingly, “sk
has suffered indeed. Alphonse, I leave you to re
24
_*
ºf
*
264
THE CONDE's DAUGHTER.
-
'suscitate her, while I hurry off to the general.
There is not a moment to be lost. As soon as the
grand affair is settled, I will make my father send
for her. She will be better taken care of there;
and besides, you know, it would not be convenable
for her to remain here; and we must be generous
as well as honorable.”
“Oh, certainly—certainly . It is well you think
for me; for I am so confused that I remember
nothing,” exclaimed Alphonse, as De Lucenay
hurried away.
It was not quite so easy a task, however, as he
had imagined, to bring the young girl to life again.
The terror and distress she had undergone had
done their worst; and the necessity for exertion
past, the overstrung nerves gave way beneath the
unwonted tension. One fainting-fit succeeded to
another; till at last Alphonse began to be seriously
alarmed. . Fortunately, however, joy does not
kill; and after a short while, Doña Inez was
sufficiently recovered to listen with a little more
attention to the protestations, vows, and oaths,
which, for the last half hour, the young French-
man had been very uselessly wasting on her insen-
sible ears.
“And so, then, you did remember me, it
seems ’” said Doña Inez, after a moment's silence
—while she rested her head on one hand, and
*ºned the other to the passionate kisses of her
OWer.
* “Remember you ! What a word ' When I
can cease to remember that the sun shines, that I
exist—then, perhaps, I may forget you; but not
till then. Not an hour of my life, but I thought
of you; at night I dreamed of you, in the day I
dreamed of you; amidst the confusion of the bi-
vouac, in the excitement of battle, in the thunder
of the artillery, amidst the dead and the dying,
your image rose before me. I had but one thought;
—should I fall—how to convey to you the knowl-
edge that, I had died loving you—that that sprig of
forget-me-not, that lock of dark hair, so often be-
dewed by my kisses, had rested on my heart to the
last moment that it beat!” And Alphonse drew
out a medallion. -
Doña Inez snatched it out of his hand, and cov-
ered it with kisses. “Blessed be the holy Virgin
I have not prayed to her in vain. I, too, have
thought of you, Alphonse; I, too, have dreamed
of you by day, and lain awake by night to dream
of you again. How have I supplicated all the
saints in heaven to preserve you, to watch over
you! For I, too, love you, Alphonse; deeply—
passionately—devotedly—as a Spaniard loves—
once, and forever!” tº
“Mes amis, I regret to part you,” said De Luce-
nay, who reëntered the tent a few moments after;
“but the Conde is pardoned—all is right, and
you will meet to-morrow ; so let that console
you !” -
“Oh, you were destined to be my good an
gels!” cried Doña Inez, enthusiastically, as she
drew the white hood over her head, and left the
tent with the two friends.
* # * $ §§
Less enviable were the Conde's feelings, when
at noon, on the following morning, an order from
the general summoned him to his tent, to receive,
as he supposed, sentence of death. Great, there-
fore, was his º when he was ushered into
the presence of three officers, in two of whom he
instantly recognized his former suspicious guests;
h
while the third, a tall dignified-looking man, adº
vanced towards him, and in the most courteous
manner announced to him his free pardon.
As the Conde poured forth his thanks, the gem-
eral interrupted him by saying, that, howevº
happy he was at having it in his power to remit
. sentence, it was not to him that the merit was
tle,
“To whom, then?” exclaimed the Conde in a
tone of surprise. *
“To one most near and dear to you,” replied
the general.
“Who? who?”
“You shall see.” And the general made a
sign to Ernest, who slipped out of the room,
i. in a few moments returned, leading in Doña
In 82.
“And it is to thee, then, my own Inesilla, my
darling, my beloved child,” passionately cried the
Conde, as she rushed into his arms, and hid her
face upon his breast, “that I owe my life!”. To
describe the joy, the intense and tumultuous de;
light of that moment, were beyond the power 0
words. Even the stern, inflexible commander
turned to hide an emotion he would have blushed
to betray.
After waiting till the first ebullition of their joy
had subsided, General De Lucenay walked up to
the Conde, and shaking him cordially by the hand,
congratulated him on possessing a daughter whose
courage and filial devotion were even more worthy
of admiration, more rare, than her far-famed beau-
ty; “and which,” he added, “even I, who have
been in all countries, have never seen surpassed.”
“Though not my own child, she has indeed
been a blessing and a treasure to me,” said the
Conde; “every year of her life has she repaid to
me a thousand-fold, the love and affection which
have lavished on her; and now”—
“Not your child!” exclaimed De Lucenay and
Alphonse in a breath.
“No, not my child,” replied the Conde. “The
story is a long one, but with my generous preserv"
ers I can have no secrets. Just seventeen ...;
ago, I was returning from a visit, by the banks of
the Guadiana, with only two attendants, when I
heard a faint cry from amongst the rushes on the
water's edge; dismounting from our horses, we
forced our way through the briars to the spot
whence the sound proceeded. To our great suſ.
prise, we discovered there a little infant, which
had evidently been carried down the stream, an
its dress having got entangled amongst the thorns,
had prevented its being swept further on. Our
providential arrival saved its life; for it was draw:
ing towards the close of evening, and the little
creature, already half dead with cold and exposure,
must inevitably have perished in the course of the
night. In one word, we carried it to my chateau,
where it grew up to be the beautiful girl you see`
the sole comfort and happiness of my life.”
“But her parents, did you never discover any.
thing about them—who or what they were-th?
motive of so strange an abandonment?” exclaim.”
General de Lucenay in an agitated voice. “Was
there no clue by which to trace them?” º
“No, I madé all inquiries but in vain. Besides,
it was many miles from any habitation that Yº
found her. "I sent the following day, and made
many inquiries in the neighborhood; but no on”
could give us any information on the subject; sº
after an interval of months, I gave the point, "P
as hopeless. One thing only is certain, that they "
The conDE's DAUGHTER.
265
}*Hotinferiors; the fineness of her dress, and a lit-
W. *lic encased in gold and precious stones, that she
"ºund her neck, were sufficient proofs of that.”
eral is is, indeed, most singular !” cried the gen-
...” “And do you recollect the precise date of
... ºccurrence tº
bee tecºllect a day which for many years. I have
m #. the habit of celebrating as the brightest of
º, Assuredly—it was the 14th of May—and
will do I remember it.”
lost The 14th of May it must be, it is, my long-
ºy long-mourned daughter!” cried the general.
Your daughter!” exclaimed all around in the
*st astonishment.
“Yo...tº daughter,” repeated the general.
Wh ou shall hear alſ: but first—the relic, the relic:
"*rē is it! let me sce it.
Convin...: That would be the
*incing proof indeed.”
it in t is easy to satisfy you,” replied Inez, “for
S ºver leaves me;” and, taking a small chain,
* handed him a little filagree gold case that she
"...in her bosom.
iniº sºme! the same! these are my wife's
als on it. This is indeed a wonderful dispen-
**on of Providence, to find a daughter after hav-
; $o long mourned her as lost; and to find her all
3, heart could have wished, more than my most
"bitious prayers could have asked Oh, this is
* much happiness! Alas!” he continued in a
. of deep feeling, while he drew the astonished
da stupefied girl towards him, and, parting the
ul * locks on her brow, imprinted a paternal kiss
§ her forehead; “would that my poor Dolores
rena; ived to see this hour ! how would it have
...Paid the years of sorrow and mourning your loss
isioned her?”
na..it how! what is this: it is most extraordi-
*y!” exclaimed the Conde, who had waited in
Speechless surprise the dénoãment of this unex-
Pºted scene.
Sn he, general explained. His wife had been a
...ish lady of high birth. Returning to France
. a visit to her relations, they had stopped to
*ge horses at a little posada on the banks of the
...ana; their little daughter, a child of eight
ºths old, had sprung out of its nurse's arms into
* Fiver. Every effort to recover the child was
ºuides; it sank and disappeared. They returned
à. and, after a few years, his wife died. }
Ul
may judge, then, of my feelings on hearing
ory, Señor Conde,” concluded the general;
name of the river and the date first roused my
cions, which the result has so fully confirmed.”
Yºur St
the
Suspi
“My child, my child ! and must I then lose
thee!” cried the Conde, clasping the young girl in
his arms in an agony of grief.
“Never!” passionately exclaimed Inez. “Tuya
a la vida a la muerta P’
“Not so, Señor Conde ; the man who has treated
her so nobly has the best right to her,” said the
general. “I will never take her from you; an
occasional visit is all I shall ask.” -
“But if you will not take her, I know who would,
most willingly,” said Ernest, stepping forward.
“But first, my little sister, let me congratulate you
upon dropping from the clouds upon such a good-
natured, good-for-nothing, excellent fellow of a
brother, as myself. And now, gentlemen, I have
a boon to ask—where there is so much joy, why
not make all happy at once! There is an unfortu-
nate friend of mine, who, to my certain knowledge,
has been all but expiring for that fair damsel these
last five months; and if for once our sweet Inez
would dismiss all feminine disguise, and confess
the truth, I suspect she would plead guilty to the
same sin. Come, come, I will spare you,” he
added, as the rich blood mantled over Doña Inez's
cheek—“that tell-tale blush is a sufficient answer.
Then, why not make them happy!” he added,
more seriously; “the Marquis de La Tour d’Au-
vergne, the heir of an ancient line, and a noble for-
tune, is in every respect a suitable alliance for either
the Conde de Miranda, or General De Lucenay.
Besides which, he is a very presentable young fel-
low, as you see, not to speak of the trifle of their
being over head and ears in love with each other
already.” #
“What say you, my child?—Bah! is it indeed
so?” exclaimed the Conde, as Inez stood motion-
less, her dark eyes fixed on the ground, and the
flush growing deeper and deeper on her cheek
every minute—while Alphonse, springing forward,
declared that he would think such happiness too
dºg purchased with his life.
“No, no-no dying, if you please. A ghostly
mate would be no very pleasant bridegroom for a
young lady. What say you, general! shall we
consent?”
“With all my heart.”
“Hurrah! Vive la joie!” cried Ernest, tossing
his cap into the air.
“Oh, this is too much bliss!” murmured Inez
almost inaudibly.
“No dearest! may you be as happy through life
as you have rendered me,” said the Conde, ſolding
hér in his arms.
º: SAILor PRINCE.-As Britannia happens to
º the waves, it is very desirable that we should
i...somebody who is superior to the Wºº, fºr
...ſi: of ruling Britannia. It is gratifying to
jº that not only is her majesty a capital sailor-
.* her son, the little Duke of Cornwall, is
§ inch—that is, every one of his 28 inches of
. *Ta sailor. The young, scion of royalty,
jº the recent cruise, skipped about the deck as
0. y as the skipper himself, and ordered extra
ºes of grog to the men, with the true spirit
0 i º seamanship. Her majesty had evidently
tºº." of the extent to which the little tar—or
in ri ...would enter into his new profession, for,
jºint for the voyage, she had only
one w ed him with one pair of white trousers and
Soon ºwaistcoat. These, of course, were very
Sºiled by the activity of the royal reefer, and
C
exxx. LIVING AGE. vol. XI. 17
it was, therefore, necessary to get them washed
by one of the crew, between the Prince's bedtime
and the hour of mustering all hands on deck the
next morning. *
It is said that his royal highness has already
adopted some of the phraseology peculiar to the
naval service, and has once, or twice expressed a
desire to have his little timbers shivered. He is
frequently engaged in practising the hornpipe so
completely identified with the naval service of his
country, and he already knows the name of every
rope, spar, and brace that is required in a vessel.
º sings none but naval songs, and his execution
Oi-
“We tars have a maxim,”
is considered by all who have heard it, to be one
of the ſinest pieces of nautical vocalization in the
English language.—Punch.
266
SELLING OUT. * .
. From the United Service Journal.
SELLING OUT.
A SKETCH FROM MILITARY LIFE.
- * Oh, now forever
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars
- That make ambition virtué! Oh, farewell
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrii trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
he royal banner—and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.”
DEEP winter in London—miserable time for the
poor . The rich have left the city—houses are
shut up—the streets present a dull array of closed
shutters—the shops glitter with twelfth cakes,
citron, and gilded sweetmeats; they only tantalize
the hungry, to whom a bit of dry bread would be
even more acceptable. How dull the parks are
It is a black frost; the street-sweepers stand shiv-
ering, looking imploringly at the foot-passengers,
who step across fearlessly; there are no carriages
to stop their way, only a few wretched, crawling,
empty omnibuses. It does not rain, but your
clothes feel damp. There is a lady coming down
Constitution Hill, leading two little boys; she has
been to meet them at Hatchett's ; they have come
from school for the holidays by one of the coaches;
they are very merry. . See, the elder one points
out the nursery windows of the palace to his
brother. A nurse stands at one, with a little prin-
cess in her arms; another nurse exhibits a toy, and
the baby scion of a royal race laughs and seems to
shout with glee as she extends her hands and tries
to seize it. The little boys laugh too, and enjoy
the scene ; they would fain stay and see the queen
depart for Windsor. Carriages, with impatient
horses, stand waiting in the quadrangle ; a party
of light dragoons are dashing down the park; a
crowd is gathering, and the sentries drive them
back from the iron railings; thereupon some of the
people grumble, and ask if the railings are “made
of gingerbread,” and sharp words rise between the
guards and the mob; the little boys still hang back,
and laugh aloud at the commencement of an Irish
dispute.
“Your 're no gentleman, sir,” says a bricklayer
to a better dressed man, with a mis-shapen hat put
jauntily on.
“Arrah, did I say I was, now?” says the man
with the jaunty air, and maintains his post in front
of the bricklayer. *
The lady hurries the little boys away ; it is bit-
terly cold, her veil clings to her face, tears are
gathering in her eyes; for a moment she compares
ihe difference between the little princess and her
boys: like a true woman, her, thoughts are for
others not for herself. She envies not the Queen
of England her pomp, her glory, her comforts.
Onward she passes, rapidly and sadly. She looks
no more up at the palace windows; she is in deep
thought; her children chatter and laugh with each
other, but she heeds them not. What sends those
tears down her faded face What makes her step
so hurricq Anxiety—suspense; she is an officer's
wife. Ah when will she cease to be anxious-
when will her mind be at rest! Never, till her
husband leaves the service that has made him so
poor a return for the work he has given it, or till
she lies in her quiet grave But the children are
glad; they are released from school for the holi-
days, they have a whole month of liberty before
them; they anticipate great delight in meeting
their father and their little sister; they have been
saving their pocket-money for “a purpose,' • * *
they told their inquisitive school-fellows, to buy
Christmas gift for little Kate.
At last they reach the lodging of their parentº
the mother wipes away her tears. Their father
at home waiting for them; the vicissitudes of cli.
mate have had sad effects upon him, and the day ºf
so damp that he dares not venture out for fear 9's
increasing his cough. * * Evening comes; thº
light of day is shut out, the curtains are drawn, 39
to speak, upon the cold, hard world; the fire
stirred, the mother takes out her work, the lit!”
sister has romped till she is wearica out and ſºlº
asleep with her head upon her father's knee, whilº
her tiny hand retains a patient kitten in its little
grasp, and the old soldier smiles at the recital hº
boys give of their journey from school, and the dº.
scriptiºn of their frolics there during the “hal
£31I.
y Midnight !—the mother's fingers are still busy.
stitch-stitch—stitch." would that Hood could
have seen her before he “turned his face to the
wall,” and died Would that Dickens would take
an officer's wife for his next heroine ; he littº
knows or recks of what she goes through of toil,
anxiety, peril, and privation :
Captain Travers muses, then talks—pauses.T
muses again. He consults what are the best step”
to take in his present circumstances. After twenty-
eight years' service he is about to reëmbark for *
foreign country. How is this? The regiment tº
which he belongs is already in its eleventh year of
service; he has done nine years' hard duty with it
in a colony, where great endurance is required, an
where . credit is gained; where months arº
passed under canvass, where the expenses arº
heavy, and where the privations and discomforº
are beyond description. They must be felt to bº
understood. How is this? There has been *
“big talk” in parliament about the relief of regiº
ments “after ten years' foreign service.” How lº
it, then, that Captain Travers may have to make P
a period of twenty years' banishment? Nay, hº
must do so, unless he has interest to obtain som”
appointment at home, or means to pay his passag.
to England and back again, and then his case wº
be hard enough.
The company to which he has been lately pº
moted belongs unfortunately to the reserve battalio"
of his regiment; that regiment with which he ºl.
barked as a subaltern nearly eleven years ago. *
must now either join that battalion, sell out, *:
retire, for he is “a soldier of fortune.” Most 9.
those who sailed with him so long ago—many:
many junior to him in age and service—will retº"
home, but his company is abroad; not a soldi.
however, is in it who embarked when he did. Oh,
no the men have been permitted to exchangº.”
obtain their discharges; the usual cry for “”
people! the people?” has “set the members,”
their legs in the house,” and consideration hº
been claimed in favor of regiments of more t .
ten years' service. Those in the ranks may thank
parliament—officers do not reap the same Éencſit;
at least, officers in regiments with two battalion*
Well, husband and wife are uncertain whº: to
do for the best. Lotus see the result of thº’
consultations. I have said that Captain Tº.
embarked in 18–1, with his regiment, being * t
time a subaltern of some twenty years' servicº:
His promotion to a company took place in Lºgº.
whither he had gone on leave for the benefit of Il
a
*
SELLING OUT.
267
W.
health. . The consequence of this promotion, al-
. in his own regiment, was that he must now
to r ºn tº a colony some thousands of miles distant,
i. nine or ten years longer. Alas! he had
i. ated, after what had been brought forward so
..ºusly in parliament, on being at home when
thei ºrequired care, attention, and economy in
wi. education; Par parenthèse, “Who cares
ask ºr a man be married or not in the army!”
lar sºme. “What a bore these married men with
§. are ſº say others. Depend upon it,
wh *aracter of the British army, would not be
of at it is, if it were placed beyond the influence
of i. society and example. In the deep jungles
bitt tºdia, in the bush of New South Wales, in the
in i. snºw-bound homes and clearings of America,
i. solitary outposts, or in camp, on the barren
. *ns of Southern Africa, how many resources are
§§§ to married men, and young officers admitted
º ºr social circles. Nay, I appeal to the most
jº members of the military community, and
t them, if they have not often gladly availed
'a ºnselves, after a weary march, of the cheerful
"" ready kindness of woman in anticipating their
j. and thinking for them of those innumerable
*śs which make up the sum of human comfort.
an º, oh, self! self! how we pass over the
º of life so often met with, and how we
j lon the inconveniences, originating perhaps in
"selves, and frequently in our imagination
cid º I digress. What have the Traverses de-
Wi i. on 1 She, poor thing, has gone patiently on
arra; her work, iistening to his arguments for and
Ҽt remaining in the service.
die 1. I die, Catherine,” said the care-worn sol-
. you will have but a sorry pension, and that
& for your life.”
w.leine Travers’ tears fell fast over her homely
i. Now, if I sell my commission, we can go and
chil ..ºne quiet place, where we can put the
'goo ren to school. We will manage to have a
We garden, which will not only supply us with
- *; but be a source of amusement º |UIS
jº too, I may obtain some civil ap
A. flat gazing at the fire, and mused again.
§§ he went on. iſ .
abro º know, Kate, as to taking the children
uº. ..it never would do. My health, too, in that
Wou jºin, climate, with its disheartening duties;
you fail me; I might die, and then how could
ºnd those poor little things get home?”
ºs. Travers stooped for the reel of cotton she
tºpºly dropped, and as she did so, she
all ed away the tears that would flow in spite of
Ҽler efforts.
M. I need not detail all Captain Travers said:
thesg an old soldier who does me the honor to read
ow lºgº will call to mind similar scenes in his
**te, or in that of some friend. Many an officer's
... whº has followed her husband to, distant
ity * . struggled with him in poverty and obscu-
ist ome, will recognize something of her own
dr:
or :- -- . * g
º her own feelings, in the picture I have
In three *
either hree months, then, Captain Travers must
of tro sºil, or sell.” Some delay in the relief
e fi SP had occurred, and the regiment, or rather
* ISt. battalion of it, was not expected till sum-
- Period aptain Travers' leave extended to the
. . . . . when it should disembark.
# iſ: * i. {}
f
Winter is over—the trees in the parks have put
forth their young and tender leaves—spring bursts
upon the world in all her freshness and her bloom.
he Traverses are still in London ; but Captain
Travers has made up his mind to sell out. So one
day he set forth from his small lodging in a narrow
street, and wended his way through Buckingham
Gate to the Horse Guards. Talk of dingy Lon-
don what can be more lovely, more enjoyable,
than St. James' Park on a bright spring day !
What gay equipages roll by, under the old trees
between the two palaces! Those trees associated
with so many recollections of royalty, of learning,
of wit, and gallantry. Beautiful women, unscathed
in their loveliness. at this early period of the
“season,” gladden the eye of loitering passengers.
Bright spirits dash by on splendid horses, busy
people pause in admiration of the pageantry that
passeth them unheedingly, till Time *. his
chimes from the venerable towers of old Westmin-
ster, and the idlers hurry on. - r
Before Captain Travers reached the steps of the
Duke of York's Column he found that the hour
was past for Lord —'s levee; the officer he had
expected to meet, for the purpose of making ar-
rangements preparatory to leaving the regiment,
was not on the spot, as he had anticipated; and, a
little vexed at having some days yet to ponder over
his plans, he turned back, and extended his walk
up Constitution Hill. Although it was not yet the
fashionable hour for the appearance of the élite,
foot-passengers were lingering round the entrance
to Hyde Park and Piccadilly; they had been wait-
ing there in expectation of secing her majesty tak-
ing her drive. ... How bright the day was! It
seemed to poor Travers that it had an influence on
all but him. Misfortune and disappointment had
not yet made him sullen, but he was always de-
pressed. He feared he should grow morose, for
he “would not be comforted.” Even the poor
sickly woman, with the baby in her arms, at the
flower-stall, looked glad. Poor creature this fine
day was reviving to her after the miseries of a
bitter cruel winter | She must have rejoiced in
exchanging her traffic in oranges for the prettier
trade of violets. Travers contemplated the woman
with an eye of interest; he sympathized with the
children, who screamed to be carried by nurses
who, in their turn, paid no attention to their charges.
He was glad to find that he was not rendered
wholly selfish by disappointment and anxiety.
While he was examining himself there was a cry
of “The queen the queen 1” It was not Vic-
toria, but the queen dowager. Her majesty rode
on amid the demonstrations of earnest respect that
always meet her in her path. Still the people
kept their patient stand, waiting for their youn
and reigning sovereign. *
Suddenly there was a rush of people from the
opposite side; foot-passengers darted across Picca-
dilly, regardless of coming omnibuses, stage-
coaches, mail-carts, post-boys, drays, cabs, and
reckless equestrians. Then some of the latter
reined in their horses, and lifted their hats from
their heads. º
Talk of royal progresses—“The duke's" pro-
gress from his own residence to the House of
Lords, is worth all the processions in the world,
royal, loyal, or disloyal. , Neither pomp nor show
proclaim his coming, and yet one is not sure of
one's life in the rush of the multitude who follow
in his wake. Plain uninitiated country-people
| pause, and gaze, and wonder what can cause the
$26S
SELLING OUT.
stir and hum around them, till the cry of “ The I.
duke; the duke l’’ enlightens them. They know
there is but one duke in the world—nay, but one
man—who could cause such a sensation. The
duke, the iron duke—our duke r
“There goes the old duke, God bless him '''
said a man of the working class near Captain
. Travers.
“Where ! where 4” exclaimed eager voices;
and lo, the pale face of the aged warrior met the
gaze of Travers; who had last seen him when
Travers was a lad—“one of those lucky boys who
had been just in time for Waterloo.” º
Something of the spirit of other days revived in
the breast of the climate-worn soldier. But the
nature of the service to which he belonged was
changed; and at this moment the officer who was
to purchase his commission made his appearance.
On the one hand now was toil, sickness, probably
death, in a far and foreign country, but no glory.
On the other, at least, peace, though accompanied
with poverty. Soon the bargain was definitively
struck, the necessary arrangements made, and the
two officers, arm in arm, followed in the progress
of the duke.* º
: And now the young queen's coming was made
manifest by the cracking of the outriders' whips,
the prancing of equerries' horses, and the loud calls
of policemen, bidding the people keep back. But
many of those who had come to admire and offer
the homage of a bow to her majesty of England,
forsook the posts they had had such difficulty in
maintaining, to follow the duke. There was a
great cloud of dust as queen and prince and a glit-
tering cavalcade came by, a deal of running to get
out of the way, a fall or two of some heedless indi-
viduals from the trees, a fight here and there, a
chorus of oaths from the policemen, and the young
queen and her handsome husband were out of
sight. Even Queen Victoria turned her pretty
head and smiled upon her godfather; the crowd
: forsook the sight of her gay pageant, still follow-
ing the duke; and as he passed aged men stood
before him bareheaded ; children were lifted by
- their fathers that they might look upon the pale,
calm countenance of that great warrior, and ladies,
careering along on high-mettled but well-trained
palfreys, stooped from their saddles, asking anx-
iously “which way the duke had gone,” and then
cantered after him at a gentle pace; and pedestri-
ans hurried past the palace-gates, and through the
beautiful enclosure, to meet him at Storey's Gate.
. Unexcited, apparently unmoved by the sensation
he created, the old warrior rode slowly and quietly
on, now raising his hat, and smiling as he recog-
nized in some coroneted carriage the face of some
ſair acquaintance, and now touching his hat with
his forefinger, in answer to a reverend salute from
some passer-by. In vain the nurses at the palace-
windows dandled the princess royal for the gratifi-
cation of the public; the children who had been
carried there by parents and attendants had been
hurried off in the wake of the duke.
Papa,” said a little boy, “how glad mamma
will be to hear I have seen the duke.”
“How well our duke looks?” observed a me-
chanic to his co-mate, as the two stood watching
him till he was out of sight.
* I remember reading a description of the duke's pro-
gress in some paper, long aſter I had noted down the
above in * journal. My description is from life; I
wrote it on the evening of a day when I had seen what I
...have cndeavored to describe.
ſº
“God bless him Yes, he do look uncommo"
well,” replied the other. - -
striving to quiet a child, who was screaming, aſ
kicking, and protesting he “would see the duº
of Wellington;” and an aged woman, evidently
from the country, hobbled along as well as shº
could towards the Birdcage Walk by a shoº
Cut. - -
Travers and his companion met her as they
strolled along the margin of the basin in the em.
closure. She was muttering to herself, with,”
low chuckling laugh, “Weil, I have seen th?
duke at last; I was afeard I never should afore.
died.” -
A young officer of their acquaintance came up'
“Which way has the duke gone?” said hº
anxiously. “I am going to embark for Jamaiº
this week; how unlucky I am . I have neve:
-seen him; I think I would give my youth to havº
fought a battle under him.”
Captain Travers sighed; not because pedº”
reigned, and there would be no more such battle”
as the only one in which he had fought, but
that, after his long services, he should be on the
eve of leaving it so shattered, so poor, so unre"
quited.
“Ah,” thought he, “if the duke only knew
my story.” (So have thought many, many
others') º
“We shall never have another Waterloo,” said
his military friend.
“God forbid!” replied Travers. “Who could
take Wellington's place 1”
# lik * $ §:
Behold Travers then, a retired captain of infantry,
living in a cottage on the outskirts of a country
town. He was a fisherman—a trout-stream ran a
the foot of his garden. His wife was a florist;
they had set to work hand in hand to clear an” .
beautify the unmown grass plat in front of tº
house. Travers had often amused himself with
his turning-lathe when with his regiment: "
would make such pretty useful things with tº
various woods he had collected abroad. He dre"
exquisitely ; he would ornament the little drawing
room with sketches of the beautiful country aroun".
His boys should have the benefit of the grammº.
'school in the morning; the afternoons should
devoted to them. He had a set of carpenter
tools: he would make a little carriage for Kº:
an inlaid chair for her, a cabinet for his wº
shells. He had plenty of occupation. Thº
should have such pleasure too in being econºmºi
for the route would never come and swallow up *
her savings. Their garden would furnish thº,
with fruit and vegetables; they had two cows tº
some sheep, for which the rector of the parish hº
offered them pasturage. They would be able º
put by something every year. Travers had
more zeal for the service that had used him.'
Oh no it was much better to be settled instead”
“vagabondizing.”
They set their house in order in a : , ºv:18
they made their appearance at church ; and it º' .
intimated to them that their neighbors would sº
“ do themselves the pleasure of calling on theº. 5
The first sight of civilian visitors sent º;
through a low window into the garden. His .
found him there an hour afterwards. He wº
lying musing on the grass, but smiled as shº.
aty into his arms. She brought him his fish.
tackle. The afternoon was fine but cloudy-º!"
73
short time ;
Near them stood two or three nursery-maid:
SELLING OUT.
259 h
º: day for fishing—and there was a nice dish of
- j ºld white trout for supper; they kept patri-
- ; alhours for the sake of the children. "Travers
...,delighted the next morning to find it still
*...* he would just turn one leg of the shell
"net, and then fish till dinner-time. Mrs.
d *is put by her work at one o'clock, and went
ºn tº the trout-stream. The rod lay neglected
#. husband's side, and a piece of old newspaper,
which some of the fishing-tackle had been wrap-
; 9ccupied his attention so deeply, that he did
o hear her footstep on the path. She looked
.* his shoulder: the scrap of paper contained
* of an account of a review of his old corps.
... "ers looked up and tried to laugh; but after
% . Mrs. Travers saw him searching the box in
.*h the fishing-tackle had been kept, and draw
.* thence the rest of the newspaper which had
ë. $ngrossed his thoughts at the trout-stream.
*herine felt disturbed, but she said nothing.
fºr tea they strolled into the town; Travers led
... way to the public library, and wrote his name
.."h as a subscriber. “We ought to see the
.* ... papers,” said he ; “we shall become perfect
.ges, if we know nothing of what is going on
* the world.”
h Alas!. the old soldier, in spite of his pleasant
jº. his lovely children, his devoted wife, could
ºfnd rest. Since he had been in N–shire he
.* not seen a red jacket, nor heard the sound of
.. or bugle, but every morning found him at the
"...ºry. The trout-stream sang its way unheeded
; the garden; little Kate begged her brothers
th finish her carriage; Mrs. Travers gave her boys
..", drawing lesson or read old tales of chivalry
b history with them, when they were at home;
º, her husband grew daily more dejected. He
idently struggled hard with his feelings, but win-
. Was coming on and his cough kept him confined
. . to the house. He went to work bravely with
. little carriage, and tried to teach his boys arith-
. .*, but the evenings found him lying on the
... fretting, at being idle, fidgetting about the
w’ §ºy's bill, and declaring that “old Craw-
º º' the surgeon of his old regiment, could have
sti ºred him. Mrs. Travers saias usual, stitch—
* i. ~stitch, long after the children had gone to
cº i Her mind was sad and bewildered; she
. "...only trust in Providence, and hope that
*ything would be ordered “as would be most
**Pedient for them.”
hi...he spring time Travers revived in health, but
...cupation was gone, and he was as dejected
ho ever. He had a little room at the top of the
jº. commanding a lovely view of the country
tow the bridge over the trout-stream, leading to the
º he would spend hours there. At first his
b º Would take her work there and sit with him,
put She always observed that on her entrance he
'sh *ºnething away in the table-drawer before him.
i. discovered at last that the interest he felt in
Stu ºice was as deep as ever; he had. taken to
... some new system of drill, practising the
S manoeuvres with miniature soldiers in the
ºns of different regiments and countries. She
9* allude to her discovery, but used every
**.in her power to amuse his mind. He had
O with some old military friends in the neighbor-
.merry the talking over gone-by scenes and the
and # days of youth always made him more silent
. . . i. when left with only his family. His
he nº began to fail; he was a perfect shadow; still
* * *** complained, but praised his wife for her
Variou
unifor
uld n
...mea
ºnet
#
economy, spoke with an honest pride of his chil-
dren, giving Catherine all the credit, and at times
drew, made picture-frames, and embellished his cot-
tage with many works of ingenuity. Often too he
would remark, “What a conqueror that man was
who could overcome himself!” At times Mrs.
Travers flattered herself that her husband was
becoming more reconciled to his position. Still he
would not enter into society, or walk, except to the
library with one or two old friends, beyond the con-
fines of his garden; neither did he spend so much
time in his attic retreat; he was there, however,
every morning, and had his box of tools and draw-
ing implements with him. So his wife sighed over
her work, but hoped for the best. -
One morning her two boys dashed in from
school earlier than usual; “Mamma,” exclaimed
Charles, almost breathless, “mamma, we have all
got a holiday; there is a regiment coming through;
it will cross the bridge; oh, mamma, may we go
and see it; old Thomas will take care of us?”
She gave them a hasty permission, provided the
gardener (an old discharged soldier) would escort
them, and hurried with a light step to her husband's
sanctum. She paused a moment at the door, for
her heart beat; at last she summoned courage and
went in.
Captain Travers was taking a sketch from the
window; she felt sad for the first time at the sight
of his cheerful countenance. He looked satisfied
with himself and his performance. As calmly as
she could she told him that a regiment was approach-
ing. She dreaded the sound of the band, the stir it
would cause, the memories it would call up, but she
did not let him know the extent of her dread.
He laughed at her fears, but to her the laugh
looked like a convulsion; he called her to his side,
and bid her admire the sketch he had nearly finished.
“I just wanted something to give life to the picture,
Kate,” said he ; “troopsi. will be the very
thing. . Now, go to little Kate ; I hear her waking
out of her sleep; go, my love, and by and by you
shall admire my sketch.” :
Reāssured by his cheerful tone, and feeling he
did not like, as it were, to be watched, under such
circumstances, she obeyed. One last look she
would give, ere she closed the door." Travers
smiled, shook his pencil at her, and she departed.
A cloud of dust proclaimed the approach of
troops; the bridge was crowded with spectators,
for the sight was an unusual one in that retired
nook of England. The enamelled banks of the
river were thronged with men, women, and chil.
dren; the opposite meadows rang with their excited
voices. The drum was first heard, then the bayo-
nets glittered in the morning sunshine; a gay air
from sweet instruments came distinctly over the
water. Mrs. Travers held little Katy up at the
open window; the child looked wonderingly at the
tears that trickled down her mother's faded face;
the little thing tried to kiss them away. She could
not understand sadness, happy child, while that
pleasant and stirring strain of martial music came
across the water. She shouted with glee as the
troops crossed the bridge, some three hundred yards
from the house.
They passed by, all that martial pomp went on,
and still Mrs. Travers stood, weeping bitterly, at
the window. Silent now and deserted were the
opposite meadows, and the ripple of the river was
all the sound save the sighing of the trees that rose
upon the summer air. Little Kate sat down on a
stool, and looked up in her mother's face wonder-
270
SELLING OUT.
ingly. Her brothers' voices sounded up the stair-
case; they came to the room to tell their mother the
regiment was the -th, their father's old corps.
Thomas had told them so, and he had gone up
the street to welcome his former comrades. “He
knew the queen's color at once, mamma,” said
Charles, “and that was Captain L– at the head
of papa's old company.”
Mrs. Travers left Katy with her brothers, and
ventured to the attic. Again she paused, with her
hand upon the door; she knew Captain Travers
could not see the colors, from which he had so
reluctantly parted, without a bitter feeling of regret.
She summoned up her resolution, and determined
to reason with him, hoping, too, that the sight of
old friends’ faces would cheer him, and that he
would be all the better for this little break in their
calm existence -
She hoped, and yet she dreaded. She opened
the door, and entered. Travers sat with his back'
to her, leaning on the window-sill, his head re. -
against the shutter. She spoke to him; he answº.
her not; she approached him, his eyes were
He was dead.
So, gazing on his former comrades, old memº.
had opened the wounds in the soldier's heart.
for him rang out the shouts of welcome; he had nº
part in that stirring pageant; he was no longer.”
of that joyous band; he had deserted his color.
So he had been heard to speak. . Mrs. Trayers, }.
her agony, called to mind his having said. '
would break my heart to see my old regimen".
again.” Yes, the spasm of anguish caused by *
sight of those colors, that uniform, that well-remº
bered quick step, had broken his heart. And theº:
still warm, still life-like, but with a convulsive sm”
upon the pale lips, he sat dead—quite dead!
New CLANs IN THE HIGHLANDS.–Owing to the
rapid conversion of the greater portion of the Scot-
tish Highlands into pastures, a remarkable change
is taking place among the inhabitants of those re-
gions, consisting in the introduction of an entirely
new description of clans, which threaten altogether
to supersede the Aborigines. Of these we may men-
tion the Clan-Lamb and the Clan Wether, which,
with the Clan-Ewe, occupy considerable tracts of
country, whence they have quite expelled the origi-
nal inhabitants. The Clan-Leicestershire is daily
extending itself among the hills, and the Clan-
Southdown is fast replacing the mountaineers of
the north. The Mac-Gregors and Mac-Alpines are
quickly disappearing before the Merinos and Mac-
Rams, and the craigs that once echoed to the strains
of the bagpipe resound now only to the tinkling of
the sheep-bell. The chiefs of these new clans are
great dukes and noblemen, whose influence enables
them to hold their own; or rather what, properly
speaking, is not their own, being, in fact, the birth-
right of the Gaël. The worst of the matter is,
that these flocks of intruders eat up everything on
the face of the country, and poor Donald, ousted
from home, wanders on the hill-side with nothing
to live upon.—Punch.
THE American Journal of Insanity has contrib-
uted some extremely interesting “Remarks on
Homicidal Impulse, with a case.” It is from the
pen of Dr. Samuel Woodward, superintendent of
the State Lunatic Hospital, Worcester, Massachu-
setts. We extract the case; it carries its own
commentary:—
“ CASE OF HOMICIDAL limpULSE.
“On the 8th of January, 1845, I was consulted
by G. E., twenty-five years of age, in apparent
good health, of good personal *. good
habits, manners, and character. Before he called
on me himself, his father stated to me, that he had
for a few days been unhappy, from an apprehen-
sion that he should injure some of the family; that
this impression preyed upon his mind, depressed
his spirits, and rendered him unfit for labor. I did
not learn from the father that he was apprehensive
of any danger from this condition of the son, or
that he was informed of the extent of the evil that
preyed upon his mind; he only requested my ad-
vice for him as a physician. The young man $99
called, and in a private interview gave me the fol-
lowing history of his own case —
He was quite well and cheerful till Septembº
1843, when he lost the brother above alluded tº
which made him sober and pensive, but it was nº
followed immediately by any peculiar feelings. .
the course of the winter he became affected wit
this extraordinary desire to kill. Frequently, in the
course of the day, this feeling was excited, by the
presence of his own family friends, to such a dº.
gree as to make him shudder at their danger aſ
his own strange and unnatural propensity.
had no antipathy toward any of them; on the co".
trary, he had all the affection of a son and a bº.
ther. Although this desire to kill haunted hiº
perpetually for some weeks, he cautiously gº
cealed it from his friends, and that so successfully"
that they had no mistrust of his feelings, or apprº.
hension of danger. As the warm weather º.
proached, and he began to labor out of doors,”
F. gradually subsided, and left him entiº
before summer. Early in the winter of 1844–?
the young man formed a partnership with a bº.
ther-in-law, to carry on the shoe business in .
neighboring town, and they commenced operatiº.
about two weeks before he consulted me, on tº
8th of January. Almost immediately after cºº
mencing this labor in the shop, with his brothº
this impulse was reëxcited, and he felt an irresis.
ble desire to kill him. So strongly was this ſº.
ing excited, many times a day, that he felt cº.
pelled to leave his work, and quit the room ºf
quently, believing, as he now does, that he sh9"
have killed him, if he had not thus abruptly .
himself away. After struggling many days * t
this ...} propensity, he left his work with:
giving notice to his brother, and returned tº hi.
father's house, where he now remains, the vić.
of the same wretched feelings, and he insists º
he shall kill somebody, if not speedily curºi.
prescribed some remedies, and a course of i.
and regimen for him, and recommended him. r
call on me again, if he did not soon get lº.
Not having heard from him since, I hope that ".
dreadful impulse has again passed from his mº"
- Critic.
open.
fixed on vacancy. Oh, God! that dreadful stare
º
LES WASES SACRES. 271
º,
… From the Critic. I could an unhappy º . Fº º º
F - .. towards maintaining a family of four children?
ſe "ases Sacres.—Par Elie Berther. 1846. Nevertheless, to § great lºniº of the vil-
*::: is one among the most pleasing and graphic |lage, he manifested resources which, to everybody
wa.” Berthet's little tales. They are never around, had previously been utterly unknown and
*ing in interest, though often in power; the unsuspected. It was evident, that he must have
.* are naturally drawn, and represented with made savings to which he could apply in times of
a t . ºth and feeling; there is about them, also, emergency, for he took the lease of a farm at Saint
fail . 9f simplicity and earnest faith which cannot|Clair, gathered together the family of his deceased
all ; *Press their readers. The plots are gener-|brother, and a speared to have made a new step in
j ºil to an intangible degree, merely sufficient|the world. From º notwithstanding
Wid *g together a few traits of character and indi-|the burdens Pierre had impose |. himself, he
T *lity, but not for that reason vapid or dispiriting; was never behind-hand in the disc . of his rent;
We ºale simply turns upon the loss of the sacred without being exactly rich, he seeme i. . a
i. * Cºmmitted during the tumults of the revo-certain degree of ease, and, what º uted main-
It] * !o the care of the curé, which afterwards ly to the popular estimation in which he was hºld,
ake their appearance when least expected by those no wanderer or beggar ever presented himself at
e *interested in them. The period is 1802; that his gate, for hospitality or refreshment, *
af *"When France began to breathe once more, being received with the utmost kindness and liber-
* the horrors of proscription; when the con-ality. This charitable conduct, more than aught
Šuests of Bonaparte, while giving security without, else, contributed to the reputation of Fleuriot, as a
*duced well being within. It was possible to |man of piety, devoted to the ancient order of
i." And sing without becoming henceforth an ob-things. aturally prudent, he had ever been par-
Ject o suspicion and distrust; it was possible now ticularly guarded in the manifestation of his opin-
*ard an epigram on public aſſairs, without ions, more especially during the revolutionary Cri-
too the chance of being denounced as an aris-|sis. Lately, however, feeling the influence of
jº. At the same time, things bore painful evi-returning security, he had been iess reserved in the
$nce that the reign of terror had not long been dis-expression of his regrets upon the past state of
sº. tºle scene selected for the opening of the things in general. It was said, indeed, that he still
9ty is the court-yard of a large farm in Norman- wore a chaplet, and that he signed himself when:
º "...Where the villagers of St. Clair, a hamlet ever he passed the ruined church; but, spite of all
S6 ºne little distance from Mortaghe, are as-|this, Maitre Fleuriot was, loved and esteemed
§led to celebrate the betrothal of Jeannette throughout his neighborhood—feelings that on all
0. *iot and Antoine Denis. The humble tower|hands he seemed well to deserve. - *
half". church, situated at some little distance, was “The head of the movement party at Saint Clair
ºf "emolished, while the once clear-toned beliſ was the schoolmaster of the yillage, an old and en-
# been mited to cannon." The church itselflvious pedant, not without a considerable touch of
Qffered one image of desolation—broken windows, that finesse which is the bane of the Normand
*ged roof, the sanctuary appropriated as a character...Notwithstanding the exaggeration of
able. T. presiytery had been razed to the his political ideas, Denis, so he was called, could
fºund ; nothing remained of it but some scattered not be accused of having taken any serious part in
b * covered with vegetation, while the cemetery|the devastations committed by the patriots of Sain
. § unquestionable traces of the hand of profana-|Clair and its environs; at the utmost he had suſ-
"on ; no cross was standing, no sign remained to |fered things to go their own way; he was too
hark the abode of another generation. On the cautious to compromise himself by anything like
§. hand, as if to denote the reign of other em- independence; his energies lay much more in
*s, however transitory, there stood in the words than in deeds. evertheless, he had filled
ºré * Withered tree broken in two; it was the the office of municipal councillor under the Conven-
i...ºf liberty, round which the patriots of the ſtion and the Directory; and if, during the exercise
$ghborhood had but a few years before danced of his charge, he had not positively done ill to any-
3. *...*magnole with all heart and soul. To give body, he could at least take credit to himself for
*a of the state of village politics, it will be ne-|having frightened half the world out of their wits.
*ssary to spend a few words on two persons im-Two men, such as Pierre Fleuriot and Denis,
§. *in the drama, and important in themselves. could hardly have much in common; and, in truth,
jºire Fleuriot, the master of the farm where all they long remained enemies; but what i. *;
i. At present collected, might be regarded, for terest effect, in opposition to passion an ".
° Sake of definition, as the head of the aristocratic The farmer had a .. InleCC, ; *. ºvely;
th *ligious part of the community. Previous to for whom a husband had to be provided; Denis had
. "..ºlution he had been the sacristain and facto-ja great booby of a son, whom it }. º to
W of the Abbé Duval, the last curé of the village. settle in the world. The farmer ‘. e repute of
-- § §9te a few words:— being well to do in the *: . º 3.
$3. y ºn the curé had been compelled to flee to little store of money, gathere together under
We his life, Pierre had been in a condition of ex-|that regime against which he so incessantly de-
ey Iſle Poverty. This apparent misery had, how-|claimed; the father and the uncle understood Oſle
* been the means of saving him from the first another, and agreed. On their side, the young
W.; republican excitement; the ex-sacristain people asked no more, for young Denis discovered
ºs suffered to remain undisturbed, the more so as Mdile. Fleuriot very suitable, and Mdle. Fleuriot be:
of M. naturally of a gentle, inoffensive character, came red as a rose when young Denis said a word
of ..º. too, rather to disarm the malevolence to her; a treaty of alliance seemed quite possible
jghbgrs than excite it. He vegetated thus between the two families, and it was to celebrate
§urely at Saint Clair; when he learned that one the betrothal of Jeannette Fleuriot and Antoine
dr * brothers had died, leaving four orphan chil-|Denis, that the cider flowed so freely at the farm
* without bread and withºut shelter what|of Saint Clair. *
*
272
LES WASES SACRES.:
A
“The old sacristain was the hero of the assembly;
seated at the end of the table, the purest delight
beamed all over his countenance, mingled with a
certain dignity, such as the occasion might be ex-
pected to call forth. He was a vigorous looking
countryman, past his fifty years, with regular ſea-
tures, and fresh complexion, and in particular char-
acterized by an expression of genuine frankness.
He wore the antique Norman costume; spoke but
little; and listened with very equivocal deference to
the pedantic Denis, who, seated by his side, ha-
rangued gravely upon the nature of things in gen-
eral. Denis was a man of sixty, with a broad red
nose, copper-colored face, and figure distinguished
chiefly by its decided corporation; his common-
place voice and manner contradicted the grandeur
of his accent and the portentous emphasis of his
words.”
The festivities proceed with perfect harmony,
until the conversation turns upon the probabilities
of the return of the Abbé Duval to his former
curé ; the general opinion is that he is dead, and
while some, in particular Fleuriot, remember him
as the best and kindest of men, and benefactor to
all, Denis spends his eloquence in vituperating
him; Fleuriot, who had been decidedly attached to
the Abbé, cannot endure these slanders, and calls
upon Denis to prove his words º lº
“‘Answer me one question, Maitre Fleuriot,’
replied Denis, “one question only. What became
of the vessels of gold and silver, given by the Seig-
neurs of Baussage to the church of St. Clair! They
were enclosed in the iron box in the sacristy.
What did your excellent curé do with this treasure
whº, he emigrated? Now answer that, if you
Cºlll .
“Fleuriot appeared much moved, almost agi-
tated at this question, and without uttering a word
fell back upon the bench he had just left. The old
Catherine spoke for him. “ §. said she, “were
not those holy ornaments stolen, and carried away
by the wretches who pillaged our poor church?’
º, ““No such thing !’ urged Denis. “I must de-
‘. . clare to you all, that they found nothing; I had the
curiosity to slip into the church with the patriots
when they invaded that old wreck of superstition,
and I pointed out to them the chest where the
treasure was kept. My honesty, my patriotism are
well known, and therefore this action cannot be
imputed to a bad motive; I wished simply that this
gold and silver might be made of some use to the
poor, and for those who were fighting on the fron-
tier for the cause of liberty. Well ! when after
listening to my advice, the chest had been broken
open, there was nothing to be seen, absolutely
nothing—everything had disappeared. I know
perfectly well what there should have been ; what
with one thing and the other, there ought to have
been between ten and twelve thousand livres of
treasure.” ſº
“The farmer still remained silent. . .
“‘What then,' cried Catherine, did you ex-
pect that M. le Curé would suffer all those precious
things to be profaned by you and the like of you?
When he emigrated, of course he must have put
them away somewhere that he might find them
again when the times became quiet once more.’
“‘If he put them anywhere,' answered the
schoolmaster with a sneer, “it was in his own
portmanteau, and at Paris he changed them into
good louis d'ors!” *
“‘No such thing—on my oath it's no such
thing,' cried the old woman with energy; “Maitre
Fleuriot was there when M. le Curé went awº .
and he could swear that when he left the presby tery
he took nothing with him but his breviary and
cloak! That was all his baggage. He selli.
sacred vessels belonging to the church Holy
Virgin protect us! Do you know what ºil.
would be—what a shocking crime ! Why, it wo"
be a sacrilege l' ... ?
“‘Well then, what has become of them? I aski.
persisted Denis; “they can't have stolen the "
selves." -
“‘Eh ! Good heavens ! M. le Curé of cº;
found some means or other of putting them out".
the way; what do I know? ... But, Pierre,’ Cº.
tinued the good woman warmly, “you say º,
ing; surely you won't let any one think M. le
Curé could have ever done such a thing !’ j
“‘Whoever affirms such a thing, is mistake.
answered the farmer coldly. “I believe, on *
contrary, that M. le Curé, some time before h6.
went away, concealed the treasures somewhere. i
other—but I don't know—no one knows. At “ t
events, M. le Curé never carried them away; tı”
I declare, on my oath.’ 1.
“‘This gold and silver must be somewhere, that?
quite clear,’ answered Denis, while his eyes litº.
ally sparkled with pleasure; “it would be som”
thing to find now !” y
“‘You need nºt look, for you’ll find nothing:
interrupted Fleuriot, as if devising that the sch99.
master contemplated making active research; “Mº
le Curé of course selected some spot that would
not easily be discovered.” tº
“‘Ah, but it's worth taking some little trouble;
I don't speak for myself. If I had the good .
tune to meet with anything of the kind, I should
make it a matter of conscience to restore it at on?
to the parish, for the parish is full of poor;
what one will, there are plenty of them. . *.
Maitre Fleuriot, if you have the ſaintest suspiciº
where this ci-devant curé may have deposited th.
precious treasures, you would act like a good cº.
zen in informing the authorities, and they woul
order proper search to be made; or rather,’ cº.
tinued he, lowering his voice, “if you do notch9%.
to take everybody into your confidence, you migº
impart what you know to some one, whose hon".
and disinterestedness cannot be questioned; to son”
one who—.” y
“Fleuriot turned sharply round—‘ Once for all,'
said he, impatiently, ‘I know nothing. If tº
Abbé Duval has buried the sacred vessels any;
where under ground, he only knows the place ; .
as he is most probably dead, the treasure is lº
forever; so it’s useless to think any more abº
it.” Fleuriot spoke without his usual self-colº.
dence; he dropped his eyes, the drops stood on his
brow, and he carried his glass to his lips ey.
moment, the better to conceal his agitation. ".
other spectators of the dispute attributed this *.
barrassment of the sacristain to some sentimº
of shame at the remembrance of his former humble
condition; but the schoolmaster, more cunniº
believed it to be the anxiety of an honest nº.
who, not being able to forge a falsehood, was coſt!
pelled to deny the truth outright.” in
This discussion, which gradually increasº,
warmth and energy, is opportunely interrupte is
the arrival of a remarkable looking person, W º (3
discovered to be no less an individual than º:
former curé, the Abbé Duval, concerning wh9*.
much had just been said. Fleuriot naturally .
ceives him with consternation, and listens cagº.”
Les VASEs SACRES.
273
to h;
- i. ... ." ...";
tefug.” tº residence in the prison at Nantes, his
. 1Il England, and his final return home.
the fit. *wer a sincere enemy to the Abbé, seizes
.* 9pportunity of referring his charge con-
Cerni w
T.", the sacred vessels directly to the accused.
the
‘. little inclined to discuss any matter of
the ‘. takes refuge in Fleuriot's house, while
gers assemble in crowds without, listening
sºil ºncitements of Denis, who urges them to
Abbé in no one point to his authority, until the
sº.” tº them that his suspicions are totally
inatio °us. Fleuriot overhears his malicious mach-
influ "ş, and a quarrel ensues between these two
*ial characters, in which Fleuriot declares
* ºw. ºr what has occurred, it will be out of his
j tº dower his niece as he had proposed, and
boº dismayed'and astonished as he may be, has
e "much self-love to concede, ends the matter for
...; by the one bearing off the son, the
It the despairing Jeannette.
off.". out of place to repeat how the curé be-
you ° interested in the fate of the unfortunate
§§ lovets, and promises at his own charge to
or º Jºannette, and render them happy for life,
the º le appeases the acrimony and violence of
is a ºgers, by declaring that the day the church
- ºn opened for public worship, that day the
*. vessels should be forthcoming. We will
and # make another extract, describing the curé
i.”, leuriot on their way to search for the treasure
der. Spot where, years since, they alone had
ºited it.
º little after the setting of the sun, two men
:* been seen leaving the village of St.
takin; plunging into the closest bye-paths, and
wº every precaution to avoid observation. The
gath ºr was stormy, and dark heavy clouds were
i. together on the horizon. Noiseless
..s of lightning showed themselves at intervals,
ii. ey were too distant to cast even a gleam of
Pede ºn the narrow hidden road selected by the
.*. Our readers have already divined
sº be Fleuriot and the curé, bent upon their
the for the sacred vessels concealed by them in
it...borhood more than ten years before,
i."g certain of his parishioners, and not
this ºreason, the Abbé Duval had desired that
sy; ºness might be executed in profound secre-
mić º possession of a treasure of this nature
sº.” the cupidity of some of the people
insist. To avoid everything of the kind, he had
i. their search should be made during the
worth and without any extraneous aid. The
learn Y priest seemed to walk with difficulty, though
wij on his cane; Pierre, on the contrary,
ice *rom prečccupation or from better acquaint-
nº. the locality, advanced at a rapid pace,
axe ... ling the weight of an enormous pick-
ad 6 ºh he bore on his shoulder. His companion
to #. difficulty in following him, and called
in dee Reguently to slacken his specd; he obeyed,
will.i. ut, as if necessity was stronger than his
iso:i. * moment he resumed his precipitate and
a.º. page. Before long they left the road
the . their steps across the fields towards
§t deserted part of the country. The Abbé
St0 +g * * * * º
Hºpe hort, and wiped the perspiration from his
et me breatfie a little, my good Fleuriot,’
- - £,
Sai -
i. Panting; “my legs are not as young and
800d º * yours, and I have walked already a
being eal tº-day; besides, we have no danger of
* Perceived, now that we have left the road;
and the storm, too, will drive everybody home.”
The farmer turned back, and while the curé rested
awhile, murmured in a low voice, ‘Yes, it will be
a bad night. Well, M. le Curé, could we not
have chosen another moment for our business?
The weather is very threatening, and you seem
quite fatigued; perhaps we had better turn back
and go home again.’ ‘No, no; it is now well
known in the country that these gold and silver
ornaments are concealed in this direction; we shall
have the peasants hunting about on all sides, and
if they should chance to discover the spot, they
would not hesitate a moment before any dread of
committing a sacrilege. Few men, my good Fleu-
riot, are as honest and pious as you are ; but come,
let us go on; I feel better already, and there is
much to be done to-night.” “Wait one moment,
Monsieur; think a moment; you are really worn out
with exertion; you will never be able to walk as far
as La Butte-aut-Cailles.” “It is nothing, nothing ;
I shall be very well able to do it. Give me your
arm, it will help me.” . The farmer, seeing his de-
termination, uttered a low groan; he oſtered, how-
ever, no resistance, but altering the position of his
#. he offered his right arm to his companion.
hus they walked on for some moments in silence,
until the Abbé exclaimed, “What is the matter
with you, Fleuriot! You almost tremble; are you
tired?’ ‘Oh, it’s nothing, only this dreadful
heat '' . So saying, he pressed the arm of the curé
to his side. ‘ Once more ſ” cried the priest, “what
is this? It feels like a pistol '' The ex-sacristain
drew from his pocket, in fact, one of those little
pistols used by the country people, and with a smile
showed the curé it was loaded. ‘Good heaven º'
exclaimed he, “what are you going to do with
that 4 whom do you intend to use it against, unless
against me?’ ‘Against you !” echoed Fleuriot,
shuddering ; * rather than that against myself.”
* What does that mean?' inquired the curé ; ; what
do you mean to do with the pistol 4 I wish to
know.' Here the farmer seemed to recover him-
self; he forced a smile, and answered, “Why, you
know, M. le Curé, it is prudent sometimes to be
armed when one undertakes a business like ours.
We might have been followed, you know ; what
should we have done then?’ ‘Very true,' replied
the Abbé, “it is quite right to take proper precau-
tions. . Nevertheless, my good Fleuriot, I must
beg of you to leave that weapon in your pocket.
However precious these sacred vessels may appear
in my eyes, and those of every good Christian,
they are not worth the life of a human being. I
would rather hear they had becn altogether de-
stroyed, than stained with the blood of any man.”
“Is it possible !' cried Fleuriot; ‘would you, in-
deed, rather have the life of a sinner, of a misera-
ble wretch, than—.’ ‘The life of a man belongs
to God. Áll the metals in the world are not worth
one drop of blood. Again, Fleuriot, I must en-
treat of you not to be carried away in any moment
of anger or precipitation, and under no circumstances
to make use of this weapon at all. Will you
promise me this?’ ‘Yes—yes,' answered the
farmer, leaving an interval between each word he
uttered ; “but then,” added he in a low tone, “what
will become of me?’” -
The difficulties in the way of their progress
across the fields put a stop for some moments to
the conversation. The poor Abbé meanwhile sink-
ing with fatigue, but restraining all expression of
his weariness, Fleuriot sustained and supported him
whenever it was necessary; more than once, on
gº •
274
perceiving all they had to encounter, an avowal
was upon his lips, which would have spared them
further trouble; but an irresistible power held him
back, while, thanks to the increasing darkness, the
agitation and painful hesitation portrayed in his
countenance, remained unseen. They walk on
across the silent and deserted country; not a sound
is to be heard on any side. Once only, passing by
a close thicket, they fancied they heard heavy steps
on the other side ; but as the noise ceased im-
mediately, they went on their way without heed-
1ng it. .
“‘We are near the Buttes-aux-Cailles, Monsieur,
and that great tree that rises down there is the
dark pine.”. In fact, at the extremity of the herb-
age they were at this moment crossing, a mass of
trees could be distinguished, which appeared to be:
long to a wood of some importance. On the left
hand rose a little hillock, resembling those Gaulic
tumuli found in certain provinces, if, indeed, it were
not itself one of those memorials of the past. At
the foot of the Buttes-aux-Cailles stood a huge fir-
tree, with its dark foliage and clear and erect form
rising majestically as a pyramid against the sky.
They were at some distance from the spot desig:
nated, when all at once a singular noise was heard
among the bushes near the Buttes-aux-Cailles.
‘Who is there 4” asked the curé, in a loud voice.
There was no answer; but a dark shadow passed
rapidly before them, and, plunging into the neigh-
boring forest, disappeared almost immediately
among the thickets. ‘That is strange, indeed ''
exclaimed the Abbé Duval, thoughtfully. ‘Would
any one have expected to meet a soul at this hour,
in this deserted spot?” “It is the devil | M. le
Curé—it is the devil!" urged the farmer, in a voice
of terror, while he carefully signed himself. “The
devil in a consecrated spot —You do not think
what you're saying, my good Pierre. It is rather
some poacher or wood-stealer, who takes us for the
field-keepers, and naturally runs away as fast as
possible. Nevertheless, let us see , what is the
matter; I begin to have serious suspicions—I feel
really anxious and alarmed.” Scarcely, however,
had they advanced a few steps further, when they
stumbled against a heap of newly turned up earth.
“Our secret is betrayed they have forestalled
us!’ cried out the Abbé, in the utmost consterna- | Fl
tion.”
To Fleuriot, who better than anybody knew
what was to be expected, it was equally an aston-
ishment and relief to find the chest gone. But who
was the culprit
: “Do you suspect no one, Maitre Fleuriot?'
“Heaven guard me from judging hastily of any
man,” said the farmer, reservedly ; “do not ques-
tion me; I might only accuse an innocent person.”
The good curé, without doubt, shared his scruples,
for he reflected a moment before deciding in his
own mind as to the objects of due suspicion, among
the inhabitants of the village. While he stood
... thus, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he observe
ed a shining object at his feet, and he stooped
quickly to pick it up; it was a pair of silver spec-
tacles, most probably left there by the unknown
laborer at the moment of his precipitate flight.
“Do you know this?’ inquired the Abbé. ‘Mon-
sieur le Curé,' answered the farmer, “you know,
as well as I do, on whose nose those spectacles are
generally seen.’ ‘They belong to Denis, the
schoolmaster. . He only, in all the parish, wears
any like them.’”
While thus discussing the various probabilities
LES WASEs SACREs.
*
I -
of Denis' guilt in the sacrilege, Fleuriot is a prey
to many contending emotions, none of which * *
accountable to the curé; but his investigations.”
disturbed by the sound of groans near and cle”.
followed by cries for help. . .
“‘It is the voice of Denis,' said the curé, sud-.
denly startled; “make haste; some accident .
jº. to him.’ So saying, the Abbé, follow.
by Fleuriot, directed their steps towards the SP.
whence the sounds seemed to proceed. Arrived "...
the skirts of the forest, they discovered a manº."
tended full length, beside a ditch, apparentl unable
to stir hand or foot; by the voice as well as *
figure he was instantly ascertained to be no oilº, *
than the schoolmaster, Denis. “Unhappy wretch!'.
exclaimed the curé, running up to him, ‘what . .
the matter with you ! what are you doing herº.
—'I have lost myself in the dark,” answered º:
with a groan; ‘and, besides that, I have alwº
had a dread of thunder and lightning; I tried.”
leap this ditch, and then I fell, and—and—I think *
I have broken my leg!’, ‘Is it possible : Then,
if it be so, Denis, it is the punishment of Hea'ſ.
upon you for the theſt you have committed.' . So
I thought a moment ago! But is it really? Hº
I brought down the vengeance of Heaven upon mº;'
because I scized upon that wretched ches.
‘What, you acknowledge it, then tº asked the
Abbé. "I cannot deny it. But help me to get.”
—I think I shall die.’ Hearing this unhesitatiº
confession from the lips of the schoolmaster, Fleurio”.
could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprisº}.
however, he aided him to rise, when it was disco".
ered that he was far from seriously wounded: ".
the contrary, it was as much as the curé coul
to persuade him that there was nothing more tº".
matter than a slight sprain of the ankle. *
“My good friends, for pity's sake don't lea."
me here; the storm will grow worse and worsº.
and I should die of terror at the bare notion.”
passing the night here.” “What is to be done.
answered the Abbé ; ‘we cannot carry you,”
unless we go and get some assistance at Saint
Clair'— ‘Don’t leave me alone !” shouted Deſilº '.
‘the thunder—and these precious vessels--" d
mind is quite turned—’ “Come, get up—try º
support yourself by leaning upon me and Mai"
euriot.’ • '.
“With all sorts of ahs! and ohs! Den”
abandoned himself to make the necessary expº.
ment, and found, to his extreme astonishment, at
he could stand with perfect ease, and that th9.
was, in fact, no obstacle whatever to his reaching
Saint Clair safe and sound. A little inspirited º.
this discovery, he became in a few moments mº.
himself, and was finally restored when Fleuriot
handed him the lost spectacles. “Cursed speº,
cles!' cried he, “the cause of all my disasº.
falling at the very moment when I heard you cº"
ing and without them I am sure to run into sº.
danger or other. Come, pray let us make hasº.
And so saying, he was about to advance; but the
curé held him fast. M. Denis,' said he, 'Yº.
have not shown us where you have put the sº
containing the church vessels.’ ‘The coffer'. .
es!” answered he evasively, ‘I—I have not, 9.
*: * No prevarication, Pº beg wº:
have you concealed those sacred vessels, ".
which you have no right whatever?” “I will
}. by-and-bye—but—well—then, if you, º:
now, I sent it away by Antoine, and by this º:
he must surely have put, it in some appropri"
place. Come, let us go.’”
LES WASES SACRES, .
275
• Confou
ity. of D €
*chance
Suitous r
"ded at once by the indifference and timid-
mis, the curé resolves to leave the matter
ami that chance, though by rather a cir-
9ute; eventually brings the coffer into his
OSSessi tº. º º
ad ...; e cannot follow in detail all that it
..and passed through, or enter into the consternation
t §§ of Maitre Denis at finding himself finally
fº...an ºnly linger to take one more extract
in the .. which we judge to be among the best
reveals ºne, that where the unfortunate Fleuriot
cu." what he had done to the compassionate
{{
the †e with Fleuriot, the Abbé Duval closed
hand ... carefully, and, taking the lamp, in his
ment. * Vanced towards the coffer. Until this mo-
...to farmer had preserved the same quiet con-
c. *...the same dark expression of coun:
... as if he had been but a spectator, though
'ncerned one, of all that passed; but now that
jº rose, he followed every movement, in
M. ºxiety., . What are you going to do,
not º asked he, in a stifled voice; would it
th. better to take a little rest?’ ‘Rest” echoed
WOutl * : * rest, now that I can bend my knees de-
3 before these precious relics, concealed for so
W.Years from the veneration of the faithful!
h...º not want rest—I am too happy.'. While
tºke, he tried to move the springs that fastened
ń. lºst; but the locks, rusted by their long so-
is fi ºn the damp ground, remained firm beneath
a jº, Fleuriot seemed not once to think of
ow. him; an extraordinary change had come
a cº, His body was bent nearly double, and
face tlvulsive trembling shook all his limbs; his
will. perfectly livid, and marked with, deep
Ples CŞ., the drops stood on his forehead and tem-
the ºil; his eyes, fixed upon the Abbé, shone in
Wer lm light like two balls of fire; he looked the
fi º Personification of Terror and Remorse. The
cled Venerable countenance of the old priest, encir-
Sio y his white hair, lighted up with an expres-
... of almost sublime enthusiasm, of earnest joy,
he . really ethereal and angelic, by contrast.
bef ocks yielded at length, and the coffer lay open
but i them. The Abbé bent eagerly forward;
that * paleness of death spread over his features,
... moment before were so vivid and beaming;
i.", as if he could not believe his eyes, he thrust
Onl and into the interior of the chest. It contained
.d sand and stones. The priest uttered not a
ie but he turned slowly towards Fleuriot.
i. fell on his knees with his face to the ground.
"...º advanced towards him. . º
that terre!" said he, in a low voice, but in a tone
:*:At his heart, “was it you, then?’ -
fºllºit was I-no one but I.’ A dead silence
ºwed these words; the curé seemed suffocated
eet Surprise and grief; Fleuriot, prostrated at his
litti. ‘ashed his head against the stone floor, the
Uln * lamp, on the distant table, lent but a feeble,
*ual light. “You,” continued the priest, in a
9°sitiouogical ANoMALY.—There is at pres-
i.e. the drawing-room window, at Casterton
'º near Kirby Lonsdale, whº, º:
... Wilson, jun., is residing, a nest built by a
...i. and a di. which #. paired together,
ning one bird, which resembles both species.
i." h een placed in a cage close to the nest, and
sº G. blackbird and thrush may constantly be
O eeding it through the wires of the cage, with
* and caterpillars. Captivity has not abated
stifled voice, while he covered his face with his
hands, ‘you, my friend, my brother, you are the
thief, then ; you are the sacrilegious wretch; you
are the profane He stopped, for the tears
burst from his eyes, and fell through the hands, so
convulsively clasped. ‘Yes, it was I,’ repeated
Fleuriot, again dashing himself furiously on the
ground. -
“It was a fearful and an unexpected blow; with
all his Christian fortitudé and calmness of temper, it
was more than the Abbé Duval could bear; human
nature triumphed over the stoicism of the priest.
It was but for a moment; in another second his
mind.reacted against his grief and astonishment,
with an energy which nothing but faith can give.
“Rise, Pierre,” he said, in an altered voice; “ you
have indeed deceived me.’ ‘No, leave me here,
where I am, let me die at your feet, though I may
be doomed already.” The unutterable despair, the
deep dejection of his accent, had the effect of dimin-
ishing that of the Abbé almost immediately. * * *
Pierre rose with an air of resolution. “M. le Curé,”
said he with a voice of determination, “I am a cul-
prit I know, but neither you nor the holy church
shall suffer for my crimes. I will do one thing,
more hard for me than death. I will acknowledge
publicly what I have done. I will confess the ori-
gin of all my good fortune; I will explain how I
alone committed the sacrilege; I will declare my
disgrace and infamy to the whole world.” “But
you will dishonor all your unfortunate family as
well as yourself; besides, the villagers, with Denis
to excite them, might subject you to a criminal
prosecution—I, too, shall be called upon to act
against you!” “Well, I shall have deserved it
all—’ ‘No, no, that cannot be,” continued the .
Abbé ; “you must not be lost—ruined.” At these
words Fleuriot burst into tears; “Ah! M. le Curé,
you are indeed good and kind; a Christian indeed,
to feel for me, sinner that I am.” After a moment's
silence the Abbé took the lamp in his hand; “I
must be alone,’ said he ; “do not follow me.”
“The following morning the first words that
greeted Fleuriot's anxious heart were, “Ah, he is
gone, and I thought he was going to stay forever !”
‘Who is gone?’ asked he. “Why, M. le Curé, of
course, who else could I mean? and he told me to
say he hoped you would take good care of the
sacred vessels in the coffer while he was away.”
“He said so—did he but where is he gone?’ ‘He
would not say where, when I asked him, but set
off, alone and on foot.’” "-
We should infringe upon the part of the novelist,
were we to attempt to relate the means by which
the sacred vessels are finally produced, according to
the promise of the curé, on the day the church is
opened for public worship; neither can we reveal
here the sentiments of Denis, at discovering himself
foiled on all hands; for the elucidation of this little
plot we must refer, with earnest commendation of
this graceful story, to the volume itself.
their affection, for they sit by it just the same, and
entirely support it.—Critic.
Prominition of Swiss TutoRS AND Govern-
esses.—The Russian légation at the Helvetic Con-
federation has just notified, that in future he should
not give his visa to the passports of Swiss, male or
female, proceeding to Russia in the quality of
teachers. -
-276 THE JESUITs, As A MISSIONARY or DER.
.
no shame to ask. That lad is Martin Luther: :
From the Christian Review, [a Baptist Quarterly, published in
+ 'A Boston.]
THE JESUITS, AS A MISSIONARY ORDER.”
The missionary spirit contributed to the dis-
covery of our continent. “The man who gave to
Castile and Leon a New World,” was full of high
religious aspirations. With much of the super-
stition, Columbus had more than the piety, of his
age. He regarded himself as commissioned by a
higher than any earthly court, in the great enter-
prise which he pursued with such calm constancy.
On reaching the shores he had long sought, his
first act was to kneel in devout thanksgiving.
his chroniclers have truly reported his prayer, he
blessed the God who had deigned to use his hum-
ble service in preparing the way that his own sacred
name might be preached in this new portion of his
universe. And in his last will, he charges it upon
his son to maintain divines who should be employed
in striving to make Christians of the natives, de-
claring this a work in which “no expense should be
thought too great.” +
Little knew Columbus of the trains of religious
influence that came in the wake of his great dis-
covery. In those weary days and nights of anxiety
and watchfulness, when his solitary courage buffet:
ed, single-handed, the mutinous remonstrances of
his companions—when, with such difficulty, he
kept the prow of his vessel turned still toward the
west—if he understood little the peculiar aspect of
the shores he was fast nearing, he knew quite as
little of the mysterious instrumentality, already pro-
vided in the Old World, to grasp and shape the
new continent as it emerged from its concealment
of ages in the recesses of ocean. Had he been
asked, on that morning of triumph when his eyes
first beheld, green, bright and fragrant, the shores
of the new-found world, who would be the instru-
ments of its conversion to the true God, how blindly
would he have answered. For its religious in-
structors, he would have looked to the universities
of the Spain that had patronized him, or of the
England or the France that had neglected him; or
he would have turned his eyes to his own native
Italy. But we, to whose gaze have been revealed
those leaves in the volume of Providence that no
mortal eye had then read, have learned to look else-
where for the religious guides already training for
the new-found hemisphere. Standing in fancy by
the side of the great Genoese navigator, we look
back over the intervening waste of waters to the
Old World. But our eyes turn not to the points
that attract his gaze. Ours wander in quest of
Eisenach, a petty town in Western Germany. In
the band of school-boys that go from door to door
through its streets, singing their hymns, and look-
ing for their dole of daily bread, we catch sight of
the full, ruddy face of a lad now some nine years
old. Those cheerful, features bear the mingling
impress of broad humor, vigorous sense, good-
nature the most genial, and a will somewhat of the
sternest. The youth is the son of a humble miner.
His father has sent him hither, some three years
ago, that the boy may be taught Latin, and receive
such help as poor scholars in Germany thought it
* ,
* This article was origiúily prepared, as an address
before the Society of Missionary Inquiry in Brown Uni-
versity, before whom it was delivered. A separate pub-
lication was intended, in pursuance of the request of the
Society. , Various causes have prevented its receivin
the additions and changes it was once the writer's wish
to have made, and have delayed its appearance to the
present time.
f|contest with Luther's the honor of
|
name soon to ring through either hemisphºs
antagonist of the papacy, the translator P.
Scriptures, and the instrument of a spiritual
lution, that is to impress its own character, º alf
northern Europe only, but also on the largº .
of that continent, of whose discovery that sº.
boy will soon be told, as he bends over his gº.
mar or bounds through the play-ground. ...,
here have we found one of the mºtº.
that is to fix the religious destiny of the *
World. is 10
We look yet again for the rival mº
31S
American character and history. Our next glarº
is at Spain, that country from whose ports ha".
fitted out the little armament that is riding 9".
sea before us. But it is not to its brilliant “.
or to its universities, then famous throug *.
Europe, that we look for this other mind, that * ti-
aid in casting the spiritual horoscope of our º
nent. On the northern shores of the counº,
the province of Biscay, and under the shado".
the Pyrenees, stands an old baronial castle, .
anted by a Spanish gentleman of ancient an ".
lineage. In the family of eleven children .
gladdens his hearth, the youngest born, the Dº.
min of the household, is now a child of some".
years old. That tottering infant, as he grow; u
to manhood, will at first mistake his destiº.
Smitten with the chivalrous spirit, that hangsaº
atmosphere of romance over the Spain of that age,
he will become a courtly knight, delighting in ſº
of arms, and not free from the soldier's vices. *
his ultimate history will be of far different * i
Wounded at the siege of Pampeluna, his shatº.
limb will confine him to a couch, where his wº.
hours will be spent in reading the legends of s.
and from that couch of pain he will rise an alº.
man. For this prattling child is Ignatius Pº.
This baby hand is yet to pen the “Spiritual Pº:
cises,” that far-famed volume, which still rema”
the manual of the Jesuit order, the book thº' '.
swayed so many a strong intellect for this life.
the next, and shaken some minds even to insanº.
He is to become the founder of a religious.
ternity, who shall be the Janissaries of the Rom'.
church, its stoutest champions against the reſº.
tion, and its most daring emissaries around.
globe. Neither Luther nor Loyola ever visited Oll
shores, yet no two of the contemporary mind;... y
Europe so signally controlled the religious hi.
of this continent; and both were in their boy. .
the one at a German grammar-school, the * le.
romping in the nursery of an old Spanish cº;
when Columbus planted his foot on the shore”
St. Salvador. |
The institution, which Loyola created, early
wrapped itself about the history of our coºl";
fathers of the Jesuit order having, both in t t
northern and southern portions of the continº.
borne a large share in the work of discovery .
civilization. Had the efforts of France beeſ.
crowned with answering success, this body of mê
had given their own religious hue to our terriº.
Seven years before, Plymouth Rock receive
disembarking colonists from the May-Flower, all
twenty-three before Rhode Island had its ſº
European settlers, France and the Rºsál
ligion had established themselves in Maine.' 625;
Sooner, Jesuits were in Nova Scotia, and in | O
Jesuit missionaries were laboring on the ban”
*Bancroft, vol. i., p. 28.
THE JESUITs, As A MISSIONARY ORDER.
277
ºs: Jºnº, The early governors of New
º zealous patrons of such missions, and
of ..ºhiº. whose name is yet borne by one
i.” "kes, declared that the salvation of one soul
*** wort tº
that th more than the conquest of an empire, and
the object of a Christian king, in extending his
to º over an idolatrous country, should be only
Christ *jts inhabitants to the sway of Jesus
ºnly, i. Not on the course of the St. Lawrence
j an * in the remote depths of our wilderness,
Jesuits the shores of our great western lakes, the
gather d ºd, early planted their missions and
gon j their converts from the Huron, the Al-
of ## le Iroquois, the Illinois, and other tribes
. i. been the boast of the order, that Provi-
i. the birth of their own º: Loyola
..same ºcide so hearly with that of Luther, by the
e.gºment of divine benevolence that is said
jºis. Prºvide the antidote in the vicinity of the
, t at i ſº Their writers are also accustomed to say,
. i. ringing so closely together the rise of their
-Świde ... and the discoveries of Columbus, God had
*. i." y pointed their way to those missionary
so ea "Pºº our continent, in which they engaged
. º y and successfully.t. Well may the Pro-
State t, and especially the citizen of these United
P. bless in his turn that fatherly care of divine
A . ºnce, which neither allowed the era of
ther ºn colonization to be hastened, nor that of
# º ºnation to be deferred. Had these events
.Not F. iſlerently arranged—had Spanish blood, and
so ; flowed in the veins of our first settlers
ſºund ad the May-Flower borne to our shores the
R.º. of a Catholic colony, and had our own
th. Williams been a Jesuit missionary—or had
mä °hemes of French conquest, that would have
º ..Canada but the starting-point of a North
had lºan empire, been successful, how different
the v i. the annals, not of this State alone, but of
in: ole country, and in truth of our entire race.
ſº. had wanted her Washington. , The im:
give °, modern revolutions had remained yet to be
º, the name of Lexington had continued still a
y;" and unhonored sound, and the dial of the
*gree *g been put back far more than the ten
Sun w S, by which at the prayer of Hezekiah the
Tº down on the dial of Ahaz, tº
ºth. suits, as a missionary order, furnish then
thé... which wº have a national inter. and
hon. may well cmploy for a passing hour the
O ; : ºf an assembly of American Christians;
is... the society justly became for its agº and
we.'..s, it had its purer era, when its emissaries
in...", not only of singular talent, but of burn:
it his º, ind in some cases even of true piety. . If
is..." its Escobars, it has also been honºred by
it *Viers, its Riccis, and its Nobregas. . Nor is
Féni. denouncing its shameless casuistry, its
's cro * miracles, its remorseless ambition, and
den.ºed policy, to overlook the usefulness, or
son; ...", Virtues that have adorned some among the
{hat is º: Its eight hundred martyrs prove
but . . has been of no ordinary kind. Man is
evil ... to pour over the checkered goºd and
si.” character the sweeping flood of indis-
does . Praise, or censure as "unmitigated. So
etes O the J udge of all the earth. His tribunal
Script ** a more exact sentence. And, in his
*S, with what impartiality does he detect
§
9arnes, p. 36s.
* Charlevoix, Histoire de Paraguay.
some good thing to be found towards the Lord
God, even in the house of Jeroboam, the corrupter
of Israel. Dark as was the depravity of Ahab,
“who sold himself to work wickedness,” inspira-
tion draws no veil over the brief interval of light in
his history, that shot, like a moment of unnatural
sunshine, across the depth of midnight darkness.
And Christ himself, the chiefest missionary of the
church, taught his disciples to learn wisdom from
the policy of the fraudulent steward, and the fears
of the unjust judge. Truth, then, may well afford
to be just even to error, and to glean even from
such fields lessons of wisdom. No missionary un-
dertakings have embodied a greater array of talent,
been arranged with more masterly skill, displayed
more illustrious proofs of courage and of patience,
or wielded a wider influence, than those of the So-
ciety of Loyola. Baxter confessed that their la-
bors moved him to emulation, and the Protestant
Leibnitz, the scholar, the jurist, and the philoso-
pher, the rival of Newton, has been their ſervent
eulogist. *
The character of Loyola, the founder, was deeply
impressed on his order. On deserting the military
life, he had spent a year in the most revolting aus-
terities, and during this period composed his cele-
brated treatise. His attention now became turned
to the salvation of his neighbor; before, it had been
engrossed by care for his own soul. To profit
others, he must relinquish the squalid dress and
some of the austere penances of his former course,
and he felt also that he must remedy the defects of
a neglected education. Now in the prime of man-
hood, he set himself down, nothing daunted or
ashamed, among children, to learn his Latin gram-
mar. His progress was slow and painful. At the
University of Paris he gathered around him his first
associates. Their early design was a mission to
Palestine. War frustrated this. They offered
themselves for the service of the supreme pontiff, at
their own charge, in whatever part of the world he
might command. This offer won the reluctant
consent of the Romish see to their establishment in
1540. They were thus missionaries from their first
constitution. Long a soldier, Loyola had felt both
the need of discipline and its power. Reminiscen-
ces of his military course appear in the whole
structure, as in the very title, of his Spiritual Exer-
cises. It seems, from the description given of it, to
be but the drill-book of a spiritual regiment... The
treatise is said to represent the world as divided
into two hosts, the one arrayed under the banners
of Christ, and the other uplifting the standard of
Satan; and, inviting the reader to enlist with his Re-
deemer, furnishes marks by which he may judge
of the work appointed him, and rules for its accom-
plishment. Gbedience, incessant and implicit, such
as is elsewhere scarce found out of a camp, was
Loyola's favorite lesson. It was in his order the
subject of a special vow. They swore it to the pope
and to their superior, called their general, who was
elected for life, and clothed with absolute power.
Ignatius was accustomed to term such obedience the
most sublime of virtues, the daughter of humility,
and the nurse of charity, a guide that never wan.
dered, and the mark that, was to distinguish his
order from all others. Exacting it most rigidl
from others, he displayed it himself, in an implicit
deference to his physician and his confessor; while
to the Roman pontiff so profound was his submis-
sion, that he was accustomed to say, at the command
of the pope he would embark on a mission for any
shore in a vessel without rudder, or sails, or
278
MISSIONARY ORDER. ,
THE JESUITs, As A
mast, or stores. When the objection was made,
that such conduct would be inconsistent with ordi-
nary prudence, his reply was, that prudence was the
virtue of the ruler, not of the ruled. His last will,
as he termed it, was but an unfinished homily on
obedience.
Yet in all this, the object of Ignatius does not
seem to have been consciously, his own personal
aggrandizement. Wealth, fame, and even power
he seems to have sought less than usefulness. The
first year of his religious course had been one of
stormy fanaticism; the rest of his career breathed
a high, sustained enthusiasm. He dreaded, as he
often said, worldly prosperity for his order, exclud-
ed its members from episcopal preferment, and by
earnest remonstrances prevented the elevation of
two of his early associates, Lainez and Borgia, to
the cardinalate. He spent much time in prayer,
and laid more stress than many Roman religionists
on the prayer of the heart, while Thomas à Kempis
was his favorite book of devotion. Simple and se-
were in his own personal habits, his labors never
remitted. Lodging in hospitals, tending their
sick, catechizing children, seeking the restoration
of the profligate, wherever he went, he gave him-
self to the toils of benevolence.
Seeing that the emergencies' of the time re-
quired not the retired life—the contemplative one, as
it was called, of the monastic orders—he desired for
his institute a life of active piety. The three great
duties of the order from the beginning were an-
nounced, as being the education of youth, contro-
versy with heretics, and the conversion of the
heathen. They were to be men of the world, and
not of the cloister. Hence he procured them ex-
emption from the chants and choral services cus-
tomary with many Romish fraternities. “They do
not sing,” said the enemies of the Jesuits; “birds
of prey never do.” Yet to maintain, their devo-
tional feelings, there were many provisions. One
especially was, that, for a space of eight days in
each year, every member of the order should make
“a retreat,” as it was called, retiring from the
world, and devoting himself to the study of his
heart and way, by the ... the Spiritual
Exercises. With the zeal of Loyola was mingled
much knowledge of the world. With the merchant
he spoke of traffic, and with the scholar of books,
that he might attract both to religion; entering, as
he described it, at their door, that he might leave at
his own. What in him, however, seems to have
been little more than skilful courtesy not inconsist-
ent with real principle, became, in the latter mem-
bers of the order, a supple and lithe pliability, alike
unprincipled and selfish. tº i.
To exercise and perfect their great principle of
obedience, the rules of the society were most skil-
fully framed. Their colleges, gave them facilities
for the selection of the most brilliant talents. A
long novitiate and varied trials preceded admission
to the full privileges of the order. Exery one on
entering it was required to make a full manifesta-
tion, as it was termed, of his conscience, giving
the minutest and most private details of his past
history and feelings. This was repeated each half
§ Each member was constituted a spy upon
his fellow. Regular reports of every incident of
moment, and of the character and deportment of
each member, were made to the provincial, and
from the provincial were transmitted to the general
at Rome, to be transcribed into the archives of the
order. From the will of this general there lay no
appeal; complaint was sin, and resistance ruin. In
the whole society, there was but one will, but º
conscience, and it was in the bosom of the gº” nd
So true a despotism Tiberius never attempº” :
Machiavelli himself could not have imagined. . ing
perstition only could have made men its will.
subjects. The individual being was lost ..
vast machine, all the parts of which were inte
gent to observe, the eyes of one soul, and stº"
obey, the hands of one will. Limited at first ic-
sixty members, but soon left without such restr;
tion, the order increased in sixty years from .
10,000 members, and in 1710 the Jesuits num.
about 20,000 in their wide-spread associ.
These, scattered throughout all countries, men of:
finest º º most finished education, :
every garb, and speaking every language, to
body that could . Ar **. ñis º
eyes, and outwork Briareus with his hundredh”
It is readily seen what tremendous energies. ()
system wielded. In every other combinatiº h
human effort, much of power is lost, not only but
resistance to be overcome in the world withou".
by the discord and internal weakness of the co g
bined parties within themselves, and the lumber!” 8
weight of the machinery upon which the mº
power acts. The steeds may be the fiery cours.” * *
the sun, with power ſlaming from every nostril; 16
where is the mortal hand that can rein the W.
into one path, and bring the might of all dº.
sinews to draw in one onward track? It was Inſ)
so in this institution. Here, as in the chariot of i.
prophet's vision, all was instinct with one wil t
“the spirit of the living creatures was in ...th
wheels; when the living creatures went, the whº
went by them, when those stood, these st".
when the living, creatures were lifted upºn.
wheels were liſted up over against them, and .
rings were full of eyes round about, and they ". ul
so high that they were dreadful.” One º: rº
swayed the vast mass; and every cog and Pº
the machinery consented with its whole pow.
every movement of the one central conscieſ”.
The world never had seen so perfect a despº;
yet never was any government so ardently loved
its earlier members. “If I forget thee, O soº
of Jesus,” exclaimed Xavier in India, “ may ſº)
right hand forget its cunning.” e
The man, who thus spoke, is their greatest ſº.
and he would not have felt this affection, ha d;
order been originally as corrupt as it afterº.
became. Gladly, did our limits permit, woulº.
dwell on his history. A man of higher talent .
Loyola, a ripe scholar, and of that command.
courage which nothing could daunt, there,.
also in him a fervent piety, and boundless self.
rificing benevolence, that all the errors of his É.
could not obscure. On the Malabar coast, in
kingdom of Iravancore, where he gave baptis" h9
10,000 in one month with his own hand.”.
Moluccas, and in Ceylon, he labored in peril; i.
minent, and amid great privations and difficulº.
but never without fruit. His chief triumphs .
however, in Japan. Having seen the priº.
of his religion spreading rapidly through thº’ ‘.
pire, he longed next to enter China. Wil, re
assurance that it was at the risk of his life, hº j,
gained but to be put ashore upon its inhºsp;
coast. They who were to have done this ſai
him; and, in sight of the empire which he wº.
allowed to enter, on the smail rocky islandºs
cian, he breathed his last. Dying thus, wº laid
last and greatest enterprise unachieved, he yº.
his body thus as on the counterscarp, leaving”
+=º.
THE JESUITs, As A
MISSIONARY ORDER. * .';.
279
talent,
.. rica
ºcco
§
, alt
3.
Th
ºmpell
º †s behin
•wn
| ºf th
b Sir most spl
*
ºleir rally; d, a name and example that never lost
thenism. ſºng power, until these ramparts of hea:
wo Were scaled, and China too was entered
"... In Japan, the order followed up his
ń... their converts had reached the number
fºrcinº . The Jesuit fathers, who succeeded in
Vertist". barriers of China—Ricci, Scholl, and
...were men distinguished in science and
Said to sh e manuscripts left by some of them are
*ºn use ºw, too—written evidently but for their
.* they were men of piety. Of some
*9testa at least, Milne and Morrison and other
men of * missionaries have thought highly, as
§e tim teal devotedness and mistaken piety. At
Ceijºhere seemed reason tº expect that the
i.ºpire was to become Christian, the em-
th ..ºf having joined the Christian church,
uit .." being known as their patron, and Jes;
§ispla ºrs filling the highest posts at court, and
egis ...; their varied attainments as geographers,
a.º. philosophers and astronomers, and even
"unit ºfounders. The same indefatigable com:
i. . Were busily assailing the Fetichism of Af.
th the west and east, and its Mohammedanism
* north. They had their missionary enter-
Congo and Loango, at Tripoli and Mo-
yºi and Monomopata and Mozambique. . In
...a, after frequent repulses, they acquired
the i. the ascendency; and a Jesuit was made
Yati, ºl of the national church; but his inno-
idigma and inquisitorial cruelties soon wrought the
tº. expulsion of the religion they were in:
were tº establish. In Egypt, too, their laborers
.*rly found; and in Åsia, besides the points
§."; ºnerated, they tºiled in India and Peº
liflin." Syria and Thibet, the sons of Loyola were
t 6. banners of the Romish church.
W
Plans
()
On
pris
- *
es at
... ºr own shores, their missionaries, as we
8 lºady seen, were found at an early day;
§ºllºwed the red man to his haunts, paddled
in the rude canoe, reared beside his their
is. *d displayed a patient and winning sweet-
side ºt disarmed his ferocity. The tribes be-
tenu." great inland seas claimed, more than a
de St Jºgo, the care of the Jesuit fathers. Sault
missi, Marie and Mackinaw were sites of their
9int "s; and yet beyond these places there were
; * where the wandering son of Loyola reared
reſſ. en crucifix, and built his bark chapel, in
wāj s that even in our own late day the west-
oil. of emigration has not yet reached. To
ha. Parts of North America the same fraternity
"...º. their establishments. In the penin-
yetted I alifornia, they gathered villages of cºn-
ing . ndians that still exist, although in a declin-
gi.” and under the charge now of other reli-
tº orders. In Mexico, also, they labored for
p.sion of the Aborigines. In the southern
.." of our continent were, however, the scenes
un. greatest toils and their most glorious tri-
hore. hey labored in Peru and in Chili. Far
hose ºpulsive was the field chosen, however, by
N. hºlesuit fathers who, like Qºgº and
ri jºboted among the cannibals of Brazil.
th j. With whom the flesh of their captives was
bore i.e.: of dainties, and whose older women
rid b °the battle-field the vessels in which the hor-
anquet of victory was to be prepared, were
of the . at length to yield to the dauntless zeal
"annib ntrepid missionary; and, relinquishing their
*alism, learned gentleness and piety. But
oring c endid honors were won in the neigh-
CXxx °untry of Paraguay. They found its wide
* LIVING Ade. vol. xi. 20
lains traversed by numerous.put divided hordes,
ignorant of the simplest arts, impatient of restraint,
and prompt to deeds of blood. Gathering at first
but some fifty families, they reared at last a com-
munity which was estimated at one time to number
300,000 souls. The Indian was instructed in ag-
riculture and the handicraft arts, in music, and
even in painting. Willages, or Reductions, as they
were called, rose rapidly, where an Arcadian puri-
ty of manners reigned through communities of
thousands, who had but recently been roving, law-
less savages. They labored for a common stock,
and subsisted on the common stores. Never, prob-
ably, has the experiment of a community of pos-
sessions been so long tried, and so successfully, as
it was there. Yet, beneficent as was the Jesuit
rule over these their subjects, it was so absolute,
that their converts might be said never to have out-
grown the state of nonage. Theirs was a filial
servitude.
In all these their missions, the order displayed
an indomitable energy, and a spirit of most adven-
turous enterprise. As dauntless as they were ver-
satile, and as unwearied as they were dauntless,
the door closed against them was undermined, if it
could not be opened, and stormed where it could
not be undermined. Martyrdom for them had no
terrors. Did the news return to their colleges in
Europe of a missionary falling, riddled by the ar-
rows of the Brazilian savage, at the foot of the cru-
cifix he had planted, or of scores sent into the
depths of ocean by heretic captors, the names of
the fallen were inserted on the rubrics of Jesuit
martyrs; and not the students only, but the pro-
fessors of their institutions rushed to fill the ranks
that had been thus thinned. And, turning from
their fields of missionary enterprise in the far east
and in the remotest west, to what they had accom-
plished in Europe, there was much at this time to
stir the Jesuit to self-gratulation. Their science,
and address, and renunciation of ecclesiastical pre-
ferment had made members of their order confes-
sors to some of the most powerful monarchs. In
controversy, they had given to the Romish church
Bellarmine, the ablest of her defenders, and though
a Jesuit, perhaps also the most candid of Romish
controversialists. To the French pulpit they had
furnished Bourdaloue, among its great names no
weaker luminary, and perhaps its first reasoner.
Their divines, orators, poets, historians and critics
were well nigh numberless, the order claiming to
have produced more distinguished scholars than all
the other Romish communities together. In edu-
cation, they had been the benefactors of the world.
Their institutions are proposed by Bacon as the
best of models, and Mackintosh has pronounced
the strides made by the society in the work of in-
struction the greatest ever witnessed. But in
missions was the beginning of their strength, and
the excellency of their glory. The character of
Xavier gave to the cause of evangelization an im-
pulse such as it had not received for seven centu-
ties; and to this day, his church loºks in vain for
one, who, to his dauntless zeal and his untiring
patience, has united the splendor of his talents, and
his wide influence, that went overrunning a nation
like some great conflagration. Through all these
fields of labor they continued to diffuse one spirit,
not spent by toil, and not diminished by distance
from the centre of power. From the man, who
sat in a gilded confessional with a monarch for his
penitent, amid the splendid luxury of Versailles or
Madrid, to him who in a wigwam of bark shared
280 THE JESUITs, As A MissionARY or DER:
the rude fare of the Canadian Indian, sleeping on he that runneth may read, that the Japanese were , ,
the skin won in the chase, and lighted by the blaz-|instigated, in this extinction of the Jesuit churche” .
ing pine-knot, one soul possessed the entire body. [by the Dutch, a people who had never forgot
From east to west, from north to south, the sons the butcheries of the ferocious Alya, anº...".
of Ignatius were pursuing one object through a requited on the rising Romanism of the tº tº
thousand mazy channels. The motto and device wrongs that religion had wrought them in the west
in one of their earlier histories was well illustrated |In China, contentions with other Romish * ſs
in their conduct. That device was a mirror, and thwarted their labors; their political power W35.
the superscription was “Omnia omnibus,”. All soon lost, and their converts were driven intº coſ.
things to all men. But what in Paul was Chris: cealment. But though denounced by edicts of lº . . .
tian courtesy, leaning on inflexible principle; and empire, and on pain of death expelled from its º
what in Loyola himself was probably wisdom, but ritories, they have never ceased laboring thºr. allu . .
slightly tinged with unwarrantable policy, became, the Catholic Christians at this hour secreted in *.
in some of his disciples, the laxest casuistry, cha-|bosom of that nation, are calculated by Med urs :
meleon-like, shifting its hues to every varying at 200,000. In Paraguay and in California, their
shade of interest or fashion. settlements have been transferred to the charg”.
There was much in the nature of Romanism|other orders, and themselves were exiled, a.º.
itself to make the work of proselytism easy and also the case in the Philippine Islands, The
rapid. The priest went forth a solitary man, with expulsion from the fields" in South Amer.
no ties to any spot, with few incumbrances, moving watered so freely with the wealth, and talents, and 3.
freely and at little cost through wide districts. The best blood of the order, grew out of their disgrº .
rites that he celebrated took the senses of the rude in Europe. In France, they had denounced .
barbarian as by storm. The music, the incense, suppressed Jansenism; but received, in their confliº n
the gorgeous robe, the golden vessels, the picture, with that body of most able and holy men, he
the statue, and the crucifix were to the savage ||Port Royalists, a deathful arrow they could nexeſ."
most imposing. Again, no change of heart was extricate. We need not say we allude to the Prº
requisite to baptism. No long familiarity with vincial Letters of Pascal, a work whose mingliº
Scripture preceded entrafice to the church. The powers of wit, and argument, and eloquence, well.
creed, the catechism," and a few prayers and hymns nigh unrivalled apart, and in their union jualſº ; :
wºrd 'to be translated, and a nation was supplied |fixed the ultimate fate of the jesuit ºri.” Thº;
with its religious literature. Submission, to exter-|stood up, too, in the same country, in the days of:
nal rites, and a blind deference to priestly author-|their own intellectual decrepiſºde to wrestº
ity, threw open the doors of the church as to the against the young skepticism of the Regency and
rushing feet of a nation. They who entered it, of the days of Louis XV. Voltaire, and piáero! ;
found it was not the holy of holies they had reach-land D'Holbach, and Helvetius, men educated . . .
w
ed. We do not mean to say... that there was no their own colleges, overwhelmed their old teachº.
holy fruit in their religion. We would only speak with sarcasm, and irony, and wit, the more burn'. "
of the low form of Christian character they had in its severity often, because it was the languº
proposed for their converts. Yet we believe the of truth. To every state they had made themselº
morals of their disciples were generally higher than odious by intermingling themselves with politic. ".
those of the converts gained by other orders; and affairs. In their own church they found the bit". .
the constancy, with which such multitudes in their |est enemies, in the worldly who envied their powº,
Japanese churches endured the most appalling and in the zealous who detested their lax casulº .
forms of martyrdom, allows us to hope, that under and their erroneous doctrine. By principles, whicº º
much of superstition and much ºf ignorance, there if not their own invention, were at least theſ.
was also something of love to Christ. . . favorite implements, they explained away all oblº."
Yet from this height of success, and influence, gation; and some of their doctors seemed scarcº
and honor, they were doomed to fall, and for a have left faith on the earth, or justice in the heav":
time the world seemed to shake with their far-re-lens. In short, they threw conscience into the , ,
sounding ruin. In Japan, their 200,000 converts, alembic, and drew from the retort a mixture, likºº,
exciting, justly or unjustly, apprehensions of politi-the aqua icfana of Italian poisons, clear as thé . . .
cal intrigue in the mind ºf a native prince, who water that streams from the rock, but to drink...",
was consolidating the kingdoms of Japan into one which was lingering, inevitable death. This laxity.
empire, they were exterminated, by one of the of moral teaching was felt to be the more inexcuº,
fiercest persecutions that Christianity, has ever|able, in a body who had constituted themselves the
oxperiented. Multitudes perished in prison; some jealous guardians of what they called orthodoxy.
were buried in ditches, others, immersed in freezing doctrine; “a sort of men,” as said the Abbø.
water, died a death of lingering agony some were |Boileau,'brother of the poet, “who sº; themsel.
crucified, others were beheaded; and large num- to lengthen the creed, and abridge the comm” •
bers were thrown into one of the volcanic craters |ments.” Casuistry became, in their hand; ". .
of the country, while the crosses ºf the Jesuit Bayle has well called it, tº the "of cavilliº’.
pastors studded the edges of the fearful cavity into with God.” But men, even the vilest, cannot long ‘‘.
which their flocks were hurried. . That country respect those who pander to their corruptions, and . .
has been thenceforward sealed against the gospel the order soon fell under the ban of the human.' . .
more closely than any other heathen land on the race. Their principles in morals, too, reacted upon . .
earth. It was, perhaps, one instance of those fear-lthemselves. Like the French poisoner, who pº’i.
{“,
.
*
..* .
3. t “
*
ful retributions, that, in the º of Bacon, lished by the fall of his mask, inhaling unexpeº; ...
are occasionally written by the hand of Nemesis|ly the fumes of the poison he was compoundiº
along the highway of nations, in characters which for others, the order could not retain its old *.
and the life of its early fanaticism, while proſ.
* Cotton Mather, in his Magnalia, furnishes a curious ing such, Sentiments. Some, even of the Jes in . . .
specimen of On 6 of the Jesuit catechisms, used among |*ssionaries to heathenism were, it is sº..."
our American Indians. secret, infidels. At Rome itself, they had bee”
. . .
too 281
ls THE JESUITs, As A MissionARY ORDER:
-
do
º
né *re convenient than reputable.
6, m None had
Power º than they to uphold the staggering
Peso
arts lutely
Sue i. at see ; and no less than ninety bulls,
*tested . under the Fisherman's Ring, had
hem, a º esteem in which the Vatican held
§siºn. its resolution to defend them against
Cathj |tered foes. But its power now failed.
j." ance, and Portugal, and Spain, were
bent on the ruin of the order. The
of policy and force, they had so long
* Were now turned against them. With a
thove .*y, had never surpassed in their own
**, the measures were concerted for their
their Coll from Spain and Portugal. Driven from
§§§s and possessions, blackened in char-
r º
- wº. destitute, and many of them aged, they
tºº."ºcation of the Edict of Nantz.
i. hieri,
7
§ hot
\,
- slo
the
ln its
ºf G. Prerogative
. tled on the charities of a world they had
J §º by their former conduct. Never
civil ° day of their power, to use the arm of
ty.ºrument for the purpose of persecution,
jºy felt is weight upon themselves. They
not
the
Sºligated in France the bloody massacre of
Shaº. àrt ºlomew, it is said, and had most certainly
ºvoi...";ely in the perfidy, the frauds, and the
the "3 dragoonades that procured and followed
The
long accumulating, now descended.
ut necessarily, the Roman court
an "hdrew in terror from these its stanchest
º: *nd pronounced, with faltering lips, the
- T. of the order.
Šlén; y had forgotten, in their abuse of power, and
}..."; influence, that there was on high one
d. Subsij all the mighty of earth, whom they
encº."lºed, or flattered, or corrupted. Provi-
hey i. §lement upon which in their latter days
then"." forgotten to calculate, was now meeting
ºvery turn. If they had lost sight of it,
§ss." it lost sight of them. It used no con-
...d they could not guide it; nor did it wait
the b. *ments for the shuffling of the pieces on
!e c -
Nitis Ҽrd. of earthly cabinets, which Jes-
Wessºr. “ched so narrowly. But when its ſul-
lºsion º's was come, it called, and every stormy
jet to...man nature rushed at its bidding,
led ... the work of retribution, while, unpit-
W stood to bear, in its loneliness, the
ever jºce of earth and heaven.
Pºrf.had Romanism progeny that bore more
Šples . . ºwn image, or embodied its grand prin-
§ncil. ºthfully as did the Jesuit system. The
sh lest ºf the order was but a º: to its
§ jº. of that one master idea of the Ro-
ise are Timplicit faith—unlimited obedience.
§§ and *justice, due only to a Being of infinite
...hing underived and unending sovereignty.
ºne ºf is able or less wise, nothing short of the
e. *; that cannot mistake, and that will
confi * is entitled to demand such subjection
§ºe. It is the great sin of the Romish
** Tºwror pivºo: that it has here arro-
gly of the Godhead, and in the seat
*"...itself out as God over the human con-
1.JC
*
and
§ate d
- :0
*Incit or that
- j ºn all its
O i. §§ entitled to the absolute rule and
hrist §§ This it is that constitutes the
tºº rival usurping the rights of the
a sea..ºe Soul Saviour, who created and ran-
*arch.”. Whose eye pervades its depths with
ºng ºniscience, and whose hand encom-
Wanderings with an ever-present
-- *at soul. Romanism has, however,
condii.º.º. For faith in Christ, as the
"“” of salvation, it has substituted faith in
the church. Jesuitism, with its wonted sagacity,
saw, that in this claim lay the strength of the Ro-
mish system. It rose up to preach the doctrine to
a world whom the Reformation was fast alienating.
It rose up to exemplify the obedience, in its own
unreserved, unquestioning submission to its own
general, and through him to the Romish see. But
while they thus acquired power, they were also
sowing the seeds of decay. By this implicit obe-
dience, the individual merged his personal rights
and his spiritual existence in the society. , 'The
mass had a conscience, but the members had not.
But while they formed thus obedient societies, be-
cause there was no individuality of opinion or will,
there was as much of intrinsic weakness, as there
was of quiet in the body. Remove the head, and
the life had departed from an entire community.
They destroyed, also, by this same process, the
higher order of talents, which act only in a state of
comparative freedom. Splendid as were their
scholars in every walk, yet, as Mackintosh has re-
marked, through two centuries of power and fame,
they gave to #. no genius to be named with
Racine and Pascal, men who sprung from the Port
Royalists, in the career, both far more brief and far
more stormy, of that persecuted community.
In this, his distinctive trait of character, the
Jesuit stood as the moral antipodes of the Puritan.
In the latter, the Reformation presented its princi-
ple, the right of private judgment, as displayed in
its barest, broadest shape. While, in the, Jesuit,
the man was naught, and the community was every-
thing, with the Puritan, on the contrary, the society
was comparatively nothing, and the individual all.
With him religion was, in its highest privileges,
and its profoundest mysteries, a personal matter.
He studied his Bible for himself: to aid in turning
its pages and loosening its seal, God the Son, the
Lion of the tribe of Judah, stooped over him as he
read; and to reveal its inner lessons, God the Spirit
whispered in his heart, and brooded over the depths
of his soul. He profited by the prayers and teach-
ings of his pastor, gave liberally for his support, and
received reverently at his hands the sacramental
symbols; but he believed even this his beloved
guide, companion and friend, but a fellow-scrwant,
whose help could not supersede his own private
studies, and his individual faith. He valued his
fellow-Christians, communed with them, prayed
with them, shared with them his last loaf, and
falling into their ranks, raised with them the battle
cry, “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon '''
But, away from pastor and from fellow-Christian,
the Puritan turned in the trying hour to his God.
It was the genius of this system to develop the in-
dividual; and in every emergency, to throw him in
the last resort upon the lonely communings of his
own soul with its Creator. It taught him to make
religion, in the affecting language of one of the later
Platonists, “The flight of one alone to the only
One.” To the place of audience the petitioner
went by no deputy; but the individual man was
brought to confront for himself the one Mediator,
and to hear for himself the response of Heaven to
the prayer of faith. When mind was thus thrown
upon its individual responsibility, and came forth
from its solitary meditations to the place of confer-
ence and action, there was frequent dissonance in
opinion; and a collision in action, often more ap-
parent than real, threatened at times to rend the
social bonds, to break up all concert, and to destroy
* QPvyn ſtovov 700; Toy Movoy.
w M
- - - -
.282
all power. ...Yet conscientious men were not likely
to differ widely or long. And, on the other hand,
take from such a community its spiritual guides,
and how soon were they replaced. Persecute
them, and how indomitable was their faith. Scat-
ter them, and how rapidly were they propagated.
Jesuitism gathered more numerous and united soci-
etics; but they were societies of men without con-
sciences and without a will, whose judgments and
Souls were under the lock of the confessional, or
were carried about under the frock of their Jesuit
pastor. Kind he might be and faithful, but did
death remove him, or persecution exile the shepherd
and disperse the flock, they had no rallying power.
Like the seeds from which the industrious ant
has removed the germinating principle, the 'argest
hoard, when scattered, brought no harvest. -
It were a curious employment to trace the unwit
ting adoption, at times, in our own land, of this
great principle of Romanism, of which the Jesuit
order was the embodiment and incarnation, as if it
were one of the radical truths of democracy—we
mean, the principle of the absorption of the indi-
vidual conscience into that of the mass. It is to
some an essential law of democracy, that the many
have unlimited power over the will and conscience
of the few. Yet it would require little of time or
of labor to show how fatal is such a principle to
the rights of conscience and the interests of truth.
God made man apart. Apart he is regenerated.
Apart he dies. Apart he is judged. To each of
us his Maker gave a conscience, but to none of us
did he assign a conscience-keeper. Man was not
made for society, but society was made for man.
Back of its first institution, lie some of his inalien-
able rights, and his first and most sacred duties.
Communities of men, then, cannot receive, and
should not ask, any transfer of conscience. Be-
tween a man's own spirit and his God, neither king,
nor kaysar, nor congress, synod, nor pontiff, volun-
tary societies, nor compulsory Societies, if such
there be, may lay sceptre or crosier, edict or vote.
The thing is a grand impertinence. When per-
sonal duty is involved, to his own Master the man
stands or falls. We mean not these remarks for
those duties which man owes to Society, and where
their laws may rightfully control and punish him.
We speak of the far wider field over which some
would extend those laws, and where they do not
justly come, where a man walks accountable to his
God only, and where, if human legislation follow
him, it is usurpation upon the rights of man, and
impiety against his Maker. We know how irk-
some to many is all noise of dissent and all free
expression of private judgment. To remedy and
reform all this dangerous independence, this ominous
revolt against parental care, was the high attempt
of Jesuitism. Let those, who envy to that society
their fame and their fate, tread in their steps,
breaking down the individual man to build up the
man social. g
Another remarkable feature. in the Jesuit order,
illustrated in the history of all their missions, was
their fatal principle of accommodation-one in the
use of which they alternately triumphed and fell.
The gospel is to be presented with, no needless
offence given to the prejudices and habits of the
heathen, but the gospel itself is never to be muti-
lated or disguised; nor is the ministry ever to stoop
to compliances in themselves sinful. The Jesuit
mistook or forgot this. From a very early period,
the order were famed for the art with which the
studied to accommodate themselves and their reli-
, THE JESUITs, As A
ad
‘. . "
* . . **
*, r '• . . . .
* . **
MISSIONARY ORDER.
- .ange”
gion to the tastes of the nation they would tº º:
ſize. Ricci, on entering China, found the b0 ct;
the priests of the nation; and to secure. tº.
himself and his associates adopted the habit.
dress of the bonzes.
with the empire taught him, that the whole . -
of the priesthood was in China a despised one, itſ!
that he had been only attracting gratuitº
in assuming their garb. He therefore relin'!" in
it again, to take that of the men of lºjićl
India, some of their number adopted the Brº"
dress, and others conformed to the disgusting.cº.
of the Fakeer and the Yogee, the hermits * titi
itents of the Mohammedan and Hindoo supeſ”
style of the Pagan, priests, wearing, thºi. .
robe, and having like them a drum beateſ...;
- * { ct
him. It would seem, upon such principles of . ſ] .
as if their next step ought to have been the º d
9f a Christian Juggernaut; or to have ar. burſ!
Christian Suttee, where the widow migº"... or
|
But a short acquº" is
and
O .
ished
according to the forms of the Romish breviº 5; ,
to have organized a band of Romanist,
strangling in the name of the virgin, as "ºuth
Hindoo brethren for the honor of Kalee. "...iing
America, one of the zealous Jesuit fathers. º of
that the Payernes, as the sorcerers and P. c. -
the tribe were called, were accustomed 19. ºut
and sing in giving their religious instructiº.e.
his preachments into metre, and copied the m
ments of these Pagan priests, that he might.
the savage by the forms to which he had b%
customed. In China, again, they found "...g.
ship of deceased ancestors generally p. (0
Failing to supplant the practice, they prog?”. bº
legitimate it. They even allowed worship ... of
paid to Confucius, the atheistical philosop jing
China, provided their converts would, i. i*
the worship, conceal upon the altar a c.ed.
which their homage should be secretly * npº.
Finding the adoration of a crucified Saviour" * 3rd
ular among that self-sufficient people, º, ing
accused by their own Romanist brethren of lºg
suppressed in their teachings the myste.ºhiº
cross, and preached Christ glorified, but ſº M
in his humiliation, his agony and his dea this
more arrogant act than this the wisdom “micſ:
2C’
taken to modify and adorn the gospel of *...
fied Nazarene. ºf Bch
But to Robert de Nobilibus, the nephº O poº
larmine, and the near kinsman of one of thé abſº
tiffs, a man of distinguished talent and ºf tº
ing in India, it was reserved to exhibit ... .
worst instances of this fatal spirit. Fin I ,
Bramins in possession of the spiritual...we,
published abroad that the Bramins of I. ºf
the kindred, but the seniors and the suſ.
those of India. Enmity may have cº, which
falsely, in declaring that he forged deeds, º
à, direct descent was, claimed, for ºf
Bramins from Brama himself, the chief gº
doo idolatry; but it is certain, that in thº
other mode he made the new faith so
1.
y
Indian Bramins became his coadjutors : .g.
his death, with the collusion of the º º
j the new sect went on still tº
ut even the Romish see repudiated
sions as these ; and a bull from the
tinguished the next communion. the fºº
able but treacherous laborer belongs sed in "
another kindred achievement. He comp" • .
their
Iſin.
f sº.
th?
popu º .
twelve, or, as some accounts state, sevent} aſ:
CŞ9
hing',
nex.
win
woſ"
y
world has seldom perpetrated, when it hº. ºut.
h6 .
hiſ!
THE JESUITs, As. A
MissionARY ORDER. 283
ha
ſt
him....
- º of the country a treatise in favor of Chris-
Wed, ſhe work had the title of the Ezour
the jº "...was intended to sap the skepticism of
iii.i. ut so covertly, though with much
ºnslit id it undertake the task, that having been
the ha ... and reaching France, where it fell into
sº. Voltaire, he pounced upon it as an
dom.”minical treatise, full of Oriental wis-
sºil."ºwing that Christianity had borrowed
While ...lines from Eastern sources. Thus,
Sºme in j. to destroy unbelief in India, he be-
Progr.," "ext century instrumental in aiding its
ºwn s * Europe. The Jesuit, caught in his
Weapº. was made from his grave to lend
ºria. to the scoffer; while the arch-mocker, the
that 9f French infidelity, entangled in the toils
ºful credulity which has distinguished so
ºir. º: unbelievers, quoted the work of
neiei. suitism as an undoubted monument of
their...”iminism. Thus, are the wise taken in
they * craftiness, when in their self-confidence
tº. º |ake either to patronize or to impugn the
J.We nº. Nazarene.
ºui.earcely to name another defect of the
Th. jiºns, which must have occurred to all.
ºil.” neglect of the Scriptures. Even Xavier
i.e. "to Japanese but the creed, the Lord's
iſe of º a brief catechism, and afterwards a
Th: i * Saviour completed from the Gospels.
that . of the Saints afterwards appeared in
ºij. In the tongue of China the Jesuits
*Niho. ºugh proficiency as to become voluminous
§hoj,"fiting, it is said, hundreds of books; but
- bj "ey translated the ponderous Sum of
§ei.;Y of Thomas Aquinas into Chinese, the
lan TO *Seem to have been thought a needless or
lot º book, and a compend of the gospel his-
of Scri º believe, their chief work in the form
but i. ..al translation. With no religious light
- ºut. *anating from the altar and pulpit, their
c tº thi. Were, when persecution veiled these, left
"º the *kness. The Jesuits, anxious to shut
ission °nverts into a safe and orthodox sub-
º º to have preferred this fearful risk, to
.ºliviº leaving the lively oracles to beam forth
§ºple. # brightness upon the minds of their
§sial ºnce the Catholics, lingering still in the
jºgua *pire, and their Indian neophytes in
ºw."...and California, have probably never
Which, ...e. even by name, those Scriptures
ât * for l ° rightful heritage of every Christian.
is pi, § own use, even, did their mission-
ºther?... the Bible aright. Does the Jesuit
ig. . in the midst of a savage tribe to
. them a i. on his religion; or is he dragged
§m. *intless victim to the stake; the one
lºt the i. is seen suspended from his neck, is
...it w. but his breviary. In all this, the
- jh has "t acting with other Romanists: That
jing Qut *śsumed the fearful responsibility of
jºki i the sunlight of divine revelation; un-
jhool, ... is stead to supply the reflected light,
jºr .* of tradition: a gentler brightness,
"d will ... nº eye will be dazzled, by which no
i."ubiº. ºlickened into too rapid a vegetation
wº tº slum loom, favorable alike to wonder, to
..shin..."...ºgd to fraud. But as the sun
each thé º the Scriptures live on. They who
...th...", but give not the Bible, withhold
i."lion" ºn teachings the most authoritative
º "octrin. *: on the contrary, whose doctrine
"Ing thºs. falsehood, contravening and super-
°riptures, must yet one day meet that
Af
light they would have obscured, and find them-
selves and all their doings tried by the standard
they would have fain displaced. l -
#. Jesuit order has been recently revived.
Restored in our own times to existence by that see
for which they contended so valiantly and eſſect-
ively, it remains to be seen, how far they will
resume their ancient fields, and with what measure
of their first zeal and success. Were they to throw
themselves into the current of the age with the
sinewy vigor and lithe pliability, of fºrmer times
they mayyet prove most formidable. Their power
of attaching the heart is, by all who have closely
observed them, confessed to be great. But the
age is one far different from that in which they
began their career, more impracticable, less liable
to monopoly, and less patient of control. -
The men of a purer faith may well emulate their
fearless heroism, their courtesy, their patience and
industry. Amid the snows of Canada and on the
fir-clad shores of our western lakes, along the
wilds where Orellana - ... ',
“Rolls his world of waters to the sea,”
on the burning margin of Africa, in the sultry Hin-
dostan, amid the millions of China and Japan, the
fathers of the order of Loyola shrunk not from
pain, or toil, or want, or death itself. When the
plague wasted, and thousands were falling before
it, in the deep pestilential holds of the galley
where their Christian charge were held in bonds
by their Turkish captors; or in the heathen land
when persecution had unleashed all its emissaries
of terror and death, the Jesuit missionary was seen
manifesting a serene courage, his stanchest accu-
sers might well envy. Had the order but fixed the
cross in the heart, where they reared the crucifix
in the market-place, had they given the Scriptures
where they scattered legends, and labored for
Christ as assiduously and boldly as they bled for
the delusions of Antichrist, the whole history of
the world had been altered. But had they done
all this, the work of evangelizing the world would
not have been left to become, as it is, the blessed
privilege of our own age. The failures of others,
their corruptions and their deficiencies, are part of
the heritage of instruction that time has been accu-
mulating for the benefit of the modern laborer,
like the brass and iron of vanquished Syria,
which David provided for the temple that was to
be reared by the hand of his son, the favored Solo-
II].0I).
The institution, on whose history we have dwelt,
shows what a few resolute hearts may accomplish:
When Ignatius with his first companions bound
themselves, by a midnight vow, at Montmartre,
near Paris, on the 15th of August, 1534, some
three centuries ago, to renounce the world for the
purpose of preaching the gospel, wherever the
supreme pontiff might send them, the engagement,
thus ratified in darkness and secrecy, beside the
slumbering capital of France, was one most mo-
mentous to the interests of our entire race. That
company of seven poor students, with but zeal,
talent, and stout hearts, and a burning enthusiasm,
formed then a bond far more important to the after
history of mankind than most of the leagues made
by kings at the head of embattled squadrons. We
doubt if Talleyrand ever schemed, or Napoleon, in
his highest flights of Victory, ever dictated so
significant an act. In its moral sublimity, the act
far transcended that of Cortes and Pizarro, receiv-
ing the mass in a Spanish church, upon their en-
284" . .
INDUSTRIAL SCHOOLS: ' ' ' ' . . .
gagement to set out for the subversion of an
American empire. In the shadows of that subter-
ranean chapel, where these first Jesuits thus bound
themselves, fancy sees Africa, and Asia, and our
own America, watching intently a transaction, that
was to affect so deeply their subsequent history.
It remains for those, rejoicing in the principles of
the reformation, to bring the devotedness and intre-
pidity of the Jesuit to bear upon their own purer
system, in the missionary field. With the incor-
ruptible word of our God for our chosen weapon,
victories impossible to them may become easy to
us; and what was but too often a forgotten motto,
on the surface of Jesuitism, may become a princi:
ple at the heart of the Protestant missionary, “All
for the greater glory of God.”
In the missionary toils, that are to aid in usher-
ing in this day, do we expect too much from the
'outhful scholars of our country? Are not its col-
§: already sheltering those who are destined to
become the heralds of Christianity to the far
heathen On this theme, we would quote yet
again from one on whose own history we should
ſadly have lingered longer, Francis Xavier.
#. one of his missions in Cochin China, this
apostolic man wrote to the university of the Sor-
honne, then the focus of theological science to
Catholic Europe, in language much of which we
doubt not a Carey or a Martyn would not have
hesitated to adopt. “I have often thought to run
over all the universities of Europe, and especially
that of Paris, and to cry aloud to those who abound
more in learning than in charity, O how many
souls are lost to heaven through your neglect'
Many would be moved. They would say, Behold
me in readiness, O Lord ' How much more hap-
pily would these learned men then live—with how
much more assurance die. Millions of idolaters
might be easily converted, if there were more
preachers who would sincerely mind the interests
of Jesus Christ and not their own.”
The letter was read, admired, and copied. ‘We
may suppose there were those who applauded and
transcribed that letter, but failed to obey its sum-
mons; to whose dying pillow that appeal came
back, and sounded through the depths of the soul
as the voice of neglected duty. , May no such re-
grets disturb the hour of our dismission. May a
life, instinct with zeal for God and love to man,
and crowded with eſſort, make death, whether it
come late or soon, the welcome discharge of a laborer
found toiling at his post. And, my young brethren
in Christ, permit a stranger to hope, that among
the honors of your Alma Mater, and especially
of this missionary association gathered amongst
her sons, it may yet be recorded, that hence went
forth men, who, on the stock of a purer faith,
grafted the zeal of Francis Xavier; and, emulating
his virtues, won a success more durable, because
the means they employed were more scriptural—
men, who, sitting at the Master's ſect, and reflect-
ing his image, and breathing his spirit, were
recognized, by an admiring world and an exulting
church, as those who had been much with Christ
and learned of him, and who belonged on earth,
and would assuredly, through all eternity, con-
tinue to belong, of a truth, and in the highest
sense of the words, to “THE Society of JEsus.”
INDUSTRIAL Schools.-The plan of organizing
Juvenile Industrial Schools seems to be gaining on
**In majorem Dei gloriam,” the motto of Loyola.
public attention in Scotland. On the even º:
the 9th instant a public meeting of thosc fº.
to this object was held in the Thistle Hall, ". .
dee. Provost Brown was in the chair; suppº"
by Lord Kinnaird, Mr. George Duncan; M; hn
Sheriffs Watson and Henderson, and Sir #.
Ogilvy, besides many other gentlemen. ...if
speeches were much to the purpose. º * *
Watson gave an account of a school which *... .
been established at Aberdeen with full succes”.re
“From a return it was found that there. ;
two hundred and eighty children in the ºil. y
Aberdeen who had no other way of living bu sit
begging or stealing, thus being brought Mſ.
were the inmates of a gaol, and ending their Càſ it.”
by being transported. From the inquiries ſº jºi
was found that they almost without exceptiº" i.d
become the inmates of the gaol because tº
no other means of supplying, their want: "...a
crime. Five or six years ago he proposed tº .
a school for feeding and educating the vagram. a.
dren. The scheme was generally consi *
benevolent but, an extremely absurd one ºf ed.
question generally put was, : Do you mean º' n!'
and educate all the young beggars in Abcrdcº ow
After talking over the matter about a year, .#ed
of the friends of the scheme met and subsº
about 100l. Of that sum, 60l. was raise a! j'.
time, of subscription. It was proposed that!".
should commence operations immediately by *
ing a School for sixty boys. This was agree
so they told the police to send them a dozen 9
of the worst boys they could catch. '. 1s;
“In five hours they had seventy-five schºº.
most of whom they were told by the superiº”.
were the worst they could have got. f *::: .
only four could write, and fourteen rea" ºften
was a miserable state of things. The chi ciń.
were kept at school all day, and told to go lº no!"
the evening, and to remember that, if they "... the
come back again and were ſound begging "... -
streets, they would be subject to the sam? tº.
ment. They all came back joyfully ; and $ged
that day, 19th May, 1845, not a child had
seen begging in the streets of Aberdeen. 1 ſo;
“The ladies of Aberdeen opened a sºlº. of
destituºt;
º
,
pe".
10 , ,
two
*
sixty girls, whose only title was the
their parents; and he would venture tº jºin.
there was not a better conducted school in Hº. w
The children at these schools received food ºr
times a day, and were sent home to their ſº homº
night, to whom they thus acted as the best...me
missionaries; and he trusted to hear of tºne
principle being acted upon in Dundee. ...cdl.
legal-minded persons,” said Mr. Watson, , º w83,
what right have you to take up the childre", so!
it not a kind of wrongous imprisonment tº ildren.
We told them that we asked the hungry º dis” .
to dinner, and after giving them it they wº". .
missed.’” . . . . . º
~ * -
* * * *
. . ;
-T ...ºss0ſ,
At the Italian Scientific Congress, p roſ. .
Mayer of Bonn gave an account of his ſº. the
upon the influence of galvanic current ... cur.
motion of the heart. The result was, that "... that,
rent arrested entirely the pulsation for the tº the
it lasted : the motion being restored..."...ause.
galvanic influence was withdrawn. The is *.
imagined was not so much paralysis or spº"
mechanical effect of tumefaction of the parº o at”
Mn. ConDEN was entertained, a few dº º to
a grand banquet given to him by the * *
prietors of La Garonne. . . .”
* , , v.
4
ly
.*
* *.*.
THE LIFE AND Adventures
. . . . . chapter xi.
º: about a fortnight after the discovery of
from . * that I fell ill.” Whether my illness arose
he "ºly of mind—for celibacy every day ap-
from . and more threatening—or whether
li. "ºld itself, I never could determine. But
yº.ºlly ill. And when confined to my hut
terri *d ague—for I am sure I had both—ſhad
that i. 9; Portunity for lamenting the many times
ºri."ght Ihad had theyapors, and had acted ac-
ºut jºiat is, was sulky, feverish; and would
thick."Self up in my room, and feed myself on
lºw n roth, hartshorn, and romances. But now,
for.”!!y ill; and felt the full sense of my
ºw. ºdness. In this strait, my Emden
‘gº’". the best medicine for me; and by force
phy.Which, I am sure of it, is the noblest
SI ..". world, especially for the female habit
head; °tter of my malady; but was left in
lm Weakness. It was at this time, that, fall-
"rea.’. I recollect I had a strange and curious
It... much perplexed me.
ºn whi *ght that I'was sitting in a beautiful garden,
ºth t
‘lie...tops. And these trees, iſ thought, i.
§le, i.ds one another, making a sort of green
... the aisle of a church. And then suddenly
Saw a long chain, made of wedding-
Wn from the roof: and a young man,
Werºil red face, black hair, and whiskers
h, h * fortune in themselves, came down the
ºw." "over hand, and toe over toe, and when
tight d 'ghted on the ground, he came—with his
- §uly an Spread over his bosom, and his figure
º u *lined—timidly towards me. Then he
‘hain."º his knce, and plucking a ring from the
shot...Presented it to me; and then he took
; jºid another—and another ; but I refused
ºff..." that was offered; and the rest of the chain
}^nish. * crash to the ground, and the young man
ſº. 3 and the whole place was changed; and
*illars gºlf in a stone, cell of about six feet
§n. ū...in white muslin, with a skull in my
kiss º ºy dreadful destiny made me continual-
hai . tiss, although the cold bone made my
“last. and colder with every smack. And,
S. ...ºught the skull—though without eyes
m." ºf knowing, triumphant wink, and I
.. ** the impertinence—and, screaming,
With ººms a little to myself, I recollected
and j the words of my dear father. Again
. º °had assured me that he would find me
- º Coul º a steady, respectable young man,
ki i.” divest my mind of the fancy that the
- § º #. was the property of that much-
, t *; iii. ividual. Whoever he had been, he
* º he in "ght, dead, and was very properly sent
judiº. dream to torment me. This vision
, I k, § some days to distract me; but at
th of *tranquillized; thanks to my native
ght f: *ind, and the medicinal cordial I had
I '..."...the wreck.
inyi. "º this time, that, casting my eyes
Rono." ºut, I saw the fragment of a book that,
w w.º. I had brought from the ship.
* ..., º rats aid. a few leaves complete and legible,
...d them *hº salt water having mutilated and,
- §hº. ...And these few leaves—strangely
jºices, *ined the entire of the “Marriage
"ousand §y Were a great consolation to me.
* and * thousand times did I read; and
a
!ere were trees so high I could scarcely
OF MISS, ROBINSON CRUSOE. 285
—it may appear inconceivable—found the matter
* to me a melancholy, but mysterious delight.
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded hus-
band?” I imagined this melodious question most
melodiously delivered; and then—having nothing
else to do—I would imagine many specimens of hus:
bands, in many kinds of wedding-suits, with many
different sorts of smiling, looks, standing one by
one before me. And in this way, in the very idle.
ness of my heart, I would people my hut with a
hundred masculine shadows, waiting for me to
pronounce the thrilling—“I will.” There was
hardly a gentleman of my former acquaintance
—of course I speak of the single and the wid-
owed—that imagination would not drag thou-
sands of miles across the sea, and marry me to
in that hut. “Wilt thou have this man to thy
wedded husband?” How often have I sunk to
rest, , with these words—mysteriously uttered—
breathing in my ears, and my lips mechanically
moving with “I will ''
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this
man?” . Here was another interrogation, thrilling
the filial heart. How could I do otherwise than
behold, my venerable father—with a dew-drop
glistening in either eye, and slightly coughing, to
keep down emotion—how could I fail to behold
him—happy, yet flustered; proud, but a little over-
come—stepping forth at the question, with the look
of a man resolved upon bestowing a priceless treas-
ure upon a fellow-creature? “Who giveth this
woman to be married to this man?”
Somehow these words continued to haunt me. I
continually uttered them, almost ignorant that I did
so. When seemingly absorbed in domestic occupa-
tions, my lips would breathe them. “Who giveth
this woman!” And more ; after a time I set them
to a sort of involuntary chant, and, whether waking
or idle, would monotonously sing, “Who giveth
this woman 3” In this way does a master—if I
ought not rather to observe, a mistress—passion
haunt us in Solitude.
Of the eſſect of this I had a curious, and, for the
time, a very startling instance. When I got about
again, I took a wider circuit of the island than I had
done before. First, however, I ought to state, that
I had made myself a complete suit of rabbit-skins.
It went to my heart to make them up with the fur
inside—it was so much beauty lost. But, as I had
to protect myself against the briars and brambles
that, on every side, beset me in my walks, I had no
remedy. And then I had this saving consolation in
my aſiliction—a consolation so often sought for-
nobody would know it; nobody would see me.
But to return to my story. In the course of my
rambles, I discovered that a very beautiful sort of
grape grew in the island. I at once resolved to
endeavor to make some real port and sherry. My
mother's currant wine was always sought far and
wide; and though I had never condescended to as-
sist at the making of it, I nevertheless was not al-
together ignorant of the process." Besides, I could
dry the grapes; and if it was my destiny to pass
Christmas in solitude, at least I should not be with-
out the consolation of something like a plum
pudding. . . . ** *
Well, having made the discovery, I returned,
carrying as many bunches of grapes as :I could
bear; and sat myself down, very much fatigued,
taking little notice of anything. , Suddenly I heard
the words, delivered in a sharp clear voice—“Who
giveth this woman?' I trembled from head to foot;
for I forgot that I possessed a parrot.(parrots
$$. *... . . . . . .
&
#1
286 THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF MISS ROBINSON CRUSOE.
abounded in tho island,) and I had domesticated a
very young one. The bird, instructed by my fre-
quent lessons, unconsciously given, had learnt
the words; and from that time, a day did not pass
over that the creature did not cry out-
“Who giveth this woman 1"
CHAPTER XII,
THE reader will remember the cat of the ship
that came ashore with me on the raft. Though,
being an unmarried woman of a certain age, I at
first disliked cats upon principle, the animal, in my
solitary state was a comfort to me—a comfort
known only to advanced spinsters. One morning I
was surprised as I left the hut to find puss at the
door—I had given her up for lost—with a kitten
about a month old in her mouth. She gave evident
signs of satisfaction as I caressed the little thing;
and leaving it in my hands, departed, and returned
from time to time, bringing each time a kitten—in
all six. At length, kittens became so numerous,
that I was compelled to put a restraint upon my
feelings, and drown them. However, the reader
will acknowledge that I was blest with a tolerable
circle, when I count my rabbits, my parrots, and
my cats. Having discovered that there were birds
of Paradise in the island, I sought day after day to
find their nests, that I might, domesticate their
young. This, however, I found to be impossible ;
and fam now of opinion that, as the bird of Para-
dise never alights on the ground, or alighting, is
never able to get up again, that the creatures build
high up in the clouds. How they manage it, it is
not for me to explain : I leave that, as a privilege,
to the reader. Despairing to obtain the bird alive,
my next thought was to shoot one for my bonnet.
True, there was nobody to see it; but it would
have been a sweet satisfaction to myself to know
that it was in my bonnet.
Speaking of nobody seeing me : it was (as may
be conceived) a most perplexing circumstance that
I was not able even to see myself. The reader, I
hope, remembers the loss of my mirror. This
loss I considered irreparable, when one day I recol-
lected that my father once read to me an account of
some barbarian Grecians, or Egyptians, or some-
thing of that sort, who made mirrors of polished
steel. It struck me that I might make myself a
looking-glass of this sort. And for this purpose,
an old frying-pan that I had brought from the
wreck aſſorded me the best means. The time
taken to polish that piece of old iron would, I knew,
be long and tedious; but then, I had more time on
my hands than I knew what to do with ; and then
the thought that I was producing—however slowly
—a looking-glass, would sweeten the labor past ex-
pression. tº gº. &
To work I went; and ºf some sea-sand
through a lace-veil, and sticking the, particles with
wax to some brown paper, I scoured and scoured,
until, after incredible labor, brightness began to ap-
pear. I cannot trust myself to explain my feelings
when I saw the tip of my nose first dawn in the
frying-pan. I seemed for the first time, for many
a weary day, to feel the blessings of civilization.
And, by degrees, all my nose was reflected, and—
I. pass over the labor of many months—then my
chin and cheeks, and finally my whole face. The
mirror at the best was not, to be sure, equal to a
handsome quicksilver looking-glass; but there it
was a great improvement on the streams and ponds
that, until that time, I had been compelled to resort
to. I was a little shocked that the sun had turned
me sovery brown, and sent such a shower of freckle.
about my eyes and nose. And then again,
this comfort—for the thought in such monºt
a comfort—that nobody could see me. With ery .
belief at our hearts, what free agents we may ve,
often become ! . . . .
In good time, however—as it afterwards.” one
out—had I accomplished my mirror; foº. .
morning as I went towards the shore, I saw."
the sand the print of a naked foot. My heaſ'. . .
so, I thought I should have dropt; but there it
was plainly the mark of a foot; and I kº
well, by its preposterous size, it could not º' *
possibility be my own foot. You may judg; "I
twitter I was in. I sat down upon the º
looked closely intº the foot. Was it a mºa
or a woman's It was too small, I thought,”
man, and, as I believed, too large for a woº weſ!
and then I recollected what large feet many º 3
my dearest acquaintance had. It was flainly .
foot; I counted all the five toes. , that
And, then, it appeared very strange to mºs
there should be #. mark of only one foºt, her
the owner of the foot one-legged? Was the ". .
leg of wood ; I searched, cautiously, but sº
other marks. It was plain that the island, 0ſ.
least the adjacent islands, were inhabited; *...
thoughts flew to my trunks, and took an involu."
inventory of all my dresses—my bonnets, a.
loves of shawls, the late property of the late tº
passengers. -
I went immediately to the highest parts of
island, and, with my double opera-glass, spºn
about me. Not a soul was to be seen. d º of
I said to myself—“It may be the footmaº 3.
neither man, nor woman, but of some love." -
spirit that has seen and adores me.”
urned
. . . *r
6
... ." §
+
CHAPTER XIII.
tº
My thoughts full of the foot-mark, it may” º:
posed that f slept but little that night. Indºy
many nights afterwards, my rest was disturbº de"
dreams of cannibals; and again and again
plored my roving habits and the inconstancy "ºt
disposition. And then the thought returned, º, .
the mark was not of a human foot, but º
spirit, enamored of me. And then I would . its
with myself—if a spirit, why should it º Il
mark where it was only by the merest accº,
saw it! Why not have come at once to.” ſort
and put the question! Again I wou “. *
myself that it was the mark of my own fºo', ºne
ly exaggerated, of course, by the wind 9. hen ſ
other natural but mysterious cause. And... of
again visited the foot-print, and, taking mº., it
its dimensions, felt that, under no circumsta”
could be mine. jiaº
Months passed on, and I was alternately º ack
by these thoughts. Time, however, brough jed
my old composure; and I was once moſ...ten,
to stir abroad without the fear of beißig
However, I took the precaution of never". In
home without my pistol, which I never ſº it bº
the first place, I was afraid that the nois? *śd;
heard by the savages, if any were on thº. and
and in the next, I had always a very na".jstol,
very lady-like fear of fire-arms. Besides ſº it’
Islung a sword—a cutlass, I believe ſhº.º.pcaº
over my shoulder; and thus equipped, ſº . haſ"
ance very much reminded me of a lady that, * .
pier days, I had seen at Astley's. -- secº.
I ought not to omit to state that, for bºº... th9.
ty of myself and property, I searched all " .
º &
r
all
t!
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MISS RoBINSON CRUsoe. 287
i. and, happily discovered a deep dark cave, I self between the runaway and the pursuer. Both
a r '*ed by art or nature (it matters not which) in parties, you may believe, were somewhat astonished
.k. To this place, with much trouble, Iremoved to behold me; but, recovering from the surprise,
' ' '. gi. * my very best dresses, my metal º the pursuing Amazon was quietly fixing an arrow
. . . . Il
i...ºnd other treasures that I valued most. —against which my rabbit-skin would have been
.. º I resolved, at the worst, to take shelter, but a poor defence—when, turning aside my head,
i t
' , & Savages threaten me. and leaving my shot to luck, I snapped the trigger,
$. iwi. morning, when it was scarcely daylight—for and killed my woman. . . l .*
ris 'll say thiſ for myself, I was always an early | Now, the sound of the pistol brought the savage
. ...I was astonished with seeing a light of jvho had fled, to a dead stand-still. Whereupon I
* I the fire upon the shore, about two miles distant. made all sorts of encouraging motions to her to ap-
, a...ºnvinced it was the fire of the savages, and proach; using the same pantomime that, under the
i. back to my hut, to keep close for the day. Cu-like circumstances, I had scen at the opera. At
º jºy 2. however, forbade this, and I resolved to go length, the poor wench took heart, and came grace-
" ; º ºld reconnoitre. Slinging my sword-belt, fully—as to slow music—to me. Then she sunk
trº, loo ing to the priming of my pistol, whilst I] upon her knees; then taking my foot—she was, I
. jºled excessively, I sallied forth, and climbed a thought, evidently astonished at its smallness-she
3. #. ill to take a better survey. Laying myself |put it upon her head, as much as to say, she had a
º ºn the ground, and arranging the sight of proper notion of the duty of a servant, and that I
# double opera-glass that I had taken on purpose, might, if I liked, duly trample upon her. i.
. iw a out thirty savages—Amazons, all of them n a little time, the wench seemed to feel quite
- .*ncing round a fire, and two victims ready to at her case, and scratching up the sand, intimated
. i. ...sei. One of these I saw fall, and the next|that she would bury the dead Amazon; and this she
.."ºnt the other bounded forward like an Italian|did apparently with the greatest pleasure in life, in
jºund, running to the part of the island where about a quarter of an hour. d
"habitation was. After this, I took the girl to my hut, and gave
- ºw * may be sure of it, at this I was in a pretty her some raisins and biscuit; and what seemed at
e "ier. However I lay close, and saw the fright-|once to win her heart, a few drops of Eau de Cologne
... ºd wretch come on, pursued by two of the Ama- on Jump-sugar, at which her eyes began to sparkle,
al "s; who, however, continued to lose ground with and to remind me of my boarding-school days at
ºf...every step. Coming to a deep stream, the Blackheath. §
ºf º º, one of ă. pursuers boldly fol- . The girl was, for a negress, a very good-looking
Win
.T.", but swimming heavily after the victim. |girl. I have seen much flatter noses, and much
a...ºther paused at the brink of the stream, and—|bigger lips owned by white Christians. Her figure,
. . . ."º reader may have done in a bathing-machine|too, was, for a savage, very genteel. , Her feet, to
i. felt the water with a single foot, withdraw-|be sure, were a little clumsy; but, then, when we
Ul Šit, and shivering at the cold. Thus, I plucked come seriously to think of it, how very few people
º ...it, for I found that I had but one enemy to have small feet! ..
, "end with: It was extraordinary how soon the wench began
. sº t this moment, it came into my thoughts that I to talk and understand me; whereupon, I let her
. ºld obtain what, all the time I had been upon know that her name was Friday, as she began
i. *land, I had so much yearned for; namely, a service, with me on that day. And I was very
t. inaid, with no permanent followers. With grateful when I looked upon her. For I thought
sy * view, cocking my pistol, and drawing my to myself, “ Now I no longer need make my own
..", I rushºwn the hill, and so placed my- |fire, and can henceforth have my breakfast in bed.”
... * *
* LovE is only used when coaxing is required, as
... D Maramonial DICTIONARY. º “Do ; there § a love.” It is also a superlative,
be.” is a term of entreaty, usually employed conveying the highest praise, er, gr.," he love
...It is .*trangers. It is meant to imply affection. of a fellow.” “The lºve of a gººse.
º ci.imes used at home, but is generally re- Toodlebums. See Tootsy.--Punch.
... My with suspicion, * * : * * * º tºº
dignit DEAR. The above with a slight infusion of THE LONDON Gold Fisheries.—A new com-
º: A . in with the merce has lately sprung up in London. tº: ſlow-
... Weddin. d term of affection that . er-pot season is over; the crockery business is
jºy, and goes out with the honey-moon. broken up; bird-cages hang, on hand; and the
... " jº The comparative of Duck. ding i only commodity at present which seems to open
* ... tºy, . Mootsy, and all words * *...* the hearts and pockets of housekeepers, are gold
Canin tºrms of great endearment. . º #. fish. They are sold alive, and are carried about
ºre ..". em has never been ascertained. They from house to house in large bowls... The price of
p."; heard after thirty. . . tº a good-sized couple is an old pair of boots. If two
dissent * A powerful contradiction, or involuntary more are thrown in, they fetch a great-coat. Hus-
', '' A. *** * bands cannot be too much on their guard, and are
recommended to look closely after their wardrobes,
as this new kind of bait takes, wonderfully with
women, and young wives, have been ſound to bite
9NSENSE. A negative of intense contempt.
is.”ARY ME.
tiène.". An exclamation of great impa-
º ion. Word expressive of the fidgets. :
. ... tion. ; * means trouble, irritation, teasing, vexa- very readily at these gold fish. They are very
quest...”. Word of petulant anger in great re- plentiful; and this new custom of sending round
ºrench is on't bother me” is equivalent to the #. bowl, promises to be very profitable to those
. . . . . tum embétes.” who have taken it in hand.—Punch.
. . . . "
* * , , , h
i . * : " ... •
1. tº
288 . “. . . . . . NEWS OF THE WEEK.
From the Spectator, 19 Sept.
NEWS OF THE WEEK.
THE arrangements for the double marriage at
Madrid go forward, in spite of the anticipated ob-
structions. The dreaded Cortes has met, and is
cven reported to seem pleased with the project.
Meanwhile, the diplomatic turmoil about the
affair continues, most favorably for newspaper
writers; furnishing articles fierce and innumerable,
to the journalists of London, Paris, and Madrid.
One would think that heaven and earth were com-
ing together, instead of the Infanta Luisa and the
Duc de Montpensier. Mr. Bulwer is undoubtedly
writing most able notes in Madrid, putting the re-
ceived constitutional doctrines into neat official lan-
guage ; Lord Normanby is described as bullying
M. Guizot in Paris; Queen Victoria is said to have
written severely to King Louis Philippe, and some
London journals let it be understood that their
foreboding menaces reſlect the lowering aspect of
Lord Palmerston. “The gentlemen connected with
the press” burst with indiguation at the small deſer-
ence shown to them by the parties to the Montpen-
sier marriage. You would think that Lord Pal-
merston and “we” were the slighted guardians, if
not the offended father. Now, we are not aware
that when Queen Victoria married Prince Albert,
she asked leave of the Spanish ambassador, or
even took counsel of the Madrid Heraldo.
Mr. Bulwer is careful to allow Queen Isabella
a choice, if it be a free one. This is a most shal-
low pretence. The queen is not sixteen years of
age; and if she were not guided by those about
her, she really would be “as headstrong as an alle-
gory on the banks of the Nile.”—not at all a proper
person for Mr. Bulwer's approbation.
One absurdity pervades the whole aſſair—the re-
finement of sagacity which amplifies dangers in the
remote future that may never exist. No royal al-
hances could well make Spain a worse neighbor
than she is ; but, we repeat, a little infusion of
better blood into the Spanish line might make her
a better neighbor; and, at all events, there is a lu-
dicrous frivolity in the solemn air with which,
amid the present anarchy of the Peninsula, some
far-seeing folks descry the perils to arise through
the union of the young people and its obstetrical
contingencies.
FREE trade and its merits appear to occupy the
attention of the French in a degree second only to
the affair of the Montpensier marriage ; which the
economical question is likely to supersede in endur-
ing interest. Three Parisian journals are exerting
themselves with great zeal in the cause of free
trade; these are the Journal des Débats, the offi-
cial organ of the government; the Epoque, which
is supposed to enjoy the special confidence of M.
Guizot; and the Courrier Français, an opposition
paper, noted for its attention to topics of political
economy in general. M. Bastiat, the well-known
dissector of protectionist sophistry; and Leon
Faucher, author of a work on England, written
with a careful study of his subject almost unique in
France, are leading writers in the Courrier. La
Presse, which as yet stands alone in its champion-
ship of protection, is the representative not of the
ministers, but of the party that supports them.
Thus, at the outset of the struggle, France seems
about to present a repetition of what we have lately
witnessed at home—a conservative party divided
against itself; a ministry arrayed against a portion
of its ordinary supporters, and backed by thos: * .
are usually its opponents. The Journal des Déla'
has put forth a series of long and elaborate article.
in which it minutely discusses the rival policies,
arrives at the conclusion that the time is coº -
when French industry can with safety and * . .
tage dispense with the leading-strings of protºcº".
and the tariſt may undergo a large reductiº'.
many of its details. La Presse supports the º
site side of the question with great spirit.
ingenuity; but with an acrimonious insolence". -
betokens rather a wish to gratify the passion: *
its party than a conviction of the soundness of
cause. Captious special pleading on isolated º,
sages in speeches delivered by Mr. Cobden ſº.
the staple of its rhetoric. It asserts that the 2ng:
lish corn-laws, their causes and consequº. * *
were in all respects things so peculiar to º
Britain, that nothing in their history can be right . .*
drawn into a precedent for the guidance of ºl. .
countries. It alleges, too, that we are not sinº. -
in our new profession of the free-trade faith; º -
we did not abandon protection until by means of
we had attained a position to need it no long.
and that France, which has not yet reached th.
point, can only do so by following the course.’.
have actually pursued, and not by hearkening
our insidious counsels, or suffering herself tº be
beguiled by a false interpretation of our exampº. -
It is apparent, from the earnest manner in which the
discussion is conducted on both sides, that the quº.
tion of free trade is felt to be about to assum”. ‘. . .
position of great practical importance in France
In the remoter parts of the globe, in the coloniº .
order of states, there are some interesting mº",
mentS. - - bd
According to the latest tales from Algeria, A. r.
el-Kader is growing more formidāble than e.
By his pertinacious war upon the infidel, hº
earned the reputation of a saint hero, and is li
to receive a remarkable military canonization: .
the other hand, Abd-er-Rahman of Moroccº.
long tolerated the English, has yielded to tºº.
French—most serious heresies against the suſ” m
acy of the Mussulman sabre. Abd-er-Rah".
reigns in Morocco, but does not govern; if ...";
one governs in any part of that shaky empire du
the fugacious Arab victor: his authority is gº”.
ally superseding the imperial rule ; and the º;
or may soon be obliged either to abdicate by *.
of the emir, or openly to espouse his cause: ..]
either case, France would attempt the invasiº, ". . . . . .
annexation of Morocco; a puzzling éventuali". O
Great Britain; how would she suffer the absº ()
of her old commercial ally? would she be williº;de
engage in war with France to maintain the .e :
pendence of Morocco; or what third altern”
offers ? .*
Mexico, at the date of the latest advices, wº
in
- * * t3
the agonies of a counter-revolution; recalling ...
Anna to supersede Paredes. How remark” oth
the concurrent fate of the Spanish race 9.
sides of the Atlantic—courting foreign enº”
ment by the impossibility of self-government
From the Spectator, 26 sº m -
THE aspect of Spanish affairs grows as dark * r
troubled as intriguers and journalists can jºf
Much of the turmoil is spurious; but if nº.
do not ensue, it will not be the fault of those ""
magnify the disorder and prophesy worse. ith
º * * * * * itſ
Divers journals aver that Spain is convulsed W . . .
f
and
ikely
NEWS OF THE WEEK.
289
an
j º the Montpensier marriage; but the evi-
Palpable support of the assertion is by no means so
fºrmijº it should be. It was predicted that a
there ha opposition would be made in the Cortes:
ictors S been none of much weight; and the pre-
the ac º out of that difficulty by declaring that
rºl. is the effect of corruption. The
§rous st Madrid are described as being in a dan-
ºf that ºte of hostility; and the specific evidence
tailor J. is, that a party of bullfighters hooted a
Sluj.wa.supposed to be like the Duc de
*gainst . º Catalonia was reported to have risen
isin. Project; it now turns out that the
list. not very different from the ordinary Car-
tail. of the past. In short, Spain is not a
; 4. Ile °ºuntry; which is no novelty. º
ºn the Inost genuine disturbance no doubt exists
Qeive jºsts of certain royal individuals, who con-
age." personal rights and projects to be en-
fiqi. find y the match. The youthful Don En-
"gen º S the romance which he has been perform-
lään . at all as it should; and he carries his
tale he ºhe Cortes, in the shape of a protest. The
'aS º lºor rather insinuates, is curious. He
*artia, ed to Madrid, by his father, to negotiate a
Was n º between Queen Isabella and himself; he
dismi *$omplying on certain points, and was then
th..sed from the country. At Paris he learned
ths".”h; he had not been willing to acquiesce in
the ºriage of his younger cousin Luisa, with
that * de Montpensier; if he would have done
hºld 9" are given to understand, he might have
CO §ºn Isabella. His brother has been more
ſº. g; the younger son's magnanimity is
* least. and he protests. This tale proves
aff." That the Montpensier match is no sudden
tim. Indeed, it was to be anticipated from the
Isabel at the two French princes joined Queen
*Qn her tour in the provinces. º
Higij Count of Montemolin also conceives his
favor to e infringed. Don Carlos “abdicated” in
‘pirit, ſh is son; which was very obliging in
lºss...ºugh the excellent prince was really in
Carl *ºn of nothing to abdicate. However, Don
Sºlid mi. at once entered into possession of the
§ld si !y, created himself Count of Montemolin,
Qūjed that he was willing to marry the
b nº. Spain; a compact which seems to have
irmly ºn his own º Q.
Cousi as broken it by marrying her other
º i. rancisco; and the count thinks it due
ifesto i. f to create a rebellion. He issues a man-
runs a. Yiting the Spanish nation to take his part,
§arch º from Bourges, and comes to London in
§on will aid. We perceive no sign that his mis-
jºurn. ...Very successful. The most legitimist
that S offer him cold support; we do not hear
upon. egitimist noble or M. P. has broken in
. privacy.
drink *er, all these cross purposes are meat and
º, Lon * Certain whig section of the liberal party
Chro." for whom at present. the Morning
ºrticles : and the Times utter duplicate “ leading
to take 91 a very Palmerstonian stamp. Spain is
ºrtain d'. place of Syria, and we are to be en-
1st." 9nce more with the official war-dance of
$
The t # Spectator, Oct. 3.
šte in a *mult in Ireland increases. Some parts
has .* of permanent riot, and the first blood
*pirit i. shed. Notwithstanding the laudable
*t has been observed, the difficulties pre-
sented by the people themselves appear to grow
with the emergency. This is not said in the way
of blame, which would be quite idle; but it is very
necessary distinctly to note the fact. The people,
no doubt, are reduced to the verge of starvation,
and much may be pardoned to the struggles of des.
peration, to the delirium of physical suffering ; but
it is painful to see the manner in which the whole
nation receives the aid extended to it. The chief
sufferers meet the gift of relief with an increase of
their habitual supineness, or with their ruling
passion—that of quarrel. When in actual want of
food they quarrel with the food given them—with
their wages—with the kind of employment; and,
altogether, do their best to confound destitution
with a state of social revolt. The manner in which
they are treated by those “above” them is not less
painful to notice. Some, like Mr. John O'Connell,
threaten that there will be bloodshed ; and lo!
there is bloodshed. The “Liberator,” the “father
of his country,” breaks out into boundless demands
that England should “give,” almost as if he meant
to provoke alarm at the prospect of the mad expen-
diture in Ireland and its economical consequences.
The great body of landlords, with less ostentation
of extravagance, are “presenting” local improve-
ments which will involve a ruinous outlay ; calcu-
lating, we are told on trustworthy authority, that
they will be never called upon to repay their share
of the expenditure.
Meanwhile, experience fearfully multiplies and
strengthens doubts whether the official rulers have
taken a fit position for controlling the storm. The
object of the labor-rate act, to give food in return
for employment, is excellent; but in the working,
the statute does not seem to reserve to its adminis-
trators sufficient hold over it. It is everywhere
being converted into “a gigantic system of unpro-
ductive labor ;” diverting the industry of the coun-
try, such as it is, from the substantial improvement
of natural resources, and over-stimulating those
“ habits of laborious indolence” which are the fatal
disease of the nation.
With all this excess, it nevertheless seems para-
doxically doubtful whether the measures taken by
government are sufficient for their purpose—for
securing to the people subsistence under the total
annihilation of their staple food. Ministers, in fact,
have been obliged to depart from their plan—that
of not interfering in the actual supply of proven-
der: under threats of suicidal excesses to be com-
mitted by the people, government does send large
* of food. --
t must be confessed that the oft vaunted public
discussion docs not give ministers much help in
their gigantic task. There is a clamor of extor-
tionate demand sufficiently bewildering; there is in
that cry enough of real agony to compel the utmost
efforts to soothe it. Human nature could not resist
the impulse to do anything that occurs at the mg-
ment in order to allay sufferings so shocking in
their nature and in their universality.
In the midst of the hubbub, the still small voice
of political economy keeps up a strain of didactic
censure on the mode of assistance, which is calcu-
lated scarcely to suggest better. Inethods, but rather
to increase the distraction of mind.
It is, indeed, very desirable that even in the very
storm and whirlwind of their sympathy, the official
rulers should do nothing which might aggravate
future difficulties, or gratuitously create them.
Aro ministers really masters of the “situation?”
Reconsideration of the labor-rate act is promised;
290
NEWS OF THE WEEK.
stores of food are sent hither and thither, as the
starvation here and there appears to grow more in-
tense ; where tumultuous disorder raises its per-
verse head, military appear to repress it : so far
there is due preparation; but something more is
needed than this topical method of treatment with
specific remedies pro re nata. Ministers, we do
not doubt, mean the best. There cannot be any
intention of attempting to meet the monstrous
emergency of the time with the narrow and pedan-
tic dogmas of political economy that have been
obtruded. You might as well send Mr. Porter's
Blue Books to a starving family in St Giles'. A
true political economy, indeed, would extend its
scope to the full breadth of the occasion. Some of
those who retain their cooler senses in the turmoil
are wasting their logic in reciting formulas about
the ordinary workings of trade. There is no ques-
tion now of the ordinary workings of trade. The
true question is, not how to supply food by the
methods which under ordinary circumstances are
the best, but how to supply it by methods suitable
to the extraordinary circumstances. A full con-
sideration of all the facts—of all the needs of Ire-
land, all the resources that England can command,
all that is possible to legislation—would, there is
no doubt, suggest measures at once adequate to
the emergency and beneficial to the permanent
interests of the nation. Some Irish papers are
wrong in supposing that we would urge “confis-
cation.” We urge nothing of the sort. But in a
period of actual social disorganization, we do say
that nice punctilios should not stand between the
awful necessities of Ireland and any measure which
would supply substantial relief. The idea of a
“confiscation,” as it is called—that is, the con-
version of a nominal into an actual ownership, with
full compensation of existing interests, and newly-
created powers really to fulfil the duties of pro-
perty, is one which is creeping out in various
quarters. The Dublin World traces the idea in
other journals of diſſerent politics: it is to be
seen in Mr. Osborne's letter, in Mr. Poulette
Scrope's.
Whether parliament will meet in November or
not is doubtful. Some suppose that ministers will
proceed on their own responsibility, calculating
upon an act of indemnity. Both plans would have
their advantages. That would be best which
would admit of the widest scope of view, the most
unprejudiced policy, and the most vigorous ac-
tivity.
FRANCE also has its dearth, and its violences.
Bread is continually rising, and the people suffer
more and more, with small prospect of alleviation
in the winter. The efforts to provide for the indi-
gent appear, to the English view of such matters,
little and inefficient—a “ drop in the ocean.” The
people resort to a ready beacon of distress—incen-
diary fires. But not having, like Ireland, a richer
relation to use and abuse, France bears its share
of the general dearth with less disorganizing agi-
tation in the several classes of Society ; venting its
political spleen on the Spanish marriage affair.
THE interest of the Montpensier marriage dis-
pute begins to narrow with the approach of the
catastrophe. The Duc de Montpensier has actu-
ally left Paris, and by this time must be almost
married ; a practical fact which throws a nugatory
character, an air of antiquity, over the protest that
the British ambassador has just presented to the
ând
French government against the match. Whº ;
of a protest it was it is impossible to gathº it 13
the conflicting statements, which represe!" .#
very decided or very mild, according to the .
of the writer. The historical facts of the °.
equally obscure : in one description M: Guº;
looks “pleased,” in another he looks “ flushe ſ
and it is impossible to verify the reports ...!
we cannot assist the reader to ascertain whº 316
the distinguished gentleman who helps to jã
materials for the histories that he writes real') t is
look pleased, or ſlushed, or neither, or both. lified
equally obscure—so manifold are the unquº:
assertions of “the best possible instructº: rd
what Mr. Bulwer is doing in Madrid; whº ole,
Palmerston is doing in London. Upon the *.
the apprehensions of any real litigation º ºne
siding. The most probable guess is, tº
Normanby note was not quite so energet.s
is, not quite so rash—as its newspaper haº; is
in London would have made us believe ; *
supposed, with probability, that even so mu% º
“spirited” “tone” as the British governmº".
have taken is intended, not really to signiº. mcø
tility, but to fulfil the old notion of bullying.
out of some incidental advantages—those “ * y
considerations,” &c., which have been ost?” end
deprecated. We do not see how that wou d ſm of
the matter. The vast importance or efficacy th9
these “tones” is falling into doubt, although Oſl
diplomatic gentry, who pique themselves t()
their ingenuity in the game, may be unable d
relinquish old habits. Friendly demeanº all
ingenuous openness are the best modes 1%.
great and honest purposes—aye, even in *
macy. *
tº-wºmmºwº 6
The accounts we continue to receive from *:
are of a tenor so uniformly pleasing, tha' "All
begin to excite an unwonted sºrt of anxiº x.
seems “too good to last.” The enthusiasº.o
alty that now animates the Roman people * has
parallel in the annals of the papacy. °. jS
had 251 Popes; but in all that long list º: 0
not one whose popularity ever equalled tº or
Pius the Ninth, even thus early in his reigº".
was testified by so many fervent demonstrº.
public gratitude and affection. The good .g.
has even been obliged to moderate the toº “...ly
rant zeal and gladness of his subjects; an #.
to recall them to the more sober pursuit of the
ordinary avocations, by assigning a terº. 30.
public rejoicings in the several towns of 'ºe
minions. Never was there a more signa . ſir.
produced on the temper of a discontented ... of
bulent people by the exalted personal quali.
the sovereign. All his acts bespeak a I.
and enlightened spirit of justice and bene". is
He began by granting a general amnesty ...ans
now taking steps to improve and extend the "...s:
of public education, especially among "... of
neglected portion of the population. The º (1ſ
youths that have hitherto been educated only 50°
the gaols and the galleys, are to be taug"...ice.
ful trades, and to be formed to military *... of
“This measure,” says the cardinal secretº.
state, “would be attended with two great . thé
tages: 1. The removal of the young men º from
places where they contract bad habits, "...ty;
ready opportunities to injure and disturb S0 isting
2. The formation of a military nucleus cons.”.
of good soldiers and clever noncommissiº"pius
cers, capable of training an efficient army.
THE FATE OF MEXICO. —THE PANAMA CANAL.
291
the Ninth
Sessor has granted the permission his prede-
*fused for the construction of railways in
º states; he negotiates treaties of com-
Order A. other governments; and is introducing
Welcome economy into the finances. He offers a
}*prese to the genius and learning of Italy, as
lake º 1n the Scientific Congress ; he has re-
gradia.ºity ºf the censorship;, and has
"essors y gºt rid of the corrupt police of his prede:
ourse.’ º put. better men in their places. Of
te º this is not done without encountering
ſºlañ ess opposition. The pope's extraordinary
is 'y, as well as the energy and firmness of
ever .*. forbid all open resistance; but what-
Feas. e done in passively obstructing his
by ... practised to the utmost limit of safety
Pected º of reform. It was not to be ex-
sw."º the odor of his virtues should at once
Curi the tainted atmosphere of the Roman
tles: at he appears to command the services of
is ."ºne high functionary, Cardinal Gizzi, who
me
eten
l
hast unworthy to second the designs of such a
tility How ſong will this continue ! Open hos-
Whe º: come from some quarter; but when,
loº.” ºr how!—that is the question. Austria
$ngril º ky enough; but as yet she only mutters
Inde Y between her teeth. The Duke of Modena,
ſºil. ºcarbonaro, seems disposed to head the
j. hope of absolutism. His protégés, the
teate iſe preaching on the dangers that now
end i. the Holy See? The duke and the rever-
§form !ers have, no doubt, peculiar sources of
lºngs §ºon on that topic. The politician who
ses..."; the regeneration of Italy almost desires to
ºve. better spirit that has risen in Rome more
*sj tested by all the opposition that declining
0. q. can muster; but as yet that spirit seems
* afraid to declare itself.
sº admiral's despatches from the late scene of
ºn. grueo have been received since our last
ſic.” It results from them, that we have in-
not...?" the sultan a lesson which may, or may
have º Ké à lasting impression upon him ; but we
&ny º; obtained any diplomatic advantage, or
Security for the future.
it Then
adds
* is some intelligence from the West; but
§main 'ttle to what we already knew. Mexico
Sam.", as before, in the agonies of welcoming
istic lººſa, And the United States character-
York y display an army encamped near New
With a "...set out for the conquest of California;
d Writ °0mmander against whom had been issued
* in: he earcat, on account of his debts; an
tion,” 8 union of “indebtedness” and “annexa-
THE FATE OF MEXICO.
lº.’, did a mail bring intelligence more, omi-
Week exico than that which has arrived this
to the ºot that Paredes has proved a leader equal
$ºn.gºgy; nor that Santa Anna is a worse
inde. The reputation of the recalled exile
tuler º *inted with the worst suspicions for the
Cºunt... republic: he is said to share with his
ºblite; $º that gambling mania which so often
€y º ºvery sense of honor; and he is reported
While S ºve offered his country for sale to the
Mexi. *tes! But a knavish leader is better for
Worse fº. now than a weak one : it would be
*** country to surrender, under conquest,
at discretion, than to be sold on advantageous
terrns.
Yet it would be well if the Mexicans were to re-
flect on the probable and practical consequences of
their subjugation by the republicans of the union.
History is not bare of cogent instances. The
Dutch of New York started on tolerably equal
terms as respects personal and local privileges, and
though they were overborne by the numerical pro-
portion of the British race collectively, they have
not suffered by the amalgamation; but their cousins
the Germans, under the name of redemptioners,
were slaves to the shrewd and unscrupulous col-
onists of the Anglo-American race. What has
become of the French in Florida and Louisiana
The French Canadians have watched, and could
tell how they would dread national extinction as the
consequence of annexation. Observe even at this
day the “Native American” spirit, and its tenden-
cy to trample on the Irish Celt, What Spaniards
remain in Texas—how many still hold land there !
And if they do, what is their condition ? What is
now passing in California?
If they open their eyes, the Mexicans will find
no difficulty in discerning the immediate practical
consequences to them of annexation, whether partial
or cntire, whether by defeat and conquest, or by
bargain and sale. However fair-spoken the terms
of the treaty of cession, whatever the territorial
privileges granted to the newly-annexed state, the
Mexican race would sink to a level only above that
of the Negro. The “Native American” spirit,
already unbounded by the Rio del Norte, would
soon oust the Mexicans from political ascendancy.
But the race would not suffer only in its collective
capacity : the law would be made to favor the as-
cendant law-makers; and in one way or another the
process of confiscation, begun in California even
before it is absorbed, would be carried on vigorous-
ly and steadily against the individuals of the Mexi-
can blood. The period of transition would be a
melancholy one ; while the Anglo-American race
was growing in numbers and ascendancy, the Mex-
icans would be gradually losing their civil power
and their individual property. National degrada-
tion would be accompanied by personal beggary.
It might take a generation to complete the process;
but what would be the feelings of the dispossessed
Mexicans while thus cuckooed and driven like the
“wild Irish” before the Anglo-Normans, from
their homes and property! what the feeling of the
sons of those Mexicans—a dwindling race of gip-
sies warned off the lands of their fathers!
Be Mexico conquered by the United States or
sold, such is the fate that hangs over Mexicans,
so long as their weakness tempts incursion.--Spec-
tator, 19 Sept.
THE PANAMA CANAL.
The feasibility of cutting through the neck of
land that unites the two continents of America, has
been affirmed, well nigh, till all men doubt it. A
project so long talked of, and only talked of, has
come at last to be generally regarded in the light
of an idle speculation not worth the notice of prac-
tical men. This scepticism is very natural, but it
is certainly erroneous. The thing will be done,
and done probably at no distant day. Why should
we doubt this when we have seen achievements of
greater apparent difficulty accomplished within the
last quarter of a century! Our age, of which it has
been said and sung in jeremiades without number.
202
THE PANAMA CANAL.
that it is prosaic, material, unimaginative, and so
forth, is at least remarkable for the boldness with
which it subdues the unembodied imaginings of its
predecessors to the domain of palpable reality. To
wage obstinate war against all obstacles of time
and space appears to be the peculiar bent of our
generation ; and instead of supposing that human
enterprise will submit, as it has done for the last
three hundred years, to be thwarted by the narrow
barrier that separates the Atlantic from the Pacific,
we should rather see in the long past duration of
the evil so much the more reason for its speedy ex-
tinction. It is a thousand years since Charlemagne
}. a line of canal between the Main and the
anube, so as to effect a continuous inland naviga-
tion through the heart of Europe from the German
Ocean to the Black Sea. That work was finished
a few months ago : it had been talked about for a
thousand years; often sneered at as a visionary
scheme; nay, proved by learned arguments in our
day to be impracticable; twelve years sufficed for
its completion.
Last week, the Moniteur announced the success
of a commissioner who had been deputed by “The
French and English Company of the Isthmus of
Panama” to treat with the government of New
Grenada for the construction of a railway across the
isthmus. The conditions of the contract have been
discussed between the company's agent and a com-
missioner ad hoc appointed by the president of the
republic ; and a preliminary agreement duly signed
by the Grenadan commissioner has been officially
communicated to the company.
A railroad, or even a good common road, across
the Isthmus of Panama would be a valuable boon
to the country through which it passed, and would
not be devoid of utility to commerce ; but it would
be immeasurably inferior in importance to a ship-
canal between the two oceans, and would by no
means supersede the necessity for that grand high-
way for the navigation of the world. It is another
question, whether a railway in Panama would
ay; and this, we think, may at least be doubted.
t would be chiefly useful in expediting the transit
of mails and passengers; but so limited a traffic,
taking place only once a month, would surely not
suſlice to defray the cost of maintaining the railway
all the year round. What is wanted is a maritime
channel, which should enable merchant-vessels of
the largest class to avoid the expense, danger, and
loss of time, incident to doubling Cape Horn, and
to pass from ocean to ocean without discharging
their cargoes, or being delayed more than two or
three days in the isthmus. Anything short of this
—any means of communication which should
render transshipments necessary—would be quite
nugatory as regards the main interests of commerce,
whatever might be the secondary advantages re-
sulting from it.
It would be fortunate if such a canal as we have
described could be cut through the Isthmus of
Panama (proper,) which is but forty-one miles
wide; but the impossibility of doing this has been
fully proved by M. Garella, an engineer, who sur-
veyed the isthmus by order of the French govern-
ment, and the result of whose investigations
was published in the Journal des Débats on the
15th of January, 1846. To say nothing of the want
of sufficient harbors at either end of the canal in
this locality, a tunnel would be requisite, capable
of giving passage to ships of 1,200 tons burden with
their lower masts standing. It would have to be
tº $nm3
cut through a solid porphyry rock; its die.
would be about eight times those of the Box M.
nel; and the cost of excavating it, estimated º
Garella at two millions sterling, would Pº
not fall far short of five times the amount.
Scarcely a doubt remains that the most 9
locality for the proposed work is in the isthº.
Tehuantepec, in the Mexican territory. It thé
the land is much wider here than at points far
south, but it presents, in the tableland of Tarl º
only gap as yet discovered in the granite chº"
extends from Behring's Straits to Tierra de mté"
go. The total breadth of the Isthmus of Tºhº act
pec is 140 miles; but the greater part of thº .
is occupied on the south by lagoons, whit". nd
easily be converted into a commodious harbº...at
on the north by the Coatzacoalcos, a rive, "...ons
volume, admitting the largest vessels at all sº.
to a distance of thirty-five miles from its .
(lat. 18° 8' N.,) and capable of being made". £x.
ble twenty-five miles further. The canal tº 9 ng.
cavated would therefore be but fifty miles .
The highest point to be surmounted is 200 º
(218 yards) above the level of the Pacific, *.
mêtres above the Atlantic ; the ascent an S
would be effected by means of 150 locks.
for feeding the canal can be had in abunda" has
the summit level. The Mexican governmºs' de
assigned to the projector of the canal, Don Jose of
Garay, the fee simple of nearly five milliº.ºf
acres in the isthmus, together with the priv, *.
establishing colonies over a breadth of fifty lºs
on either side of the canal." The foreign co"je
are to enjoy all requisite immunities, and evºn
right of working the virgin mines which arek".g.
to exist beneath, the surface. The isthm"...es
sesses a fine salubrious climate, and in many dye.
a most fruitful soil. Timber for ship-building."ºre
wood, mahogany, and other fine-grained trº. *
to be had in profusion in the forests of the º
coalcos. The supply of animal food is inexhº.
ble; and nature has neglected nothing thº,...for
ligibl;
0
116
mark out this region as one of the most elig".scs
colonization on the face of the globe. Henº." the
one of the most striking advantages whº rall
scheme we have been considering possesses.ter
its rivals. It would not be necessary to ºn” anal.
at once the risk and cost of excavating the .s.
All that is requisite in the first instance is.” ined
port to the spot an industrious and well-disºr
population, who, after completing a tempº"...op
munication between the two oceans, wou d ſaw
the immense resources of the country, dº d de'
from them the means of completing the gº”
sign. - ich wº
There are political circumstances, to whº" but
cannot for the present do more than alſº º of
which call for the establishment in Tehuan. of
a well-organized colony under the prote:"...or
England† and France, as a matter of Vitº...her
tance to Mexico, and of proportionate intereº"
allies.—Spectator, 19 Sept.
jſ!
* See “An Account of the Isthmus of Tehua:; 3.
the republic of Mexico; with Proposals for estab § aft:
Communication between the Atlantic and P. Co.
based upon the Survey and Reports of a Sciº. §aray.
mission appointed by the Projector, Don José de
London: 1846. to nº
# The readers of the Living Age will pleº look.”
this proposed alliance of European monarc º, st mº
comparatively small here, but would grow to *
tor.
4. $ $ * $ #
WHAT CAN BE DONE FOR MEXICO 7—WAR AGAINST SPAIN AND FRANCE.
WHAT CAN BE DONE For Mexico º
*
º º high time that we in England should take
e 3. consideration the question, What can
it of i. save the miserable and impotent repub-
"ation? *ico from extinction as an independent
*quen. Apart from all the problematical evil con-
Sand . of its absorption into the United States
ºn im ºy are momentous—the fate of Mexico has
Of ...lite practical importance for all classes
With t this country, being inseparably identified
Punge . of a vast amount of British capital. Ex-
sam. ºxico from the list of nations, and with the
Engi ºw you put out the fires on thousands of
th . hearths. Already we have suffered
h . by the waste and decay of the wealth we
Wh invested in that country; the annihilation of
ther *mains would scatter bankruptcy among our
funct *S, paralyze our industry, disorder all the
*mon *s of our national life, and spread starvation
slº. Our working classes. And this is the con:
*%um . which events are tending in a rapid and
all s . *ing flood, that must inevitably bear down
"enca flimsy barriers as Santa Anna's country-
i. set up against it. ſº tº
Whole i. United States are bent on seizing the
fles.”xican territory is a fact they scarcely con-
|tend to disguise. The manner in which they
the º effect their purpose is also apparent; it is
sº as that by which they have already
by wi.as; the same piratical system as that
j they had begun to possess themselves of
d .. before they had the opportunity of
th."grit in the more legitimate way of pur-
§ th; fl. present petty warfare they are waging
Gen ºntier is but an episode in the great plot.
teal . aylor's force is but the precursor of the
W00 jºy of invasion—the squatter and back-
win. *h, men in whom it is a hereditary and in-
fºr. instinct always to depart from before the
law, ch of civilization, to avoid every spot where
sely.” become established, and never to feel them-
gton."ºughly at home except on debatable
“rees th y men like these, coming by twos and
ºullitº en by scores and hundreds, and finally in
hot."s, like carrion birds to the quarry, the
&nd ti * provinces of the republic will he overrun ,
whi. the process will be continued until the
Princi jitory is filled and mastered by these un-
Alre and desperately energetic immigrants.
ling al ºany of the provinces have shown a wil-
from"...ity to meet the destiny they foresee; not
heiº"y affection they bear to their encroaching
tº sº IJſ
ho ..º.but because they are weary of anarchy:
Kºj ºf relief from their own wretched nominal
law.ºents, and eager to accept the blessings of
*cure hº from any power strong enough to
º; ºust be tranquillized, and her strength
Ost *:::: by good and stable government, or she
they ha This his long been felt by her allies ; and
''Optio We even suggested and indirectly urged the
like.''' ºf the means that seemed to them most
.g about the desired result, The pro-
...a was the conversion of the republic
archy, the sceptre of which should be
! some European royal cadet. It is need-
.*.* the abstract merits of this plan,
*Piº." mere figment of political speculation,
lºsion." "eyond the scope of any practical dis-
º
at is
sinc {
&
& l
C
to save Mexico, and
r *
** but one sure wa
ń. blood into her lan-
to transfer fresh, hea
293
guid veins; to colonize a portion of her magnifi-
cent territory with a people worthy to occupy and
able to defend it. If Mexico were to mingle a por-
tion of the Anglo-Saxon" element with her popu-
lation, she might venture to cope with the moiety
of that indomitable race that now threatens her
existence. In our paper, last week, on the project
of cutting a ship-canal through the great American
isthmus, we pointed out the admirable opportunity
now offered for peopling the Isthmus of Tehuanté-
pec, and realizing the incalculable natural advan-
tages of one of the most eligible commercial sites
on the face of the globe. That majestic region,
teeming with boundless wealth, washed by two
oceans, traversed through half its breadth by a
navigable river, which offers at its mouth the finest
harbor in the Gulf of Mexico, may now be secured
by Englishmen. Will they refuse to accept a
region which was selected by the sagacious mind
of the great conqueror Cortes to constitute his own
private domain If so, the French will be de-
lighted to grasp the prize we disdain.—Spectator,
Sept. 26.
WAR AGAINST SPAIN AND FRANCE.
THERE are appearances as if it were intended to
prepare the public mind in this country for a speedy
declaration of war by the British government against
Spain and France. The signs, indeed, of such a
purpose are not very trustworthy—they may be
nothing more than journalism guessing at eventu-
alities; yet one feature in the case is remarkable.
In the two principal papers of London has been
published, in close paraphrase, what is all but a
threatened declaration of war against the Spanish
and French governments. The anticipatory ver-
sions of a forthcoming speech from the throne are
scarcely less dissimilar. Extracts from both will
be found in another column Both, it will be seen,
call for sympathy from the French opposition; both
call for resistance in Spain to the government of
that country, upon Narvaez to take the lead in re-
sistance; both imply the threat that if these efforts
to prevent the marriage without foreign interven-
tion or bloodshed should fail, resort will be had to
some ulterior coercion. One journal devotes many
words in the attempt to coax “this adventurous
soldier,” Narvaez, into an enterprise which, it is
averred, would “retrieve the past.” The other
promises him, “fighting for the best cause,”, a
nobler fame than that of “ Blucher or Bolivar !”
Either this duplicate composition is traceable to
some common origin, or the principal whig news-
paper has for once been the exemplar,followed by
the leading Journal patronizing the whigs.
The pretext for the threatened war is, that the
Montpensier marriage is a breach of the treaty of
Utrecht. We will not stop to inquire whether it
is so or not; though doubts readily suggest them-
selves. The fundamental basis in that treaty was
the fear, that if France and Spain were to become
united under one crown, the joint empire Would be
so formidable as to subjugate all Europe. “Cess-
ante causã, cessat effectus.” such a fear at this day
would be the shadow-dreading of madness. Louis
Philippe, if he were the same in nature as Louis
Quatorze, is not the once absolute Grand Monarque;
Spain has no longer the show of power that it had
* None is genuine, unless signed by John Bull. If the
article he obtained from any other concern, it will not
answer the purpose.--Living Age.
294
THE FORBIDDEN BANS,
under Philip. Spain and France were never more
remote from union than at this moment—oil and
water not more so. But if they were conjoined,
Spain would In no way add to the strength of
France. Spain can neither conquer nor be con-
quered. If we fear France, we could not desire
a more potent diversion of her strength than the
nominal possession of the neighboring kingdom.
Algiers would be nothing to it In losing its use,
the treaty of Utrecht has lost its virtue; a fact not
long since discovered by the British government.
What interest has England then in this antici-
pated renewal of 1840? In spite of many differences
in the juncture, the resemblance to that time is most
observable. In 1840, Lord Palmerston was in
office, and this country was, with much vaporing—
nay, something more tangible than vaporing—hur-
ried to the verge of a war with France, about a
third nation: in 1841, Lord Palmerston went out
of office, and the war-threats subsided : in 1846,
Lord Palmerston is again in office, and again we
have threatened war. We are explicitly told that
there no longer exists “the now broken spell of the
entente cordiale.” Who has broken it—who
wished to break it—who always grudged its exist-
ence? Not certainly the people of this country:
they do not grudge Louis Philippe what is evi-
dently the object of his search—a rich bride for his
fifth son, to whom the French chambers will allow
no “dotation.”
What is to be the practical sequel—what advan-
tage is the British government to take of any of the
circumstances imagined by those who call for resist-
ance! If there were a Carlist rising, and Montpen-
sier were to aid his sister-in-law, is it expected that
Lord Palmerston would send auxiliaries to Don
Carlos Luis! Is it to be supposed that he, in this
quarrel, would drive from her throne his quondam
protégée, and help to wrench the sceptre from the
hand of Ferdinand's daughter? Or would he go
to war in aid of any other rising? Is it war that
is meant, or only words?
The question is begged, that the English people
would countenance hostilities. We are .# that
no “vulgar considerations,” of commercial treaties
to wit, would weigh with the so-called “nation of
shopkeepers;” as if the English people were, by
anticipation, to be shamed to acquiesce in a state
of relations like that of 1840, with its unpleasant
material results. Then our officials bullied, and
then the “nation of shopkeepers” had to endure
the practical consequences, in the commercial hos-
tility of France. Is the anti-commercial bullying
to be renewed at a time when the chief ministerial
paper of France indicates so novel and so cordial
a disposition to follow our example, in liberalizing
the commercial policy of the nation? Is there any
lurking wish to mar that signal tribute to the exam.
ple set by Sir Robert Peel'
Let this matter be distinctly understood. Let
not the public be led away by ambiguities. . There
are some among us who, whether taking instruc-
tions from Lord Palmerston or desiring to antici-
pate his wishes, would attempt to cajole the public
into the belief that we ought to go to war about this
matrimonial affair, and that the English people
would sanction a war of intervention. That is not
true. The country will not concur in the loss and
cost of war, for the abstract “right” of strangers,
even if that were undoubted; and those who dra
upon us new “untoward events” will be held re-
sponsible. It is due even to the gaily-daring vis-
count, that he should not be misled by misrepresenta-
g|sier and the Infanta Luisa of Spain,
iſ . ouë5
tions like this. And at all events, let his º;cm.”
—let the premier, look to it.—Spectator, 26 S&P
ber.
*–
THE FORBIDDEN BANS.
A curious question may be raised o ect
treaty of Utrecht: does it really in any º
whatever militate against a marriage betwº f the
dren of the French and Spanish branches. and
Bourbon house? Whether interpreted strºit
literally, or liberally and with reference "...he
spirit, the mutual renunciations incorporal. ...as
treaty appear to have no such power. Thº d spº
of those renunciations are as voluminous * if the
cific as an English act of parliament; bu'... we
word “marriage” is mentioned on either side, 10
have overlooked it; and we doubt wheth" Of
idea was present to the mind of either pºrº, not
course no one can renounce that which he "is.
thinking about. What is it, then, that *
claimed ! Oſlº
Philip the Fifth, king of Castile, Leon, Aſº,
&c., [his style and title are a gazetteer ºf Sp r0-
with Europe and the East and West indiº;
º: to perform the “abdication of all.”
which might be claimed by the two roya
of this [the Spanish] aſſ of that [the Fº
monarchy as to their succeeding mutually tº f my
other; by separating, by the legal means "...ºf
renunciation, my branch from the Royal sºle
France, and all the branches of France frº tes
stem of the blood royal of Spain.” He reiter”
over and over again this kind of renunciatiº and
“I declare and hold myself for exclu edflank:
separated, me, and my sons, heirs, and des”.nd
forever, for excluded and disabled absolutely, of
without limitation, difference, and distine". Act
persons, degrees, sexes, and times, frº. ."
and right of succeeding to the crown of Fr."ja.
“There is no consideration to be had, or ...,
tion to be made of active or passive repres.
beginning, or continuation of lineage eſſee. 'can
contentive of substance, blood or quality; ººse
the descent, or computation of degrees. 9 King:
persons be derived from the most Christiº...him
my lord and grandfather, nor from the rpſ".
my father, nor from the glorious kings tº com"
genitors; nor by any other means can ſhº... the
into the succession, nor take possession o,
degree of proximity.” is th”
This renunciation is reëchoed by king 19. d500;
Fourteenth of France on the part of his gº. of
ut of th9
1 hous
the Duke de Berri, and his nephew, the "heir
Orleans, “as well for themselves as . uís
descendants, male and female.” And kinäjson
likewise declares “his said brother and gº de'
king of Spain,” “his heirs, successors...sion
scendants,” to be excluded forever from su% iatio"
to the throne of France. The same tº lcanº
is expressly made by Philip Duke of '..cº.
Thus the renunciations, and the treaty tha'
porates them, cut off from succession...de,
respective thrones “all heirs, successors..jal
scendants;” but they do not forbid maº ss0ſº
alliances between any of those heirs, su°
and descendants. 0C5 not
It would seem, therefore, that the treaty d ntpe,
forbid the marriage between the Duc de Monº.'
º Oil
would cut off their children from gue. th9
either throne; that is to say, it would º J.
children of the marriage, as issue of the
ROYAL MARRIAGES.
295
fro *
of .."ºding to the throne of France—as issue
Spain. *e, from succeeding to the throne of
thes."...ºcording to the literal interpretation of
Would .# in the renunciations, the treaty
*rriage i. all be infringed till the children of the
Orth 8% had put forth a claim of succession to one
ºther throne.
* º d liberal construction of the treaty accord-
“s spirit, the disqualification of the royal
quite ... Yet unbegotten to this union would not he
'...bsolute. The purpose of the treaty was
tions . °ºre should be taken by sufficient precau-
new..." the kingdoms of Spain and France should
and t º and be united under the same dominion,
beco ... and, the same, person should never
ºbje.*ng, of both kingdoms;” the practical
taši.". such precautions was, “to settle and es-
dom the peace and and tranquillity of Christen-
been Cr * Qual balance of power;” alarm having
i.". by the Grand Monarque's schemes of
Rexatio ,?ominion, or, as it is now called “an-
iº. e intention was, to prevent the
"g the . of Louis the Fourteenth, while possess-
ºssi."ºne of France, or pretending to its suc-
thton from claiming to take possession of the
*igi. Pºin by inheritance through their con-
prej", with Philip the Fifth; and likewise to
kin the successors of Philip the Fifth from
º". throne of France by the succession
º: him. There can be no doubt that the
the'. ºf the treaty would be fully answered if
§s. *ngdoms, the two thrones, and the suc-
ºn. "...the two several Spanish and French
§tate. ; ºf the house of Bourbon, were kept sep-
Pujº instead of considering the children of the
º M 9ntpensier and the Infanta Luisa to be
onºſed from either throne, election were made
°half as to the throne for which they re-
Seems the right of inheritance. This election
§ ° almost determined by their comparative
Willy, respectively, to their native thrones.
to th. ºny elder brothers and surviving issue
than.” ºlder brothers, the Duc de Montpensier's
to be º succession to the French throne appears
ºn: º small; whereas the Infanta Luisa is, at
he chi 9tress presumptive to the Spanish throne.
°laim dren, then, debarred by the treaty from any
ºf thei "hatever to the throne of Spain, on the score
theißnguinity with Philip the Fifth through
issi. Montpensier, (whose rights and liabili-
. Spain were annulled by his progeni-
*uld claim to inherit solel through the
Which *ccession from Philip the #. a right
cºal. the very fact of its existence, would
Pºten; 7 exclude them, under the treaty, from
... In j to the French throne. * . . . .
º * latter, deal with it literally, deal with it
'alo, 3 b." treaty of Utrecht is “bosh.”—Spec-
*--—
From the Examiner, 19 Sept.
sº. Royal MARRIAges.
ºº:: of Europe have taken great pains to
Patrici. *...themselves the old law of the Roman
* i. ***, that their race was sacro-sanct.,
with ... t was a profanation to mingle their blood
their ...rior uddle which ran in the veins of
§ince."º Nor was this the mere act of
ple a p; the feelings and prejudices of their peo-
{ºpe, |. the assumption. The world of Eu-
ing Out ºver, if not that of England, is fast grow-
these prejudices, which Mr. Cârlyle
terms political “flunkeyism,” and people look from
mere empty prejudice to the real utility, which it
often covered.
Now there did exist very good reasons in the
olden times why princes should not intermarry
with their subjects. . Their thrones were then
much more threatened by powerful subjects than
by foreign equals and rivals. A body of nobles,
prone to revolt, were ever, ready to seize on the
least claim offered by affinity or birth, to rebel, to
intrigue, and struggle for the crown, or for the
monopoly of its favor. So that, in a feudal state,
it was necessary to prevent ties of consanguinity
from being established between a prince and his
subjects. *
}. does this necessity any longer exist? Are
monarchs now threatened by the feudal noblesse?
Is not the danger which menaces them more from
without than from within, or from masses and
classes of their subjects rather than individuals?
And even were these things not so, have not the
dangers and inconvenience to nations, arising from
the intermarrying of their princes, been a hundred
times greater than any harm which could result
from their espousing their own subjects.
But no doubt the great object formerly was not
so much the welfare and grandeur of states as the
welfare and grandeur of princes and their families.
What became of Alsace, or Navarre, or the low
countries, or Silesia, was of very trifling impor-
tance compared with the results to the house of
Bourbon, or that of Austria, or that of Branden-
berg. But the relative importance of families and
countries are now reversed. Should not the rules
and maxims for royal marriages be changed to suit
the times? A law ordaining that no prince should
marry other than a native of the realm would be
far more conducive to international peace and na-
tional independence, than the old absurd law of
royal sacro-sanctity of blood. For if princes are to
go on, like the King of the French, having feudal
ideas of considering nations as royal property,
whilst, at the same time, these nations are striving
to establish constitutional and popular rights, the
result must end in a struggle between the princi-
ples, and very probably nothing less than war will
decide it. i
The world of Paris and Madrid, and some few
people in London, are much moved by Louis Phi-
lippe's carrying off the Infanta of Spain for his son.
Poor young man he is the latest of seven brothers,
for any one of whom the hard-hearted French cham-
ber of deputies has refused to provide. Can you in
such a case prevent fathers from seeking out good
places and rich heiresses for their sons? will you
proscribe royal fortune-hunters! Some of the jour-
nals seem to consider this a grave trick of policy:
Is it not more a speculation of avarice—a paternal
manoeuvre to provide for a lubberly son? We can-
not suspect the King of the French of the ambition
of Napoleon, who wished to govern Spain by a pro-
consular relative. Napoleon raved of empires, and
carved them with his sword; Louis Philippe dreams
of dowries, and appanages, and settlements for his
children; and he has taken more pains, condescend-
ed to more littleness, and fallen into more blunders
for the sake of feathering his brood, than he has
ever achieved on behalf of any great political prin-
ciple or aim. tº ºn
This is his mania; this is the foible of the other-
wise strong-minded man. And we must own that
we have always dreaded bickering with the King
of the French on points that concerned his progeny
296
HIGH COURT OF PUBLIC OPINION.—BLOODSHED AND BIBLES.
and domestic affairs. A hundred times has Louis
Philippe been tempted to intervene in Spain, ab-
sorb it, and confiscate its liberties, and revenues,
and resources to his use. His prudence always
shrank from it. No 1 he said, Spain is like the
mill which crushes the sugar cane; if I put in one
end of the cane, I shall soon find it caught and
swallowed up to the farthest end. Such was the
prudent backwardness of Louis Philippe. But the
moment he has a son to settle, a dowry to grasp, a
crown in expectancy to bestow upon his boy, than
lo! all prudence vanishes, and like a moth, that
ſlutters around the candle for half an hour merely
to drop into it at last, Louis Philippe, whose fam-
ily will have quite enough to do to keep a French
throne, is henceforth engaged and affected by every
move and every storm in the peninsula.
But throughout Europe no one will give him
credit for being actuated by the mere economical
and prudent ideas of the father of a family. States-
men will merely behold the successful politician :
they will regard his patronage of Spain as a useful
and ambitious scheme to aggrandize not merely his
family but France. They will descry the grandeur
of Louis the XIVth in the mere miserly motives of
his descendant. And the consequence will be a
general, however unjust, league against the ever-
spreading influence of the house of Orleans, which,
we fear, bodes it ill.
If, indeed, the King of the French entered into
these schemes for aggrandizing his family, by put-
ting it at the head of the current of the age; did
he and his sons advance liberalism, perfect consti-
tutions, emancipate the middle and civic classes,
encourage free trade, we should not only ſorbear
to envy or oppose his success, but applaud and put
a like trust and hope in it. But if his supporters
in the countries over which his influence extends,
are always to be amongst the rude, the sanguinary,
the arbitrary, the illiberal; if the soldier be always.
preferred to the civilian, the policeman to the con-
stitutionalist, then we put hope and trust in con-
trary and opposing principles.... We feel confident
that Spaniards and Greeks will resist and throw
off so disgraceful a yoke—nay, that the French
themselves will not consent to extend their nom-
inal empire by means and principles so adverse
and so repugnant to a free, generous, and civilized
people.
High Court of PUBLIC OPINION.—Louis Phil-
ippe Orleans, an old man, with a large head, and a
very confident expression, was charged before the
bench with a most flagitious act of child-stealing.
The case was very protracted, and involved many
statements and counterstatements, but may be
briefly summed up as follows:-
It appeared that a Spaniard, named Ferdinand,
who had distinguished himself as a man-milliner—
having been specially appointed as petticoat-maker
and embroiderer to the holy Virgin-died some
years ago at Madrid, leaving behind him two little
infant girls; and it was for the crafty abduction of
the younger of these children, by name Luisa—a
young creature scarcely marriageable—that the
prisoner was brought to the bar. He was an old
offender, full of subtleties and tricks, which he
played off under the guise of the most enchanting
bonhommie, which, of course, only rendered him
| exhorted them to “go not only with th9.
the more dangerous. This, however, W&S º:|
time he had appeared at the bar of public *
as a child-stealer. :..aat-m”
It was shown in evidence that the petitº.
ker died very rich ; and there was no oubt W
the immense wealth of the unfortunate ſº.
one reason for drawing upon her the attentiº m0
the prisoner; who had also—there could ". ther
doubt of it—considerable hopes of obtaining ſº ad
advantages, by meddling in her family aflºº le of
further of ultimately obtaining the larger * . not
the property on the death of her sister, rep". W23
to be of the most vigorous constitution. º in
shown that Orleans had had crafty accom "...
the business. He had introduced into the .ed
of the young ladies a French hair-dresse'...at
Bresson, who had turned the head of the inno Or.
Luisa with the most glowing description." real
leans, surnamed Montpensier; a youth wº...so
precocity of moustache. The hair-dresser Bº 0ſ.”
had also contrived to give the young, mº" ini-
trait (painted for the occasion) to the hay. ome
sa; and the effect of a portrait of a hº" ..i.
young man upon a girl of fourteen would "'
ous. ugh!
Finally, a contract of marriage had been b. th9
abºut by the craffiness of the hair-dresser; ºise
child—however it might be attempted to p3 hiſ!
the circumstances by the forms of law—th9 C ry,
was, in a word, stolen from herself, her couſ th9
and her relations, by the guile and avarice."
prisoner at the bar. e iſ
The court regretted that it could not inter. b6
even so flagitious a case. The prisoner ºr
discharged; though he must not for a mome”
pose that he left the court with clean hands. wink
Hereupon the prisoner gave a knowing . !-01;
chuckled, and ief the court humming “oil tº
étre mieur, qu'au sein de sa famille!”—Pu"
–––mº- it
BLooDSHED AND BIBLEs.—At New yº all
seems resolved that the war against Mexi. t()
be waged religiously. A Bible was presºli.
overy soldier of the New York legion, jºy;
fornia regiment, by the American Bible S0 aſd
The regiment was drawn up in hollow squº;...ie.
the Rev. Mr. M'Vickar distributed the bºº.nº
ginning with the colonel. The reverend gº”.
... that
but with the olive branch of peace, and wiº.
Bible upon which liberty has its foundation ºng t
Californian regiment with its Bibles invº. . {0
Mexican territory is a curious accommo." amº
modern Anglo-Protestant sentiments, of tig anish
propagando conquering spirit which made ...of
monks in the days of Cortes march at the he waſ.
Spanish legions with their crucifixes. Th; and
riors are manifestly of the “Trust in G007.
keep your powder dry” school.—Eraminº”
ecſ!
Wonderful, INSTINCT.-An old grouse h;5 º:
in the habit, for the last five years, of leºſing
Moors regularly on the 10th of August, aſ i. w23
in London during the shooting season: ... thrº
accompanied this year by a black cock "... un’
young ones. They are at present locatº ºniº”
derstand, in Leicester Square.—The Calº
Haggis.
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.--No. 131-14 NOVEMBER, 1846.
From the Spectator.
M
*AND's church in the catacombs.”
sº * four centuries the oppressed and despised
be *istians
heath of the early Church of Rome possessed
°lusiy the soil of the eternal city another city ex-
J."), their own. Here they found an asylum
he..."ways inviolate—from the wrath of the
With i. and in the dark, narrow galleries, lined
no."ºlombs of their martyred brethren, they met,
Selebr *onspirators thirsting for vengeance, but to
fi.” their feasts of love and peace, and to con-
the lſ. faith in the resurrection of the body and
RO .. ºverlasting. When the triumphant church
sec.º needed the shelter of the Catacombs, the
of .9 their windings was gradually lost; many
and ...ºntrances became blocked up by rubbish;
"as not until the sixteenth century that the
*tropolis was reëpened, and its storied
...made legible to the investigators of
th. history. So abundant were the records
they .ght to view, and such was the enthusiasm
two ºted in the minds of the first explorers, that
Ron he earliest writers on the Catacombs of
each. *0slo and Roldetti, occupied thirty years
left º collecting materials for their works; and
vos", after all to be completed by their survi-
their s...he galleries have now been stripped of all
have *ulptures, paintings, and inscriptions; which
Vaič ºn carefully transferred to public and pri-
fly "Sºums in Rome, and there they have been
§. led by scholars, and illustrated in several
pol.” works. They have also afforded food for
culi.” and have been made the subject of some
Fest, *.historical skepticism, now entirely set at
e authenticity of these remains is incon-
°, and universally admitted; and Doctor
thºd is justified in appealing to the indications
Shu."º of the notions and usages of the primitive
ind s * to testimony of the most trustworthy
Th. it is indirect and perfectly unintentional.
***in of the Catacombs was as follows.
* great increase which took place in the ex-
r .#ificence of ancient Rome during the
H.s of the republic, led to the formation of
º e immediate neighborhood, from which
jºined the materials necessary for building.
any i.Pºet, the city of the Casars resembles
is "s; of which it is sufficient to name
e. S *Ples, Syracuse, and Alexandria, all more
Cav jounded or undermined by long, tortuous
* Their size and shape differ according
sing "ness of the substratum: those of Naples
from ti. and lofty; while those round Rome,
*ill. “umbling nature of the soil, are narrow
ſt rºs." " * jº
eral . *ubterranean works first attracted gen-
their . during the time of Augustus, when
%ain. Ilt rendered them dangerous. They then
§§ i. €le rity as the scene of a domestic tragedy
he rich 9 by Cicero in his oration for Cluentius,
*cit. . (O sinius, a young Roman citizen, had
* * *varice of Oppianicus; who employed
The
§§§. in the Catacombs: a description of the
"ains. Hººsh of Rome, iii strated by its sepulchral
9xxx, y Charles Maitland, M. D.
" LIVING AGE. VOI, XI. 19
W
an accomplice to personate Asinius, and to execute
a will in his name. The pretended Asinius hav-
ing bequeathed the property to Oppianicus, and ob-
tained the signatures of some strangers, the true
Asinius was inveigled into the gardens of the Es-
quiline, and precipitated into one of the sand-pits,
(in arenarias quasdain extra Portam Esquilinam.) It
was in similar caverns that Nero was afterwards
advised to conceal himself when terrified by the
sentence of an enraged senate; on which occasion
he made answer to his freedman Phaon, that he
would not go under ground while living. The cir-
cumstance is related by Suetonius.”
The height of the galleries is generally eight or
ten feet, and their width from four to six. The
walls are of puzzolana; a volcanic sandy rock,
which being much used for making cement, the
whole subsoil on one side of Rome came in course
of time to be perforated by a network of excava-
tions, spreading ultimately to a distance of fifteen
miles. The arenarii or sand-diggers were persons
of the lowest grade, and probably formed a distinct
class. Happily, they were among the earliest con-
verts to Christianity; and they put the church in
exclusive possession of these otherwise inaccessible
retreats. It appears certain that no Pagan ever
found sepulture in the Catacombs; the exhausted
quarries of the Esquiline hill were the common re-
ceptacles for the dishonored dead who had no
friends to defray the cost of burning their bodies.
“The fact that the Catacombs were employed as
a refuge from persecution rests upon good evidence,
notwithstanding objections that have been made,
founded upon the narrowness of the passages, the
difficulty of supporting life, and the risk of dis-
covery incurred by seeking concealment in an asy-
lum so well known to their enemies. These ob-
jections scarcely apply to a temporary residence
below ground in times of danger; and it is not
pretended that the Catacombs were inhabited under
other circumstances. In the excavations at Ques-
nel, not only persons, but cattle, contrived to sup-
port existence: added to which we have, as will be
seen presently, the direct testimony of several
writers. Had the intricacies of the Catacombs
been well known to the heathen authorities, or the
entrances limited in number to two or three, they
would doubtless have afforded an insecure asylum.
But the entrances were numberless, scattered over
the Campagna for miles; and the labyrinth below
so occupied by the Christians, and so blocked up in .
various places by them, that pursuit must have been
almost useless. The Acts of the Martyrs relate
some attempts made to overwhelm the galleries
with mounds of earth, in order to destroy those
who were concealed within : but setting aside these
legends, we are credibly informed that not only
did the Christians take refuge there, but that they
were also occasionally overtaken by their pursuers.
The Catacombs have become illustrious by the
actual martyrdom of some noble witnesses to the
truth. Xystus, bishop of Rome, together with
Quartus, one of his clergy, suffered below ground
in the time of Cyprian. Stephen the First, another
bishop of Rome, was traced by h athen soldiers to
his subterranean chapel: on the conclusion of di-
298
THOMAS CLARKSON.
vine service, he was thrust back into his episcopal
chair, and beheaded. The letters of Christians
then living refer to such scenes with a simplicity
that dispels all idea of exaggeration; while their
expectation of sharing the same fate affords a vivid
picture of those dreadful times. * * †
“In the time of Diocletian, the Christian Caius
is said to have lived eight years in the Catacombs,
and to have terminated this long period of confession
by undergoing martyrdom. Even as late as the
year 352, Liberius, bishop of Rome, took up his
abode in the cemetery of St. Agnes during the Arian
persecution.
“The discovery of wells and springs in various
arts of the corridors assists us in understanding
#. life could be supported in those dismal regions;
although there is no evidence to prove that the
wells were sunk for that purpose. One of them has
been named the Font of St. Peter; and however
apocryphal may be the tradition which refers it to
apostolic times, the fact of its having been long
used for baptism is not to be disputed. Some of
the wells are supposed to have been dug with
the intention of draining parts of the Catacombs.
# # $
“These circumstances prove sufficiently the gen-
eral habit of taking refuge in the cemeteries on any
sudden emergency; and it is not difficult to under-
stand how the concealment became practicable. On
the outbreak of persecution, the elders of the
church, heads of families, and others particularly
obnoxious to the Pagans, would be the first to suf.
fer; perhaps the only individuals whose death or
exile was intended by the imperial officers. Aware
of their danger, and probably well versed in the
signs of impending persecution, they might easily
betake themselves to the Catacombs, where they
could be supported by those whose obscure condi-
tion left them at liberty.
“The importance of the Catacombs as a retreat
was not unknown to the heathen : every effort was
made at the beginning of a persecution to prevent
the Christians from escaping by a subterranean
flight; and several edicts begin with a prohibition
against entering the cemeteries. Valerian and
Gallienus decreed death as the punishment of dis-
obedience; a sentence which was carried into exe-
cution in the case of Cyprian. . (Procons. Acts.)”
Dr. Maitland has a very curious chapter on the
early efforts of Christian art, and its unwilling and
unconscious entanglements in the snares of Pagan
tradition. He elucidates the offices and rites of
the church during the first four centuries, and de-
rives from the stones taken.out, of the Catacombs
many proofs condemnatory of doctrines and prac-
tices with which Rome has overlaid the simp icity
of primitive Christianity. His work is therefore in
some degree controversial; but it is quite free from
theological acrimony, as well as from the dryness
and dulness of which the general, reader is apt to
accuse archaelogical treatises. The matter is full
of interest for all classes of readers, and the style is
worthy of the matter.
THOMAS CLARKSON.
THE venerable Thomas Clarkson, whose death is
recorded in our obituary, was born at Wisbeach, on
the 28th of March, 1760. He was the son of a
É. who held the mastership of the Free
rammar School in that town. His education,
which began under his father's eye, was completed
at St. John's college, Cambridge.
Clarkson had already attained distinction,
event occurred which had a material influen
his future career. In the year 1785, Dr. P.eckh :
was vice-chancellor of the university, and hº ſing
nounced to the senior bachelors of arts the follº.
question, as a subject for a prize Latin dissert.
—“Is it right to make slaves of others agº. Oſl
their will !” In the preceding year Mr. Cº.
had gained the first prize for the Latin dissertaſ” £
Filled with an earnest desire to sustain the
º - uſ.”
thus acquired, he repaired to London, an ;
chased as many books connected with the sº
of slavery as he could possibly afford to buy. d set
these he spoedily returned to Cambridge, *.
himself earnestly to the work of preparing tº
pose his essay. But so painful to him wº
perusal of these volumes, that for a cons! erd €
time he scarcely took any rest day or night, ...".
ceased to regard the essay as a mere trial ſº t!
erary distinction; his great desire being to P.
a work which should call forth a vigorous pu ſlº
effort to redress the wrongs of the A. º
Henceforward Clarkson devoted his whole enºë d
to the abolition of slavery. He very soon %.
an alliance with the celebrated william Wº.
force; who, in 1787, undertook to bring the ...
ject before parliament. A committee was appº th9
for the purpose of organizing an association, an hat
work of controversy began in earnest. Someº Oſl
in the manner of the modern agitators, Claº.
went about from town to town—from fiverpoºl.”
Bristol, and from Bridgewater to Manches” ejº
laboring to make converts and to overcome the º sº
udices opposed by indifference as well as b.
interest. Years were spent in this process—"
were published, meetings were held, evideº.t,
collected, petitions were forwarded to paºlº.
successive motions were made by Mr. Willº: Oſſ!”
and lengthened discussions in the House of n!’
mons took place. Vigorous efforts were not *.
ing on the other side, and a violent agitatiº to
the consequence. The privy council entered ".
an examination of the subject, and made a *
Counsel were heard at the bars of both holls.'s
witnesses were carefully examined. Clarks ſl”
exertions during the whole of this struggle were :
tiring. But they were not before the publi”, the
failed therefore of being duly appreciated *, ºf
time. Some years elapsed before the triuºji.
the anti-slavery cause was complete, for the . of
tion measure did not become law until the *
March, 1807. But much more remained to be *
ed; the slave-trade was abolished, but slave"
existed. The year 1834 crowned the efforts º 3.
anti-slavery party with success. In that nt to
sum of £30,000,000 was granted by parliam...ac.
the slave-owners, and Clarkson's mission wº not
complished. . The claim of originality 999. the
perhaps to be demanded for him; but if "... the
originator, Clarkson was the Prometheus...}
anti-slavery movement—he gave the fire ºry.
the slumbering opinion against negro .
This is not the place to raise any question a. º
extravagancies and mischievous modes of.”
into which the anti-slavery party have beenhº
especially in later years. Thomas Clarks”.
a great task; his devotion was noble; his *
was the dawn of a better future for the negº”
and no one will grudge him a particle of the hon
which attended his gentle decline to rest in
ness of years.—Spectator, 3 Oct.
THE HISTORY OF ST.
GILES AND ST, JAMIES.
299
CHAPTER XXXII.
{{
Mrs \º is it you look at so earnestly tº asked
Placed . and Clarissa, with a flushed cheek,
just qui 9 miniature in her bosom. Snipeton had
r . "ed the house—for we must take back the
h.”.that point of time—and Clarissa sat, with
tures ...' in her eyes, gazing at the youthful fea-
i.” her father. As she looked, with fond cu-
bloo . °omparing those features, in their early
hess: *nd strength, tempered with gentle frank-
ne.’... she gazed upon their manly, loving open-
th.* with her memory, evoked that melan-
bjt %re-worn face, that, smiling on naught
shudd. Wºuld always smile on her, she felt—she
War ºl-but still she felt anger, bitterness to-
cojº.nother. Her eye, reading that face,
ti º where pain had given a sharper edge to
dºj. See where, in the living face, care had
So fai the work of years. Surely, she thought,
lad *: morning promised a ſairer night. That
*H S ºld happy day should have closed with a gold-
si...". touching with solemn happiness all it
glory "F. as slowly from the earth it passed in
heari h hese were the daughter's thoughts as she
ment . mother's voice. A momentary resent-
{{ 8. °wed in her cheek—darkened her eyes.
... Yºlarissa (''
-i. * nothing—a--a present from Mr. Snipeton
º, my, husband,” said Clarissa, coldly. Her
tio. took her hand between her own. Affec-
dº. J. Pressing it, and with all a mother's ten-
isy .g in her face—the only look hypoc-
Slăti never yet assume—she said, “It is well,
app *-very well. It makes me happy, deeply
haº tº hear you. I think it is the first time you
:* * husband.’”
me. *59' I cannot tell. The word escaped
toºl I—d—must learn to speak it.”
life H. Glarissa. Make it the music of your
Takes hink it a charm that, when pronounced,
A w. | Earth's evils less-doubling its blessings.
stre." that brings with it a sense of joy; a
that . . faith in human existence. A word
lake § clothe º itself with content, and
Qh, ..." a temple. You may still pronounce it.
to ſo...ºnever may you know what agony it is
!ng; 89 that word *. living makes it a bless-
i.'" the dead sanctifies and hallows it.”
arissa fel
§orse elt conscience-smitten, stung with re-
her mo ll heedlessly, cruelly, she had arraigned
Woº.; thoughtless of the daily misery that
ild co regardless of the penitence that corroded
ºf .". her. “Forgive me,” she said:
y;..."?, mother. I will lay this lesson, to
shall i will learn to speak the word. ... You
º "teach me its sustaining sweetness.”
moth "nost unfit teacher; most unfit,” said the
€r - º
Own hº With an appealing look of anguish. “Your
i. will best instruct you.” And then,
Pºº calmness, she asked : “What is this
YY. "
her. º *hall not know to-day; by-and-bye, mo-
Šhis: ind I ave a present, too, for you,” said
lº.ºl she loºked sº fight, so happy, that
the Oun * for the first time dared to hope. Did
that See § Victim feel at length the wife? Would
ºuisi.; life-long sorrow pass away, and the
{ { º the heartbreak in that clouded face!
Wha you be Patient, child; nay, I will promise
§: chee .. I feel so grateful that I see you
lais."—happy. Śhaii iſ not say happy,
“Oh yes; very happy,” answered the wife;
and a sudden pang of heart punished the treason
of the lips. “But I must not be idle to-day, I
have so much to do.” And Clarissa seated her-
self at her work; and the mother silently occupied
herself. And so, hour after hour passed, and
scarce a word was spoken. At length Dorothy
Vale, with noiseless step and folded arms, stood in
the room.
“They be come,” said Dorothy, with unmoved
face, rubbing her arms. -
“Who are come!” asked Clarissa.
“Why, Becky be come, and a man with her,”
answered Dorothy; and—it was strange—but her
voice seemed to creak with º; anger.
“I am glad of that,” said Clarissa; “tell the
girl to come to me—directly, Dorothy.” .
Dorothy stood, rubbing her withered arms with
renewed purpose. Her brow wrinkled, and her
grey, cold eyes gleamed, like sharp points, in her
head; then she laughed “She was brought up
in the workhouse; and to be put over my head!
Well, it’s a world ! The workhouse; and be put
over my head ' Thus muttering, she left the
room. In a moment, Becky—possessed with de-
light, swimming in a sea of happiness—was curt-
seying before her new mistress. Now, were we
not assured, past all error, that it was the same
country wench that half laughed at, half listened
to, the flatteries of the deceitful Gum, we should
deny her identity with that radiant piece of flesh
and blood, that, glowing with felicity, bobbed and
continually bobbed before Mrs. Snipeton. Cer-
tainly, there is a subtle power of refinement in
happiness; a something elevating, purifying in
that expansion of the heart. Sudden bliss invests
with sudden grace; and gives to homeliness itself
a look of sweetness. The soul, for a brief time,
flashes forth with brighter light; asserting itself—as
human pride is sometimes apt to think—in the vul-
garest, oddest sort of people. And so it was with
Becky. To be sure, all the way from St. Mary
Axe-hanging, and sometimes at puddles and
crossings, with all her weight on the arm of St.
Giles, she had felt the refining process hinted at
above. St. Giles had talked on what he thought
indifferent matters; but the weather, the shops, the
passers-by-whatever his silver tongue dwelt upon
—became objects of the dearest interest to the hun-
gry listener; who now laughed, she knew not why,
from her over-brimming heart; and now had much
ado to check her tears, that—she knew it—had
risen to her eyes, and threatened to flow. She
walked in a region of dreams; and, intoxicating
music broke at every footstep. Could it be true--
could it be real—that that wayfaring, wretched
man; that unhappy creature, with all the World
hooting at him, chasing him to destruction, like a
rabid cur, that vagabond, to a suspicious World,
dyed in murderous blood, was the trim, handsome
—to her, how beautiful!—young fellow walkin
at her side; and now and then smiling so kindly
upon her that her heart seemed to grow too big
with the blessing? And oh-extravagant excess of
happiness!—he was to be her fellow-servant! He
would dwell under the same roof with her Now
she was steeped in bliss; and now, a shadow fell
upon her. Yes: it could not be. The happiness
was too full; all too complete to endure.
And yet the bliss continued—nay, increased.
Mrs. Snipeton, that creature of goodness; that an-
gel of Becky's morning dreams—gave smiling wel-
come to her new handmaid; greetca her with kind-
300
GILES AND ST. JAMIES.
THE HISTORY OF ST.
est words; and, more than all, looked cordially on
St. Giles, who could not remain outside, but sidled
into the room to pay his duty to his handsome mis-
tress. The sweetness with which she spoke to
both seemed to the heart of Becky to unite both.
The girl's affection for St. Giles—until that mo-
ment, unknown to her in its strength—appeared
sanctioned by the equal smiles of her lady.
At this juncture, a new visitor—with a confi-
dence which he was wont to wear, as though it
mightily became him—entered the room, passing
before the slow domestic, leisurely bent upon her-
alding his coining. Mr. Crossbone was again in
presence of his patient; again had his finger on her
pulse; again looked with professional anxiety in
Mrs. Snipeton's face; as though his only thought,
his only mission in this world was to continually
act the part of her healing angel. “Better, much
better, my dear Mrs. Snipeton. Yes; we shall be
all right, now ; very soon all right. And I have
brought you the best medicine in the world. Bless
me!”—and Crossbone stared at Becky—“the lit-
tle wench from the Dog and Moon.”
“Lamb and Star, sir,” said Becky. “Wonder
you've forgot the house, sir; wonder you’ve for-
got Mrs. Blick and all the babies.”
“I think it was the Lamb and Star,” said Cross-
bone; but when we consider that the apothecary
had already promised himself a carriage in London,
can we wonder that he should have forgotten the
precise sign; that he should have forgotten the
poor children (weeds that they were) who owed
to him an introduction into this over-peopled world!
“You are a fortunate young woman, that you have
been promoted from such a place to your present
service. One always has one's doubts of the low-
er orders; nevertheless, I hope you'll be grate-
ful.” And the apothecary looked the patron.
“I hope she ool,” said Dorothy, with a sneer;
and as she turned from the room, she went mutter-
ing along—“She was born in the workhouse, and
to be put over my head '''
“I have great faith in Becky; she'll be a good,
a prudent girl; I am sure of it. You may go now,
child, to Dorothy. Bear with her temper a little,
and soon she'll be your friend.” And with this
encouragement, Becky left her mistress, seeking
the kitchen, hopeful and happy, as pilgrims seek a
shrine. In a moment she had resolved with her-
self to be a wonder of fidelity and patience. And
then for Dorothy, though the girl could not promise
herself to love her very much, nevertheless, she de-
termined to be to her a pattern of obedience. “She
may walk over me if she likes, and I won't sa
nothing,” was Becky's resolution; should Doro.
thy, from the capriciousness of ill-temper, resolve
upon such enjoyment; walking over people, giving
at times, it must be owned, a strange satisfaction
to the tyranny of the human heart. Now Beck
though she had at least nine thousand out of the
nine thousand and three good qualities that, accord-
ing to the calculations of an anonymous philoso-
pher, fall, a natural dower, to the lot of woman,
was not ordinarily so much distinguished by meek.
ness as by any other of the nameless crowd of good
gifts, Ördinarily, any attempt “to walk over
her,” would have been a matter of extreme diffi-
culty to the stoutest pedestrian; but Becky was
mollified, subdued. er heart was newly opened,
and gushed with tenderness. She felt herself
soothed to any powers of endurance. The house
was made such a happy, solemn place to her by
the presence of St. Giles. He would live there:
he would be her daily sight; her daily musiº: and
with that thought, all the world might walk ;
her, and she would not complain the value 0 de
single word. She was astonished at her ow." ‘ed
termined meekness; she could never have bel"
it. #
“And Mr. Snipeton—excellent man!—has hig.
you?” And Crossbone looked up and down º' dis’
Giles. “I trust, young man, you’ll do nº .
credit to my good word. It's a risk, a greak º:
at any time to answer for folks of your cond".
but I have ventured for the sake of of your " W
father.” St. Giles winced. “I hope you’ll .
yourself worthy of that honest man. Though
was one of the weeds of the world, neverthelº:
don't know how it was, but I'd have truste m-
with untold gold. So, you'll be sober and *.
tive in this house; study the interests of your ...,
ter, the wishes of your excellent mistress.
stands before you ; and, yes, you'll also cº".
to be kind to your mother. And now, you' th9
ter go and look to the horse that I’ve left at 53
garden gate.” St. Giles, glad of the diº.
hurried from the room. He had colored and lºº.
confused, and shifted so uneasily where he sº
that he feared his mistress might note his º
wardness; and thus suspect him for the lies of .
apothecary—for whom St. Giles, in the ibºº
of his shamefacedness, blushed exceeding y.
Great, however, was the serenity of Crossbone *
all such occasions. Indeed, he took the sº.
pleasure in falsehood as an epicure receives fº,
well-seasoned dish. He looked upon lies .
pepper, the spices of daily life; they gave a *.
to what would otherwise be flat and inº.
Hence, he would now and then smack his lips º
bouncing ſlam, as though throughout his . it
moral and physical anatomy, he hugely enjoy”
flourished and grew fat upon it. Wil-
“And now, my dear Mrs. Snipeton—Mrs...'.
ton, with your leave, I'll talk a little with my #,
tient,” and Crossbone, with an imperious #.
waved his hand towards the door. Mrs. wi ut
stirred not from her sewing; said not a word; "
looked full in the face of her daughter.
“Oh no ; certainly not,” said Clarissa ; .
Wilton has had too much trouble with her º.;
to refuse to listen to any further conſº.
though, indeed, sir,” said Clarissa, signiff.
“I fear 'tis your anxiety alone that makes the
very—very dangerous.” 1T6
** Ha! # . madam. You are not a.
of it—patients arn’t aware of itſ pelº, ctoſ
wisely ordered so—but the eye of the true *
can see, madam—can see.”
“Pray go on, sir,” said Clarissa; and,
bone, a little puzzled, needed such enco"
ment. id th?
“Why, at this moment, madam”—sº", at
apothecary, suddenly breaking new groun nspº
this moment, were you turned to glass, to ºne
rent glass, I could not more plainly obser. in
symptoms that, as you say, I exaggerate. my is
fact, to the true physician. the human an. W6
glass—nothing but glass; though, of coºdis.
must not to the timid and delicate reveal evº.ht
ease as we behold it. However, I have . ând
with º, the most certain remedy. aíð
speedy, I assure you.” • *
Fº with † erudite discourse did º:
bone strive to entertain his patient; whº ".
with fullest female resignation, the learning"
Cross"
ragº
+
w n
doctor.
THE HISTORY OF ST.
GILES AND ST. JAMES. 301
a; .. leaving the house, hurried through
ât .. ºn tº take charge of the horse. Arrived
the ro º he saw the animal led by a man down
S º at a greater distance from the house than
Il O ºy for mere exercise. Immediately he
but th: calling to the fellow who led the animal;
turn man, although he slackened his pace, never
* his head or answered a syllable. “Hallo,
*g that is, cried St. Giles, “where are you lead-
sº *'''-and then he paused; for Tom Blast
falli º turned himself about, and letting the bridle
tººls arms, stared at the speaker.
y, what’s the matter, mate 4 I'm only
are o' the gentleman's horse; jest walking
hat he mayn't catch cold. You"don't think
§king C
I'd t
§l him, do you?” asked Blast, winking.
{ {
Stam What—what brings you here again, Blast!”
Said *red St. Giles, scarce knowing what he
{{
the What brings me here ! Why, bread brings
brº. Bread o' any sort, or any color; dry
Some }. the best; for I can't get it buttered like
Spect . Well, it's like the world. No re-
Want or old age, when it walks arm in arm with
hai." honor or nothing o' that sort paid to grey
Williºn there 's no silver in the pocket.
my an must say it—I can't help it, tho' it goes to
World to say it—but the sooner I’m out o' this
The , the better, for I'm sick of men. Men!
hyp. º wipers with legs,” and the inimitable
§. spoke with so much passion, so much
Confo "g sincerity, that St. Giles was for a moment
d ...led by a vague sense of ingratitude; for
im *nt he ceased to remember that the old
of grained man before him had been the huckster
hi.ºnce, his liberty—had made him the
dº. Creature that he was, breathing a life of
{{ tan terror.
asked hat do you want? What will satisfy you?”
tº Giles despairingly. º
wo..."ºw you talk with some comfort in your
º hat will satisfy me ! There is some
at. Now you remind me of a little boy
he apples of my eyes, and would have
of t * Very likes o' you, but—well, I won't talk
ºakes" or it always makes my throat burn, and
don the world spin round me like a top. I
bish want much. No : I’ve outlived all the rub-
but th. gingerbread of life, and care for nothing
What ...simple solids. It's a wonder, young man,
ts ºne does with us. How, as I º say, it
i.eles to our eyes, and makes us look into
thijºs, What will satisfy me? Well, I do
wº,°ould go to the grave decent on a guinea a
S -
jºin i
Wà
{{
Gi.ery likely; I should think so,” said St. jh
{{
F." §uinea a-week, paid reglar on Saturdays.
saved"ºlarity doubles the sum. ... I might ha'
haºs. ººh for my old, age, for the mºney
the T3. ºn through my hands in my time. Only
§§rtain Yºck upon thièving is this, there's nothing
time in it. No man, let him be as steady as old
{ % #. O ºn as is a thief"— -
iles i. somebody may hear you,” cried St.
tºº,”king terrified about him.
fault .." speakin' of a man's misfortun, not his
3. thief *ied the immovable Blast; “no man as is
What lu Can lay up for a decent old age. Have
getti....We will, that's where the honest fellars
havi. ºr on us. And so you see, instead o'
the ºthin to do but smoke my pipe and go to
**ouse, I'm obligated in my old age to
crawl about and hold horses, and do anything; and
anything is always the worst paid work a man can
take money for. Now, with a guinea a week,
would n't I be a happy, quiet, nice old gentleman?
Don't you think it's in me, eh, young man 1"
“I wish you had it,” said St. Giles. “I wish
so with all my heart. But give me the bridle.”
“By no means,” said, Blast. “How do I
know you was sent for the horse!. How do I
know you mightn't want to steal it!”
“Steal it !” cried St. Giles, and the thought of
the past made him quiver with indignation.
“Why, horses are stole,” observed Mr. Blast,
with the serenity of a philosophical demonstrator.
“Look here, now : if I was to give up this horse,
what hinders you—I don't say you would do it—
but what hinders you from taking a quiet gallop to
Smithfield, and when you get there, selling him to
some old gentleman and”— º
“Silence' devil! beast !” exclaimed St. Giles,
raising his fist at the tormentor.
“No, no ; you don't mean it,”—said Blast—
“you would n't hit a old man like me, I know you
would n’t. 'Cause if you was only to knock me
down, I know I should call out, I could n’t help
myself. And then, somebody might come up ;
p'raps a constable: and then—oh I'm as close as
a cockle with a secret, I am, when I’m not put
upon, but when my blood 's up—bless your soul, I
know my weakness, I’d hang my own brother. I
should be very sorry, in course, arterwards; but
he'd swing—as I’m a living sinner, he'd swing;”
and Blast, as he stared at St. Giles, gently smack-
ed his lips, and gently rubbed his palms together.
“I ask your pardon ; I did n’t know what I
said. Here's a shilling ; now give me the bri-
dle,” said St. Giles. -
“I s'pose it’s all right,” said Blast, rendering
up his charge, and significantly eyeing the coin.
“I s'pose it's all right; but only to think of this
world! Only to think that you should give me a
shilling for holding a horse ! Well, if a man
could only know it, would n't it break his heart out-
right to look at the bits o' boys that afore he died,
would be put clean over his head? It’s a good
shillin', is n’t it?”
“To be sure it is; and an honest one, too,”
said St. Giles.
“Glad to hear that: tho’ I don't know it will.
go a penny the further. I wish the color had been
yellow, eh?”
“I wish so, too, for your sake. Good day,”
and St. Giles sought to shake his evil genius off.
“I’m in no urry. Time's no good to me: you
may have the pick of any of the four-and-twenty
ours at your own price,” said Blast, following
close at his side. “And so, they’ve turned you
over from St. James's-square to the old money-
grubber! Well, he 's very rich ; though I don't
think the sops in the pan will be as many as you'd
been greased with at his lordship's., . For all that,
he's very rich ; and you would n’t think what a lot
of plate the old man's got.” ~.
“How do you know that?” asked St. Giles.
“I dream'd it only last night...I had a wision,
and I thought that the mother of little Jingo”—
“Don’t talk of it, man-don't talk of it,” ex-
claimed St. Giles, “I won't hear it.”
“l must talk on it,” said Blast, sidling the closer,
and striding as St. Giles strode. “I must talk on
it. It comforts me... I dreamed that the poor soul
come to me, and told me to follow her, and took
me into old Snipeton's cottage there, and showed
302
THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMIES.
me the silver tankards, and silver dishes, and even
counted up the silver tea-spoons, that there was no
end of; and then, , when she'd put all the plate
afore me, she vanished off, and I was left alone
with it. In course you know what followed.”
“I can guess,” groaned St. Giles.
“How rich I was while I was snoring, last
night; and when I woke I was as poor as good-
ness. . But somehow, my dream's fell true—I
can't help thinking it—since I’ve fell in with
you.”
“How so, man! What have I to do with Mr.
Snipeton's plate, but to see nobody steals it?” said
St. Giles, firmly.
“To be sure; and yet when there's so much
silver about, and a guinea a week—well, I’ll say
a pound, then—a pound a week would make a
fellow-cretur happy, and silent for life—I said,
silent for life”—
St. Giles suddenly paused, and turned full upon
Blast. “Go your ways, man—go your ways.
Silent or not silent, you do not frighten me. What
I may do for you, I’ll do of my own free will, and
with my own money, such as it is. And, after
all, I think 't will serve you better to hold your
tongue, than”— -
“I would n't kill the goose for all the eggs at
once,” said Blast, grinning at the figure.
St. Giles felt deadly sick. He had thought to
brave—defy the ruffian ; but the power of the vil-
lain, the fate that with a word he could call down
upon his victim, unnerved him. St. Giles, with
entreating looks, motioned him away; and Blast
leering at him, and then tossing up the shilling
with his finger and thumb, passed on, leaving St.
Giles at the garden gate, where stood Clarissa,
brought there by the earnest entreaties of Cross-
bone, to view the horse—the wondrous steed that
was to endow its mistress with new health and
º:
“You may see at a glance, madam, there 's
Arab blood in the thing; and yet as gentle as a
rabbit. Young man, just put her through her
paces. Bless you ! she'd trot over eggs, and never
crack 'em. A lovely mare '’ cried Crossbone, “all
her brothers and sisters, I’m assured of it, in the
royal stables.”
“I’m afraid, too beautiful—much too spirited
for me, sir,” said Clarissa, as St. Giles ambled
the creature to and fro. Ere, however, Crossbone
could make reply-assuring the lady, as he proposed
to do, that she would sit the animal as securely and
withal as gracefully as she would sit a throne—
Mr. Snipeton, full of the dust and cobwebs of St.
Mary Axe, trotted to the gate. His first feeling
was displeasure, when he saw, his wife exposed
beneath the open sky to the hold looks of any
probable passenger; and then she turned such a
kind and cordial face upon him, that for the ha
moment, he could have wished all the dwellers of
the earth spectators of her beauty, beaming as it
did upon her glorified husband. . It was plain:
love so long dormant, timid within her bosom, now
ſlew boldly to her eyes, and curved her lips, with
fondest looks and sweetest smiles for her wedded
lord. Wo have before declared that Snipeton had
an intimate acquaintance with his own ugliness:
unlike so many who carry the disadvantage with
them through life, yet are never brought to * º:
sonal knowledge of it, Snipeton knew his º:
ness: it was not in the power of mirrors to suº.Ul
and annoy him. And yet, in his old age, he wº gic
feel as though his ugliness was, by some *:::
lessened, nay, refined into comeliness, whº.
wife smiled upon him. His face, for the *.
seemed to wear her light. And thus did this ºſ]
belief in her affection give the old man a certº
faith in his amended plainness; as though beau
beautified what it loved.
“There, Mr. Snipeton—there's a treasur; ss.
lovely thing, eh?” cried the triumphant Cro
bone. ked
“Very handsome, very; but is she well bº eſl”
—is she quite safe?” said Snipeton, looking t
derly at his wife. han
“A baby might rein her. No more tricks:
a judge; no more vice than a lady of quality.
“Humph!” said Snipeton, dismounting, .
giving his horse to St. Giles. “My deaft .
will catch cold.” And then the ancient gº.
placed his arm around his wife's waist, and ed ing
from the gate; Crossbone following, and sº";
at the endearment with most credulous logº.º.
was sº strange, so odd; it seemed as if Sº.
had taken a most unwarrantable liberty with ! *
lady of the house. And then the apothecary C0 Il
forted himself with the belief that Mrs. Sip.
only suffered the tenderness for the sake of apº.
ances : no ; it was some satisfaction to know.
could not love the man. “And your new maid:
come! She seems simple and honest,” “
Snipeton. ill
“Oh yes; a plain, good-tempered soul, that W1
exactly serve us,” answered Clarissa. inet0ſ.
“Very good—very good.” And Snipº to
turned into the house. He had thought *...".
urge his dislike of Mrs. Wilton; to sugges”. ity
dismissal; but he would take another opport".
—for, go she should ; he was determineſ.
would await his time. As these thoughts º,
him, Mrs. Wilton entered the room, ilowº, at
Crossbone. Somewhat sullenly, Snipeton gaº
the house-keeper; and then his eyes became ;
and pointing to the riband that Clarissa had *:
about her mother's neck—the riband bearing 10ſ!”
miniature, ſe unseen by the wearer, he p.
ately asked—“Where got you that? Wom”
Thief! . Where stole you that?” h6
“Stole !” exclaimed Mrs. Wilton, and 8
turned deathly pale; and on the instant tor”
riband from her neck; and then, for the
time, saw the miniature. For a moment, hº.
was lurid with agony, that seemed to tong". it
hº and then she shrieked—“Oh God! and * -
he "
** Detected :
detected thief.” ing
“No, sir; no,” exclaimed Clarissa, embº.
her parent. “You shall now know all. She i.e.,
Clarissa was about to acknowledge her .
when the wretched woman clapsed her dº. ef,
head to her bosom, stifling the words. “No." or.”
sir,” she said, “but no longer your house-kºot
And then, kissing Clarissa, and murmuring the
a word—not one word” she hurried from"
T00IIle
first
€
tº † 4 3
detected 1" cried SnipetonT
ExPLOSIVE COTTON.
303
From the Washington Union.
EXPLOSIVE COTTON.
FRANKFort-on-THE-MAINE,
*DE - September 30, 1846.
di. :-One of the most wonderful scientific
an.*.*, of modern times has been exploited here
Weeks *śle, in Switzerland, within the last few
and Sch ‘rofessors Baltger of the former place,
Similar lonbein of the latter, simultaneously, by a
met.*.* of experimenting, have invented a
dº." preparing raw cotton which will un-
use of y eventuate in the discontinuance of the
Pare #.". The article which they pre-
*nd its €en submitted to many severe ordeals,
over"."ºst superiority for all explosive purposes,
che §ºwder, is acknowledged by the first
Tcel *and military officers in Germany. I can
°xhibi y elieve my own senses when I WitneSS an
ºn of its extraordinary properties.
frie º my, arrival in this city I was invited by a
let t *...distinguished member of the German
tail.", dine with him, and not declining his hospi-
Bal º Inet with and was presented to Professor
§ who it is but proper to remark is distin-
th for his attainments, and who has charge of
for º lc laboratory as a chemical lecturer. Be-
{rom º separation of the party, Professor B. took
in . of his waistcoat pockets a paper contain-
Was in 9 raw cotton : a small º of that which
&nd º he placed upon a sheet of white paper,
& tou ... some gunpowder upon another sheet.
bu nin ched them at the same moment with the
ths"...] of a cigar, and with the quickness of
with. tning's blast, the cotton was consumed
slig. smoke or odor, or ashes, or, even the
cºst stain upon the snow white sheet of fools:
to be ...hile the ignition of the gunpowder seemed
th.ºw, although of the best quality, by which
filled Pºr was burnt and colored, and the room
ºf g ºth smoke. He then took a small quantity
Cove | °yder, and placing it upon paper, entirely
pape." with prepared cotton from the other
§tch. : ouching the cotton with the blaze of a
Šuš. * exploded without burning the gunpowder!
ºn u Quently, at my apartments, he exploded cot-
the º the palm of my hand, without my feeling
tapijºn of heat, such was the remarkable
- . of its igniting.
ºil. time, it is stated by the inventors, is only
pr.” for the preparation of the article, and the
factu. * So exceedingly simple that it can be man-
lang. *d, by common laborers, and without any
use. Whatever of combustion. It can be fit for
the ..." few hours after the cotton is taken from
Ind º and without the aid of machinery ; and it
ºci...ºroughly saturated with water without
di."; its properties injuriously. As soon as re-
§. 1S again fit for use. There is nothing to
hor j. to it from its spontaneous combustion,
thei ºgnite by friction in its transportation, or
er...”ing of fire-arms, or become inflamed un-
fire, i. Perature of 2002 Clesius. It will catch
..fºom a blaze or a spark.
peri e * has been ascertained from repeated ex-
ºft.*, that the forty-eighth part of an ounce
Anjºred cotton, will propel a bullet from an
of a º *itle as far and as fast as the twelfth part
t .."...ºf gunpowder. The sirteenth part of
lce º drive a three-quarter ounce ball a
*rel new Sixteen hundred paces ! Moreover, the
* requires cleaning. Forty shots with-
out intermission have been made, and without any
perceptible accumulation of filth, while the gun
was throughout entirely free from heat. In firing
a three-pounder, the result was the same in this
respect. The experiments in blasting rocks with
prepared cotton have also been eminently success-
ful. At Basle a large block of granite, measuring
240 cubic feet, was blown up by four ounces, which
could not have been effected with less than two
pounds of superior gunpowder. . . .
Last week the power of the article was tested
at a meeting of the “British Scientific Associa-
tion”—an association composed of the most pro-
foundly learned individuals in Europe—and they
were amazed with what was accomplished. Sir J.
Herschel took occasion to remark, Professor Schon-
bein being present, that “the discovery in the next
generation might arm mankind with the wildest
powers. The inventor was a Titian who could
tear up the rocks, and almost call down the light-
nings.”
I understand that 125 lbs. of cotton in the state
in which it is found in the bale, when properly pre-
pared, will weigh 165 lbs., and that even here,
where the staple is much dearer than in the United
States, the article will cost considerably less than
gunpowder. What the other materials are, used.
in the manufacture, will of course remain a secret:
until patents are secured among the various nations.
One has already been taken out for Great Britain;:
and the States of the Germanic confederation have,.
through the Diet, consented to give 100,000 florins.
merely for the right of preparing it for the army,
provided a commission, which has been instituted
to test it in every conceivable way, shall report fa-
vorably. This experiment will be made at May-
ence in a few days.
The proportion of the ingredients in gunpowder
necessarily vary to a considerable degree; but that
of good quality may be composed of 76 parts of
nitre, 15 of charcoal, and 9 of sulphur. So that.
we are dependent upon foreign countries for eighty-
fire hundredths of the material used in the manufac-
ture of all the gunpowder we consume —a fact
which is not generally nor sufficiently known by
our countrymen. By the vigilance of that sterling
patriot and faithful officer, Col. Talcott, of the
Ordnance Department, who, year after year, acting
upon the principle “in peace prepare for war,”
has been accumulating a stock of saltpetre, we are
happily prepared with an abundance of the material
to carry us through a long and arduous contest,
should we ever be involved in one, with any nation.
But with the recent improvement, our dependence
upon the remainder of the world ceases for the ar:
ticles essential to defence or to the pº of
hostilities; while the dependence of other powers
and states upon us increases in the same ratio:
Moreover, the increased production of our chief
staple, and the consequent diminution ºf value, has.
for the last few years, scarcely afforded remunerat-
ing prices to our planters. Should the prepared
cotton supersede gunpowder entirely, a new market
will be created for any redundancy of yield; and .
an absolute consumption occur. Two or three hun-
dred thousand bales, at a moderate calculation, will
be burnt up annually. Mr. Grove, a celebrated
chemist of England, º upon the impor-
tance of the discovery, says: “It is necessary to
mix a combustible substance with another substance
which will bring forth a sufficient quantity of
oxygen to catch fire, whereby, under a certain tem-
perature, the whole will explode. Those two sub-
304
pr:ATH OF WM. KIRKLAND–MANUFACTURE OF ANTIQUITIES.
stances are contained in the gunpowder; but even
in the best of this article that is manufactured, a
part of it remains after explosion, on which account
fire-arms require cleaning after being discharged of
their contents. The invention of Professor Schon-
bein is without this fault, while the power of its
jºin is twice as great as that of gunpow-
€r.
Germany is distinguished, above other countries,
for many of the most important discoveries which
have been made since the Christian era. This has
resulted from the character of the people, who have
ever delighted in the study of the sciences, and
who have endeavored, perseveringly and patiently,
to make them useful for the practical purposes of
life. To a monk of Cologne—a city not 100 miles
distant from this—the credit belongs of having fur-
mished the nations of the earth with gunpowder.
l'ive centuries have elapsed since that period, and
notwithstanding the millions of individuals which it
has been instrumental in cutting down, it has exer-
cised a salutary influence in civilizing and bettering
the condition of the human race. The prepared
cotton, if it be not over-estimated, is destined to
drive it altogether out of use, and to extend the
power of liberal institutions, and, through them,
Christianity, to the most remote and benighted re-
gions of the earth. America will be so fortified in
her strength, as to assume a wholly invincible posi-
tion with reference to other powers and States;
and actuated by the noblest of all desires, to spread
her principles and to establish and perpetuate uni-
versal peace, the place assigned hor is CHIEF of
NATIONS. *
The DEATII of WILLIAM ICIRKLAND.—It is with
feelings of deep sorrow that we take up our pen to
record the sad and untimely death of this good man.
The terrible suspense of his family and friends has
been relieved by the recovery of his body from the
river, near Fishkill, where it is supposed he must
have fallen from the dock on the night of the 18th
ult, in his great haste to get on board the steamboat,
which was just leaving the landing. He was return-
ing from a visit to his little son, in the neighborhood
of Newburgh, and being deaf and very near-sighted,
he probably made a mis-step in the dark, fell into
the river, and was rapidly swept away by the cur-
rent, while the noise of the departing boat prevented
those on board from hearing any cries for assistance
from the struggling and drowning man.
It is not our purpose to write a long encomium on
the character of the deceased, though a daily inter-
course of nearly two years has impressed us with the
profoundest convictions of his worth, and with such
reverence for his many virtues as we have but rarely
experienced towards our fellow-men. He was a
thorough scholar, a true man, a genuine Christian,
and in saying this we mean to give the widest cir-
cumference to our praise of one in whom we have
ever felt an absolute trust. -
The deceased was born in 1800, in New Hartford,
near Utica, and was the son of the late Hon. Joseph
ICirkland. He was originally educated for the min-
1stry, but some conscientious scruples kept him from
entering upon its sacred duties, and he was appoint-
ed first a tutor, and afterwards a professor, in Hamil-
ton College.
He subsequently visited Europe for the purpose :
perfecting his knowledge of modern languagº
resided nearly two years at Gottingen. w aſ,
returned, he resigned his professorship, married, re-
established a school at Geneva, over which he ;
sided several years. He afterwards removed!” M.
igan, where he remained long enough for "...
complished wife, (known in the literary W* her
“Mary Clavers,”) to gather the incidents * i.
“New Home,” and then came to this city, iſ W d
he has lived and labored in every good woº
work for the last five years. bć
At the time of his melancholy death, he seemed .
but just entering upon the true field of his usefulnº
After the most untiring efforts, he had succeedº of
starting a religious newspaper, only one number.
which had been issued, but which promised, 111 C&
able hands, to exert a wide and healthful influe”
in the cause of liberal Christianity. 2 sinks
But our friend has fallen like a traveller whº?"
in the midst of his journey; and while we In O ūst
over the unfulfilled portion of his labors, Wº II]
not be ungrateful for all the good that he ”.
plished in life, and for all the consolations whº 15
the hearts of those who mourn around a goo by
grave. Every noble soul that is taken from us
death carries along with it a part of our affection* €
heaven, and makes us feel less reluctant to me” 10:
“inexorable hour.” The spirit of Kirkland cº"11
die.
“His memory brightens o'er the past,
As when the sun, concealed
Behind some cloud that hear us hangs,
Shines on a distant field.” g
N. Y. Mirrº”.
• t
MANUFACTURE of ANTIQUITIES.—There exiº.
Rome secret work-rooms of sculpture, whº, thé
works manufactured are broken arms, head.jſ.
gods, feet of satyrs, and broken torsi–of º:
By means of a liquid there used, a color of the
antiquity is communicated to the marble.
about the country are goat-herds, who ſecº."ºr.
flocks in the vicinity of ruins, and look out ſº.
eigners. To these they speak incidentally of the igh'
sures found by digging a few feet deep in such,'...}c.
borhoods. The English, in particular, are "their
tims of such mystifications, and freely yield Gep"
money to the shepherds, who are agents to tº here
eral Artificial Ruin Association, and know well W f0
to apply the pickaxe. They are careful, hoyº
spend much time and fruitless search befº.ºr
come finally upon the treasure, for which the ſº. je5
willingly pays. England is full of these anti.is
of months' age. Nor do the amateur numism” aſ&
leave Rome with empty hands; for in that ciº...;
daily coined, without fear of the law, the monº thé
Caesar, Hadrian, Titus, Heliogabalus, and *, the
Antonies—filed, pinched, and corroded, tºº.
look of age. Paris may be said to have hither 'for
comparison with London, escaped this epidº ºut
the youthful antiquities of bronze and mar tiqui.
she is devoured by the forgers of middle-age *.ice
ties. . It is notorious with what skill and imp"...ies,
certain cabinet-makers manufacture chairs, *...*
and footstools of the fifteenth century, *.cd,
readily they find dupes. A young antiquary. § his,
lately, with great pride, to an artist, a friend ... had
a very fine article of Gothic ſurniture, which. his
just bought at great cost. “It is very fine,” sa" long
friend, after examination, “and it will last yº”
—for it is quite new.”—Athenaum.
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
305
From the Athenæum.
Sºx
...th MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCI-
'9N For The AdvancEMENT of science.
tºontinued from page 194 of the Living Age.]
.. order of proceedings on the occasion of the
f.” Meeting was much the same as at
Inaril ºngresses of the body; but may be sum-
h . escribed, according to our usual, practice,
On wº. a guide to our more detailed Report.
ls we . nesday, the general committee assembled,
lave . already reported. On Thursday, as we
ºld in i. the sectional meetings commenced;
for the ...ming the general meeting was held
and th elivery of the president's opening address,
d. 9 reception of H.R.H. Prince Albert. Fri-
lºng was occupied with sectional meetings;
the § the evening the members mustered strong at
Qn th ºria Rooms, to hear Prof. Owen's lecture
"." Fossil Remains of Britain.” On Satur-
jº was little business transacted in the
ical º i-the day being employed by the geolog-
of ºn in a scientific excursion round the Isle
tº..."; while the botanical section visited the
Stoke s ºf the Dean of Winchester, at Bishop-
* The geological section was accompanied in
ip by numbers of the other members and
G isla the visitors; while another party crossed
Hang § in carriages to look out for them by Black
*rsazi llne. In the evening, there was a Con-
the . at the Victoria Rooms. On Monday,
p...ºnsort visited most of the sections; and
towar Sed his satisfaction by the donation of 100l.
3. me. the objects of the association. There was
hai."g of the general, committee, at the town
the n the afternoon; and Mr. Lyell's lecture, at
§eolo ...toria rooms, in the evening, on . The
uj. of Portions of the United States.” On
and * morning, there were sectional meetings;
th... evening a generºl, meeting tº.
cºnjºinents with Prof. Schönbein’s explosive
of º-and hear Mr. Gove “On the Decomposition
sect. by Heat.” * On Wednesday, some of the
toº...again met; in the aſternoon the general
ha." "ee assembled to sanction the grants which
in t º the committee of recommendations; and
§ress .*g, the concluding meeting of this con-
Ported as held—at which these grants were re-
Ine n Thursday, in pursuance of an arrange-
asso "ade with the proper authoritics, the foreign
Sea-tr
t any of
oº. accompanied by many of the members,
the jo Gosport and Portsmouth, tº inspeº;
Victu §§tres of interest in the harbor and dock and
ºng-yards.
General Committee.
The º MONDAY. #
that is President, on taking the chair, announced
durin "Ce Albert had visited most of the sections
hot .. * day; and would have gone to all had he
C called away to meet the queen, who had
to Southampton Water. He added that
...” ler majesty, and that she had express-
n. “P interest in the success of the associa-
e ove
* had S
M
tº: º; announced that Prince Albert had
Without * 100l., to the funds of the association,
nº. restrictions as to its application.
ford, Nº for next year were received from Ox-
early . and Swansea. Invitations for an
senſed."hºut specifying the year, were pre-
*m. Belfast and Edinburgh.
| and clectrical.
On the motion of the Marquis of Northampton,
seconded by Sir John Herschel, it was resolved that
the next meeting of the association should be held
in Oxford. y
The following officers for the next meeting were
then appointed :-.
Sir R. H. Inglis, President.—Earl of Rosse,
Bishop of Oxford, The Vice Chancellor, Estcourt,
Esq., M. P., Dr. Daubeny, Rev. B. Powell, Vice-
Presidents.—Rev. B. Hill, Local Treasurer.—Rev.
R. Walker, R. W. Ackland, Esq., Local Secre-
taries.
The day of meeting was fixed for Thursday, the
24th of June;—and the committee then adjourned
to Wednesday at three o'clock.
*
THURSDAY, sepT 10. .
Section A.—MATHEM Arical AND Physical SciENCE.
The first paper read was a report, “On Gauss's
Magnetic Constants,” from Prof. Erman.
“On the Bands formed by the Partial Inter-
ception of the Prismatic Spectrum,” by Prof.
Powell.
“On the Constitution and Forces of the Mole-
cules of Matter,” by Dr. Laming.—This was an
elaborate theory of the molecular constitution of
matter; applied in forty-two distinct propositions
to the explanation of gravitation, temperature and
specific heats of gases, cohesion, affinities, latent
heat, volume, disturbances of electrical equilibri-
um, and other electrical phenomena, with clectro-
motion and electro-chemical decomposition. In
this theory, matter is regarded as constituted of
atoms; each of which consists of three sorts of
spherical atoms, distinguished as basic, calorific,
The only force it recognizes is
attraction. The basic atoms do not attract one
another, neither do the calorific : but the electrical
attract each other with a force reciprocally as the
square of their distances. Each electrical atom
attracts calorific atoms around it, and each basic
atom attracts calorific in unlimited numbers; whilst
it also attracts around it electrical atoms, in some
large but definite number. This number is in each
case unchangeable, but the basic atoms differ one
from another in attracting around them a greater
or less number of electrical atoms. The force be-
tween basic and clectrical atoms is much greater
than that between the electrical atoms mutually ;
hence, one of these is termed the major, the other
the minor electrical force. The attraction of the
basic for the calorific atoms is intermediate between
these. The attraction of the electrical for the
calorific atoms is the greatest of all the mutual
forces. The immediate consequence of these
forces is to cause each electrical atom to be sur-
rounded by calorific atoms, and each basic atom to
be then enveloped with these electrical atoms, in
greater or less number according to its chemical
nature, but in each case definite: One of these
basic atoms so surrounded is the elementary mole-
cule of matter, or the simple atom of the chemist.
Each basic atom thus surrounded by its sphere of
electrical atoms constitutes an electrosphere; but a
change of the calorific atmospheres of the electrical
atoms of this, may cause a change of their arrange-
ments about the central basic atoms, so that some of
the electrical atoms maybe thrown out on the surface
of the electrosphere and thus become complementary;
and it is upon the mutual actions and relations of
these complementary atoms that all electrical and
other phenomena involving change are supposed to
300
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BIRITISH ASSOCIATION.
depend. One remarkable consequence of this
theory is, that gravitation depends on the electrical
atoms alone ; and that hence a positively electrified
body must be heavier, and a negatively electrified
body lighter, than the same body with its electricity
in the ordinary undisturbed state. This the author
proposes to prove experimentally to the section by
an experiment to which he was conducted by the
theory, as soon as he could procure a cylinder elec-
trical machine with an insulated rubber.—The
president proposed that discussion on the communi-
cation should be suspended until Mr. Laming had
exhibited this experiment.
“On Magnetic Causation, and Intrinsic Forces,”
by Mr. G. Towler.
FRIDAY.
Prof. Challis reported provisionally his regret
that a press of business had prevented him from,
this year, presenting the report on the advance of
Astronomy which he had been requested to draw
up ; and expressed strong hopes of having it ready
to present to the ºil; meeting.—Dr. Whe-
well could testify that his friend Prof. Challis had
been, this year, invaded by such a list of barbarous
comets as to render the completion of the report
impossible.
* Report on Recent Researches in Hydrodynam:
ics,” by G. B. Stokes.—This report was divided
into the following heads:—1. General theories
connected with the ordinary equations of fluid
motion. 2. Theory of waves, including tides. 3.
The discharge of gases through small orifices. 4.
Theory of sound. 5. Simultaneous oscillations of
fluids and solids. 6. Formation of the equations
of motion, when the pressure is not supposed equal
in all directions. The first head referred to inves-
tigations of a rather abstract nature. Under the
second, the researches of Mr. Green, Prof. Kel-
land and Mr. Airy, on the subject of waves, were
particularly alluded to, and the accurate agreement
of theory with the experiments of Mr. Scott Rus-
sell pointed out. The important investigations of
Mr. Airy on the theory of the tides, were also
mentioned. Under the next head were mentioned
some experiments of MM. Barré de Saint Venant
and Wantzel, by which an empirical formula was
obtained for the velocity of diº of air through
a small orifice, when the discharge is produced by
a considerable difference of pressure. The com-
mon formula does not apply to extreme cases. A
memoir, by Mr. Green, on the reflexion and refrac-
tion of sound was then alluded to-a memoir which
is remarkable from its bearing on the physical
theory of light. The investigations mentioned un-
der the fifth head related principally to the motion
of pendulums in resisting media. Mr. Green has
solved the problem in the case of an oscillatin
ellipsoid. The last head contained a notice of the
theories of MM. Navier, Poisson, and others on
the irregularity of pressure in different directions
about the same point. This theory may be con-
sidered to be that of the internal friction of fluids.
Dr. Whewell thought he had ample reason to
congratulate himself and the section on the success
of the advice which he had given when, in the
year 1830, his friends Mr. Harcourt and the Dean
of Ely, had consulted regarding the proper objects
which such an association as the then contemplated
British Association should propose to itself. . He
had then advised that one very prominent object
should be the preparation of reports on the actual
state of human knowledge in the several depart-
ments of science—and one of the fruits of º:
advice had been the very able report which º
just been presented by his friend Mr. St.
hen he contrasted the present scientific posſ"
of British philosophers with what it had been . d
sixteen years ago, when Britain was vastly bel. fic
the continental philosophers, not only in scient!
attainments, but even in the knowledge of " ſi-
had been achieved by others, he could not but .
gratulate all concerned that that stigma had º:
so completely wiped away. Dr. Whewell tºº.
proceeded to comment on several parts of the ing
port, and pointed out the importance of kº.
distinctly before the mind the essential diſſº.
between two kinds of waves, in one of whic Iſl
motions of the particles of the fluid were the *. Il
from the top to the bottom, in the other, the nº.
of the particles, while all circular, or rather el.
cal, diminished rapidly until at the bottom it bº.
nothing. Of this latter kind a familiar illust." 8
could be had by watching the waves whic ding
wind produced as it swept over ficlós of staſ º:
corn or long grass. He then adverted to thº, ch
mation of the double wave—an example of wº
was aſſorded by the tides at Southampton; .
which had been investigated by Mr. Scott Russ eſ!
in the Forth, and by others at Ipswich. He t f
briefly reviewed the theoretical researches of Weber;
Kelland, and Airy, on the subject of waves; $1
concluded by saying, that as waves of sound .
reflected echoes, so he conceived they must ..." d-
refraction, though the observing of this was atten
ed with experimental difficulties; but that ".
waves were diffracted, he conceived no one,”.
doubt who would attend to the varying soun . ng
cascade as you approached it round a be” .
course, it being at first hidden from sight by 11] 65°
posed rocks, banks, or other obstacles—The P'.
ident agreed with Dr. Whewell, and not only ted
he conceive that sound could be reflected, reſº iſ!
and diffracted, but pointed out several cases, º
some of the phenomena of the tuning fork...
something closely analogous, at all events, to Pº
ization must take place. ibited
“Notice of a New Property of Light exhi.
in the Action of Chrysammate of ‘...i .
Common and Polarized Light,” by Sir D. Bre
ter.
“On Elliptic Polarization,” by Mr. Dale,
“On certain Cases of Elliptic Polarizatiº
Light by Reflection,” by Prof. Powell.
“On some Results of the Magnetic Obsery
made at General Sir T. M. Brisbane's Observº
Makerstoun,” by J. A. Broun. Semi.
Mr. Hopkins, “On the Relations of the à and
Diurnal rººm. of the Barometer to La"
Sea-Breezes.”
n of
tor ſ
Section B.-ChEMistry AND MINERAL0°
ne
“On the Presence of Atmospheric Air "...the
combined Chlorine and Carbonic Acid foun of
Water of some of the wells in the sº. ii.
Southampton, and their Action on Lead,' i. to
Osborn.—The principal object of this pape: . of
caution persons residing in the neighbor. for
Southampton, against the use of leaden pº th9
conveying water, and to induce them to ºut
use of lead in any form for that purpose . to
having the water previously examined in º: c!"
ascertain whether it possessed the property.” The
ing upon the metal and holding it in so *"...f thé
author brought forward several instances
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE • BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
307
º consequences which had resulted from the
out th Water impregnated with lead, and pointed
Water * different solvent principles found in the
covered ºne of which was uncombined chlorine dis-
pº in a spring in the New Forest. The water
and . the property of bleaching Brazil paper,
an. dening litmus paper by evaporation. The
i. of uncombined chlorine was estimated as
an. * of silver—by deducting the amount of the
°ontained in 20 ounces of water from that of
in: lorine contained in the solid contents, the
i. weighing 12 more than the latter—thus
j"; 0.296 of uncombined chlorine, which IS
* 16 ; of uniting, with 0.864 of lead, forming
ead ºf chloride of lead in the imperial pint. The
oxy held in solution by carbonic acid, and the
.. of atmospheric air, was converted, into
Whi ºte of lead, and estimated as chloride of lead,
°h indicated 625 or 0:2 of the oxide in twenty
jº of water. The solid contents in an im-
i. Plºt were, found to vary from one grain to
* grains, and to be composed of the chlorides
in." ºlm, calcium, and magnesium, sulphate of
ing t Silica and vegetable matter. Notwithstand-
him. preservative property—which the salts con-
ing d in spring water are said to possess, by form-
i wº Insoluble crust in the interior of the pipes,
for s * found that the leaden pipes had been in use
lead "... years, and the action of the water on the
the still continued with as much energy as when
tº. Were first laid down, thus showing the pres-
with ºf the above solvents, and that they met
matt "0 resistance from the presence of the saline
er.
the i. Daubeny made some remarks pointing out
tº. Inportance of the inquiry of Mr. Osborn, and
Of necessity of paying attention to the condition
Water supplied to towns through leaden pipes,
*çeived in leaden cisterns.—Mr. Pearsall stated
e found that the presence of lead may be
C *ntly removed from the water by the action
b . 9n, and that lead may be always separated
and e l agitating the water in contact with the air,
sij. up the sedimentary deposits.-The
ge. excited considerable attention, and many
i.ºn jºined in the conversation—all of them
in."ºng additional evidence of the importance of
W -- * - *
i."gating the condition of water supplied to
§º towns.
Const
O
lysis”. he use of stating, with the results of Aſia.
W*\he nature of the Methods employed, by
pºint est.—The author of this communication
ing *d out the necessity which existed for know-
migh "ot merely the results to which chemists
suſ, * arrive, but the processes by which these re-
Were obtained. It was shown that many of
resu screpancies found to exist in analytical
and . would thus be satisfactorily explained,
Cmo doubt as to the correctness of an analysis
{ { ved.
º: on the Actinograph,” by R. IIunt.—
for ...lion of this instrument, which is employed
Sal inſt Purpose of registering the amount of chemi-
ear "ence existing, at all periods of the day or
iºn. the solar rays, was given. Many very
Ou º results had been obtained, which it was
* Would go to show that many of the abnor-
wi...ºf flowers—as for instance roses,
Ce *ad exhibited the formation of leaf-buds in
or ..."ºre of the flower—were due to the action,
l º
i.º Of those rays which have received the
th...the actinic. It was found difficult to use
* instru
ment in London—it was therefore pro-
!ciation at
posed to transfer it to the Observatory of the asso-
€W.
“Notices of the progress of Experiments on the
Influence of Light on the Growth of Plants,” by
R. Hunt.—The experiments described in former
communications to the association had all been
confirmed by the results obtained during the past
year. It had been found that seeds would not
germinate if all the chemical rays were prevented
from acting on them—and that the influence of the
actinic or chemical rays, was, such, that seeds
germinated at a depth below the soil, under the
influence of concentrated actinic force, acting on
the surface, at which they would not have germi-
nated under the natural conditions. The leaves
being developed, the action of the luminous rays
then became necessary to effect the decomposition
of carbonic acid and the deposition of woody fibre
within the plant. Under the joint influence of
light and actinism the plant arrived at maturity,
and then the calorific, or heat-producing, rays
were brought more fully into action to produce
the ripening of fruit and the development of
seed. s
The paper gave rise to a long discussion, in
which Dr. Daubeny, Professor Grove, Mr. Pri-
deaux, of Plymouth, and several other gentlemen
joined. It was shown that the inquiry was of the
utmost importance—and that many of the results
obtained were of considerable practical value. The
conditions of the solar rays at different seasons of
the year, and also in different parts of the globe,
were discussed—as well as the provisions regu-
lating the distribution of plants under these influ-
ences shown. Some remarks of a more strictly
philosophical nature, respecting the peculiar action
of the rays as to their directive tendency, then fol-
lowed.
FRIDAY,
Professor Daubeny communicated a paper “On
the Rationale of certain Practices employed in
Agriculture,” specifying amongst the rest the use
of quicklime and of gypsum as fertilizers to the
land. The former of these substances he supposes
to act in part, by rendering those inorganic sub
stances which are present in the soil more soluble
or—in accordance with the views laid down by the
author in a memoir which he has published in the
Philosophical Transactions of last year—by con-
verting the dormant constituents of the soil into
active ones or into a state in which they become
immediately available. He appealed to the au:
thority of Professor Fuchs, confirmed by that of
Mr. Prideaux, of Plymouth, as showing that the
alkali may be extracted from grante readily by
water, after the rock in a pounded form, has been
heated, together with quicklime ; and he stated
that a soil exhausted by long-continued cropping
was found by himself to yield to water twice as
much alkali, after having been mixed with quick-
lime, as it had done before. Hence the frequent
application of lime tends to produce exhaustion in
the land;—not only because it supplies in itself no
fresh alkali, but ſikewise because, by rendering
that which the soil contains more soluble, it causes
it to be washed away more readily by atmospheric
water. Ploughing, and other mechanical methods
of pulverizing the soil, appear to act in the same
way; and, so, also, may we suppose to do the
sprinkling of the soil with sulphuric acid, as is
practised in some parts of the continent. The
author then alluded to the various modes of ex-
30S
THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF
plaining the advantage attributed to gypsum, which
certain leading agricultural chemists had proposed :
one ascribing its virtues to the direct influence of
the salt; another to the indirect good resulting
from it, owing to its property of fixing ammonia;
a third, regarding its acid constituent as of the
}. utility, and a fourth, its base. Dr.
aubeny gave reasons for rejecting the third and
fourth of these hypotheses; but considered that
the use of gypsum may be in part attributable to
the first, and in part to the second, of the causes
pointed out. He supposes that this substance is
generally useful to all plants, from its property of
fixing ammonia; and also especially serviceable to
certain species, by supplying them with a salt
which they require for their development. He was
principally anxious, however, to bring forward this
subject, in the hope of inducing chemists to insti-
tute such experiments for the purpose of setting
the question at rest.
A long discussion followed ;-several agricul-
tural gentlemen remarking on the effects of carbon-
ate of lime on wheat crops, and on the resulting
weakness of the straw, owing to a deficiency of
the silicate of potash necessary for the formation
of the supporting epidermis of the grass. Some
specimens of the |. in turnips, commonly
called fingers-and-toes, were exhibited ; and it was
stated that the superphosphate of lime was a
remedy for that disease.—The Bishop of Norwich,
however, remarked that the cause assigned for this
disease was not that to which he believed it must
be attributed. The flow of the sap was checked
by the action of an insect, and then an abnormal
condition developed. This year, in many parts of
the country, this and similar diseases were very
prevalent; and the reverend prelate was disposed
to regard the existence so abundantly of this in-
sect as in some way connected with the electrical
condition of the atmosphere during the exceedingly
hot weather which has prevailed—producing with
extreme rapidity the decomposition of animal and
vegetable matter.—Dr. Faraday made a few re-
marks on our general ignorance of the chemistry
of vegetable life, and on the importance of such
meetings as the present, where the chemist and the
agriculturist might ineet and compare results.
Since the days of Davy the science of agriculture
has considerably advanced ; but all that he heard
convinced him of the fact, that we were only stand-
ing on the very threshold of an inquiry which
would eventually, now that attention was so gener-
ally turned to the subject, advance our knowledge
in an extraordinary degree. * º
“On the Decomposition of Water into its con-
stituents Gases by Heat,” by W. R. Grove.—
Professor Grove, in the first place, called attention
to the fact, proved by Cavendish and the French
philosophers, that oxygen and hydrºgen being
exposed to a high temperature, or the electric
spark—immediately combined to form water. He
then announced his discovery that all the processes
by which water may be formed are capable of de-
composing water.
“On the Fairy-rings of Pastures,” by Professor
J.T. Wray.—A description of these patches, with
which most persons are familiar, was given ; and
it was stated that the grass of which such rings
are formed, is always the first to vegetate in the
spring, and keeps the lead of the ordinary grass of
the pastures till the period of cutting. If the grass
of these fairy-rings be examined in the spring and
early summer, it will be found to conceal a number
of agarics, or “toad stools,” of various slº.
They are found situated either entirely on the *
side of the ring, or on the outer border of the grass
which composes it. Decandolle's theory, tha
these rings increased by the excretions of lº.
fungi being favorable for the growth of grass, bu
injurious to their own subsequent development."
the same spot;—was remarked on, and show" to
be insufficient to explain the phenomena.
The author's view of the formation of theº
rings, is as follows:–A fungus is developed "*
single spot of ground—sheds its seed, and dies iſ,
on the spot where it grew it leaves a value.
manuring of phosphoric acid and alkalies.
magnesia and a little sulphate of lime. Anº.
fungus might undoubtedly grow on the same .
again ; but upon the death of the first, the grº.
becomes occupied by a vigorous crop of gº.
rising like a phoenix on the ashes of its predege.
It would thus appear that the increase of tº
fairy-rings is due to the large quantity of P º
phated alkali, magnesia, &c., secreted by º:
W
fungi ; and, whilst they are extending themsel.
in search of the additional food which they requir”,
they leave, on decaying, a most abundant crop"
nutriment for the grass.
“On the Expansion of Salts,” by Dr. L. Play-
fair and Mr. Joule.
“ Notices of Experiments in Thermo-Ele”
tricity,” by Dr. J. Reade.
* THURSDAY.
SECTION C.—GEology.
“On the Artesian Well on the Southamp".
Common,” by R. Keele, Esq.-The town |
Southampton has hitherto depended for a supº.
of fresh water to private wells, which are attacº
to almost every house. They are sunk throº".
bed of gravel, and vary in depth from 10 to 29 ‘.
25 feet—at which dépth the London clay .
reached. An uncertain quantity has also beeſ. "
tained from the public water-works, supplie for
land ºpings, These sources being insufficient .
a growing town, with 30,000 inhabitants, 2.
modes of supply have long been contemplºº.
The river Test was considered too distant ; *
the commissioners could not accede to the tº
proposed by the proprietor of the most conſº". r
part of the river Itchen. In November, 1835, Mr.
Clarke, of London, made an experimental boring
on the Southampton Common, through 80 fe'." º
alluvial strata, 300 feet of London clay, and abol
100 feet of plastic clay; and afterwards the bº
was extended 50 feet into the chalk. The sup!' d
was ample ; and an act of parliament was obtai".
for providing the means necessary to consº".
well which should supply 40,000 cubic fee.'.
water daily. Mr. Clarke estimated the expºſ.
7,000l. }. 1837, a contract was made with f
Collyer, who proposed to sink an iron cyliº;
having a diameter of 13 feet, to the depth .
feet, and from that point to bore to the fuº"
depth of 400 feet, commencing with a bore ?'.
inches, and gradually diminishing to one ºr
The estimate amounted to 9,980l. The º'.
was found inefficient; and a brick shaft, of ºf
diameter, was continued to the intended dep".
100 feet. Two pumps were employed to ſº.
water, which amounted to 4,000 cubic feet Pg?
diem. Here, instead of commencing the bº.
the brick shaft was carried on, by adviº... .o
consulting engineer. At the depth of 164 fe"
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
309
§ºr 9f the shaft, was reduced to 11 feet 6
B . At this period, the candles could scarcely
pair º lighted; and an air-tube of zinc, with a
attach º worked by the steam-engine, was
of li ºd, for the purpose of ventilation. Masses
.."; five or six tons in weight, had fre-
CSca y tº be raised. There was a considerable
lº *f gas from the sides and bottom of the
shaft which, together with the vapor that filled the
*nd the impure air caused by so many men at
214 ºcasioned some alarm. At the depth of
iſiºn. the shaft was reduced to 10 feet in
... ; and at the depth of 270 feet, to 8 feet
º The work was then suspended till more
i.".º. pumps could be obtained. On emptying
shaft, and deepening it 23 feet, the influx of
ū. ecame so great that iron cylinders, 7 feet in
W.”er, were again resorted to, instead of brick-
~the At 322, feet the brick shaft was resumed ;
*mou quantity of water raised by the engine
A. ed to 30,240 gallons in twenty-four hours.
Slay 9 feet from the top of the well, the plastic
º reached, and the brick shaft continued
W."...it to the chalk. Little or nasand or water
conti." in the plastic clay. The work was
When . day and night, till December 4, 1841,
gi. e shaft was 520 feet deep;-about three
temp S of water ſlowed into it per minute, its
Fa **ture at the bottom ranging from 61° to 62°
5...". The atmosphere of the well at 50 feet was
tº at 160 feet, 60°; at 543 feet, 65°. The
ii.º. of water at the surface was 44°. In
Pumni. 1842, the shaft measured 562 feet; and the
W *g having been suspended for a week, the
2 rose 400 feet, amounting in quantity to
thé º ºubic feet. This supply being insufficient,
*nge °ntractors commenced boring with a 7% inch
of i. Attached to a rod, conducted to the bottom
the W shaft by an iron tube, fixed in the centre of
amo ºl. The total depth of the shaft and boring
"ts to 1,260 feet; and at the time the boring
the ..ºnded the water rose to within 40 feet of
mºnº; In 1845, during upwards of four
at i." aily pumping, the delivery of water was
mont late of upwards of 1,500,000 gallons per
raised ' and afterwards, in eight days, the quantity
umpi &ceeded 725,000 gallons. When the
the . was discontinued in November, 1845,
Surface °r rose, as before, to within 40 feet of the
Or
º
ſj. Phillips, being called upon to speak of the
'btained in the sinking, stated that he recog-
he ve * limestone of Bognor with its pectunculi,
the **śardia, and turritella of Brachlestan, and
Maui. c., of Barton. There was also a fine
$ºries ºf and a number of fusiform septaria. The
Shown ! strata seen in the Isle of Wight were well
kins i "their proper order in this shaft.—Mr. Hop-
conti. Ply to questions as to the advantage of
Stated ...; the operations, and the probable supply,
helle W. at the example of the artesian well at Gre-
Unde i. calculated to give confidence in similar
Comr .g. where a general analogy existed. The
lºn\. however, between Paris and Southamp-
of a : ºot complete. Paris was in the very centre
part "...ºry basin, and probably over the deepest
"elia. * Watcr ſlowed to it in all directions; the
Were . ºf the beds, too, was gentle ; and there
Nomi, ºlºnians. Here, however, the chalk of
sea, ºpshire inclined gradually towards the
§reater ...; under it, rose again, with a much
° reaso ºnation, in the Isle of Wight. There was
**or supposing that Southampton was sit-
uated over the lowest part of this basin; and since,
in the Isle of Wight, there was an enormous dislo-
cation, there might be other dislocations or fissures
in the intermediate space, which might afford an
outlet for the water below. The height to which
water would rise in an artesian well would be aſ-
fected by the construction of other wells in its
neighborhood. The first artesian well at Cam-
bridge rose 15 feet above, the surface, but other
wells had reduced its height to four feet below the
surface. The borings in these instances were only
four or five inches in diameter; but the supply was
large, and independent of the existence of any large
caverns or fissures. The water came from the iron-
sands below the gault clay—it had a slightly fer-
ruginous taste, but was quite good. No water was
obtained in the chalk—nor could an artesian well
be expected in that formation, which is too perme-
able to hold water. In conclusion, Mr. Hopkins
said that he should himself recommend the contin-
uation of the boring, as the trial was not complete
till the beds below the chalk were reached.—Mr.
Greenough remarked on the extent of the disloca-
tion which extends through the centre of the Isle
of Wight. He believed geologists had döne more
good by discouraging hopeless speculations than by
encouraging useful experiments; and they would
not give a positive recommendation, except from
experience. He alluded to the artesian wells of
Lincolnshire, in a district before scarcely habitable,
on account of the scarcity of fresh water, and the
thickness of clay impervious to water. Porous
beds, resting upon others which were not porous,
could alone afford a supply of water.
“On the Origin of the Coal of Silesia,” by Prof.
Goeppert, of Breslau.--This paper was an abstract
of an essay which received the prize offered by the
Society of Sciences of Holland, at Haerlem, in
1844. Prof. Goeppert remarks, that hitherto few
well-preserved plants had been obtained from the
coal itself, but its composition had been inferred
from the plants which lie in the associated shales.
In the coal-fields of Upper and Lower Silesia,
which yield four millions of tons a year, he had
met with extensive layers, in which the plants
were so well preserved, that he could distinguish
coal formed from Sigillaria, from that formed by
araucariae or lepidodendra. In most instances the
bark alone was preserved—the specimens, being
flattened; but the araucaria, being much harder
than the rest, often retained their woody tissue and
medullary rays. The species, eighty in number,
were found to be differently grouped in the various
coal strata, and also under different conditions; and
this, with the delicate preservation of the fºrms, the
multitude of upright stems, of which 200,have al-
ready been observed, and the uniform thickness of
the strata over a space of many miles, are consid-
ered by the author a proof of tranquil º OIl
the présent localities. The Silesian cºal strata are
from 30 to 60 feet thick; a larger portion of which
M. Goeppert supposes to have accumulated after
the manner of peat—during the lapse of time. He
has ascertained that, by keeping vegetables in boil-
ing water for three months or a year; they are con-
verted into brown coal, (lignite) and, by the addi-
tion of a small quantity of sulphate of iron, a salt
which occurs commonly in coal, acquire, at last, a
totally black, coal-like condition.—Sir R. I. Mur-
chison expressed his readiness to receive this ex-
planation for the origin of many extensive coal
strata. There were other large coal-fields to which
the crplanation would not apply at all—the mate-
310 SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
rials having certainly been drifted to a distance by
currents of water.-Mr. J. Phillips remarked, that
although even fragments of coal-plants were un-
common in the coal of England, yet, with the aid
of the microscope, coniferous tissue Inight be de-
tected in much of the fibrous coal, which differed
only in being less bituminous than the rest. In the
ashes of coal, siliceous casts of vegetable tissue
were always to be found; and Mr. Bowerbank had
detected traces of structure on the fractured sur-
faces of ordinary solid coal.
“On the Northwich Salt-Field,” by G. W. Or-
merod.—The rock-salt of Northwich is part of the
new red sandstone series: it forms two strata, the
uppermost of which is 75 feet thick, and the lower
105 feet; they are separated by 30 feet of stone,
containing veins of salt. . Throughout the district,
the brine is reached at the same level—about 87
feet—below the River Weaver; and varies uni-
formly in all the shafts when any change takes
place.
FRIDAY.
“On the Arrangement and Nomenclature of
some of the Subcretaceous Strata,” by Dr. Fit-
ton.
Sir R. I. Murchison presented, on the part of
Dr. Mantell, a Geological Map of the Isle of
Wight, and the preliminary pages of a work de-
voted to the description of the island.
“On the Occurrence of Cypris in a part of the
Tertiary Fresh-water Strata of the Isle of Wight,”
by J. Prestwich, jun.
“On Certain Deviations of the Plumb-line from
its Mean Direction, as observed in the neighborhood
of Shanklin Down, in the Isle of Wight, during
the progress of the Ordnance Survey,” by Mr. W.
Hopkins.
THURSDAY.
SEctrox D.—Zoology AND BotANY.
Mr. J. Hogg commenced the business by reading
some additions to his “Synopsis of the Classifica-
tion of the Genera of British Birds.”
Dr. Lankester read over a list of the names of
periodical birds, and the dates of their appearance
and disappearance, at Llanrwst, in North Wales,
by John }. Esq.
The president observed that weather frequently
determined the appearance and disappearance of
birds. Wild geese, on a fine day, would fly off;
but, on meeting stormy or cold weather, would re.
turn. Many birds fed on insects which did not ap-
pear till certain plants appeared; and thus one was
dependent on the other. The constancy of the ap-
pearance, or hatching of, some birds, depended on
the constancy of their food.-Mr. Peach, related
several instances of the appearance of birds at
Cornwall, at unusual periods, apparently deter-
mined by the existence of food.-Mr. H. E. Strick-
land remarked that the unusual mildness of the last
winter had caused a scarcity of the field-fare, the
redwing, &c.;-and, in consequence, the haws,
which were usually stripped from the hedges, were
to be seen on the bushes in the spring at the same
time with the flowers. -
Mr. Wollaston read a notice from Mr. William
King, of some new species of animals, found on
the coast of Northumberland.
The president exhibited a specimen of a beetle,
(blaps mortisaga,) which had been found imbedded
in some artificial concrete, where it must have
been, at least, sixteen years; and yet, when the
animal was brought to him, it was alive, and live.
for six weeks after. Mr. Spence said that the º:
dinary duration of the life of the blaps mortiº
was two or three years; and that it should exist: º
long was very remarkable; and he thought the §
cumstance deserved to be fully inquired into.T.
Darwin stated that the blaps mortisaga was Veſ
tenacious of life. He oncé left one, in a coyº
vessel, without food for a year, without its be.
killed. He had also dropped upon one hydrº.
acid, but it walked off quite unaffected by the P.
son.—Mr. Patterson stated that the larvae di º:
possess such tenacity of life, as some he had k”
had speedily died. 125
Prof. Owen read a paper, “On the Hºmº º
of the Bones collectively called “temporal” in
man Anatomy.”
FRIDAY.
“On the application of the method, discover”
by the late Dr. Thibert, of modelling and coloring
after nature all kinds of fishes,” by Dr. Knº.
These models were shown. They consisted of' f
vendace, the mackerel, the red spotted trouſ º
England, and the Lochmaben trout. This me! li
of modelling will ultimately be preferred to *
others; even that in wax. :..r t0
Mr. R. Ball thought this process superiº ||
those in use.—Sir J. Richardson advised, that
the process was employed, the skin also should b6
preserved. He wished to know of jºnox tº
method of Dr. Thibert.—Dr. Knox replied that h6
was not at liberty to state more than that it wº 3.
plaster cast painted. sº
Mr. Gould exhibited several new species of h"
ming-birds from the Andes. 5
Mr. W. Hogan read a paper “On Potaº.
raised from Seed, as a means of preventing the .
tension of the prevailing disease.”—He first.
extracts from German publications, giving the d
sult of the trial of growing potatoes from the .
of the plant, which had been found to be succes.
as far as the production of tubers, and also the .
venting the prevailing disease. Mr. Hogan The
also tried the same process with success. . .
proceeding consisted in growing the seeds first.”
hot-bed, and then transplanting. He consi .
this to be a successful way, because the *
natural. {mć
Mr. M. Stirling stated that he had, song.
since, recommended to the government of Swº ing
the plan of procuring potato-seed, and demº
thence the crops. He had advised giving p.
for the best seedling potatoes, and he also rº'.
mended hybridizing the potato as a means 9. ng
provement.—Mr. W. Ogilby thought gro.;
potatoes from the seeds might prevent the, ".
and dry rot, but not the present wet rot of the º sº
tato. He quoted several instances in which 5.
ling crops had been destroyed. He had been .
successful in growing potatoes from a little º CS
which sprung from the “eyes” of the ol º:
going to decay.—Dr. Crook attributed tº rst
tack in the year 1845 to “cold.” The cold º:
the vessels; and then came the disease. He” º
duces the same effects as cold ; it bursts the *.
of the vessels, and the consequence is discº. e3
Dr. Daubeny did not think that atmospheric cha";
had anything to do with the disease at all. that
thought that the most satisfactory *H "...ºn.
which referred the disease to fungi. He hº th9
derstood that there was no potato disease ...
neighborhood of the copper furnaces in Swan"
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
311
*º had lately visited Prof. Payen, who
llſ, º the doctrine that the disease arose from
§§ ; and he (Dr. Buckland) believed so too.
wi. *: in fact, a fungiferous miasm existing,
were the cholera, attacked not all, but those who
ate ºposed. It was the weak and intemper-
i. attacked with cholera; it was the de-
it. potato that had the disease. Extreme con-
len s of temperature debilitated the potato, and
en] it became diseased. The potatoes were sud-
fiel y ºttacked. He knew a case in which a whole
... ame diseased in three days. He believed
he *ly remedy was mowing down the haulm of
Potato the moment it was attacked.—Prof.
that. ſºir was certain of one thing—and that was
.*he disease was not due to fungi. The nature
i. was evident, as it could be produced artifi-
W. If you scraped a potato and placed it in the
t became diseased ;-and, in the course of
...iri
§. hours, the fungi would appear on it—Mr. E.
l § believed that the disease depended on chemi-
iſ...}. not on the attack of a fungus.-Mr.
icro lad examined the diseased potatoes under the
fi.” and in its early stages had always
* to discover the slightest indication of the ex-
C ° of a fungus. As the disease advances, first
i."; appears, and then another—and at last
.."; life. This was the progress of all vegeta-
ë.
W tº
º The disease always commences on the
He ° of the potato, and proceeds to the centre.
ed i. also found the disease constantly attend-
lime the development of crystals of oxalate of
i.-P roſ. Balfour stated that some fungi attacked
ojº º healthy structures—others only diseased
Which he fungus of the potato was a botrytis;
Mr he believed attacked healthy structures.--
i.º. Strickland said, in reference to Dr. Buck-
3. * Recommendation to mow down the potatoes,
i. When his neighbors mowed down their pota:
their." dug his up. They had lost, nearly all
I. whilst he had saved nearly all his.--Dr.
**ter observed on the want of evidence to sup-
*e theories of either cause or remedies that
º i; brought forward. Cold and heat had been
ot. as causes, by destroying the tissues of the
exi.” ºut no destroyed tissues had been shown to
but ebility had also been supposed to exist;
S-an º was given of the existence of debility;
ted he Dean of Westminster himself had admit-
stroy.", he had seen the healthiest potatoes de-
evil.” three days. Positive observation was
tem... ºpposed to the fungus theory, As to the
“s recommended, seedlings had been known
and, t tacked in more cases than they had escaped ;
on.”fore, sowing the secds could not be re-
m." ºl. Mowing down the stalks had not been
ouſ...essful than letting them alone —and it
nothin ºw to be known, that this meeting had done
of all § more valuable than to show the insufficiency
*ories and remedies hitherto advanced.
be at
THURSDAY.
º,..ylºr read a paper “On the Relations
*uthor *ion to the higher Mental Process.”—The
should . served that man, when viewed as a whole,
tutin.” Considered as consisting of a body consti-
is of ..." instrument of the mind, as the telescope
dicati, .*Ye, adjustable but not adjusted; that its in-
**re perceived through the medium of the
SCM
are jº, as the images reflected or refracted
mals".gns ºf external objects to the eye. Ani-
learn lºº *djustments ready made: man has to
9 See, to hear, and to touch, as an art-
ist, or even in the common usages of life, a man
just couched is as an infant; till he can adjust he
sees, as we do with an unadjusted telescope, mere-
ly a vague sight. This gives rise to search. To
see with intelligence we must look, that is, crert the
combined adjustments; this constitutes an apprecia-
ble distinction between sensation and perception.
The unadjusted impressions, pass the mind as vague
trains of thought, linked and associated sequences,
the machinery of reveries and dreams. That
searching to obtain well-defined perceptions is ef-
fected by adjustments, attention to our own working
obscreation will aſſord abundant proof; but á
more protracted attention is necessary to prove, and
to convince a man, that his memory and powers of
conception equally depend on the mind's perception
of a reiteration of the adjustments of sensation. But
that this is so we have proof, in the corporeal ac-
tions induced by conception being like those pro-
duced by sensation by presence of the objects. This
conception of savory food excites secretion in the
salivary glands—of an insult, the gesture of anger,
&c. In the power of forming and giving fixity of
tenure to conceptions men differ widely. It is to
this power that Dr. Johnson alludes, when he says,
that whatever can make the past, the distant and
the future prevail over the present, raises us in the
scale of thinking beings. Now Dr. Darwin and
Dr. Brewster have shown that these conceptions
are effected by adjustments of the body; in other
words, that the “mind's eye” is, in fact, the
body's eye. To have vivid conceptions disposable
by our volition forms the orator, the poet, the
sculptor and the painter.—After numerous illustra-
tions of this faculty and allusions to it by the poets,
the author stated that these sensations, perceptions
and conceptions do not exist in an insulated state ;
the adjustments by which they are effected are so
linked and associated by retransmissions that they
reciprocally call up each other. This linked asso-
ciation y adjustments he took to be the ma-
chinery by which the association of our ideas is ef-
ſected, and that the propensity of our structure to
these functional adjustments constituted all we had
of ideas which had been denominated innate; and
he considered that this reciprocating perception
from different sources of sensation (as the eye and
ear) gave birth to the ideal theory of “species, im-
ages of forms and color of things without their mat-
ter” of the old metaphysicians. In conclusion, the
author contended that Mr. Hume's opinion on the
non-existence of the idea of power, and of cause
and effect, (except as antecedent and consequent,)
and the arguments and facts adduced against that
opinion, receive an elucidation from the considera-
tion of the modes of action of the muscular sense,
of which both Mr. Hume and his adversary were
quite ignorant.
#..., read a paper, by Dr. Searle, “On
the cause of the Blood's Circulation through the
Liver.”
FRIDAY.
Dr. H. Bennet read a paper." On a peculiar form
of Ulceration of the Cervix Uteri,” which was of
purely practical interest. .
A paper, by Prof. Retzius, “On the Ethnologi-
cal Distribution of round and elongated Crania,”
was read.—On this paper a lengthened discussion
arose on the degree to which º peculiarities
of races may become modified by climate, educa-
tion, progress of civilization, and the effect of
dwelling with higher races. Mr. Lyell gave it as
312
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
the result of his recent observations in the southern
States of America, that the Negro race is much
altered by living even for a few generations with
the white races, and always for the better, even
when no mixture of races exists; and that where
it does exist, the result is ever to retain and propa-
gate the higher developments of the white races.
Dr. Carpenter read a paper “On the Physiology
of the Encephalon.”—The object of this commu-
nication was to bring under consideration the infer-
ences to which we are led by the study of Compar-
ative Anatomy, in regard to the functions of
different parts of the human encephalon. He
first pointed out that our comparisons need not be
restricted to vertebrated animals, since the gangli-
onic centres of invertebrata may be shown to be
analagous with certain portions of the cerebro-
spinal system of the vertebrata. He stated it to
be a universal fact, that all organs of special sense
have distinct ganglionic centres, which must be re-
garded as the instruments of their respective sensa-
tions and as the sources of motions directly connected
with those sensations; and that the whole cephalic
mass of invertebrated animals was composed of a
collection of such ganglia, without any vestige
(except in the highest) of cerebrum or cerebellum.
These organs make their first appearance in fishes;
and bear at first but a small proportion to the chain
of sensory ganglia, which forms the anterior ter-
mination of the spinal cord. In fishes we find dis-
tinct olfactive, optic and auditory nervous ganglia,
together with thalami, optici and corpora striata,
the degree of development of which has no refer-
ence to that of the cerebrum ; in fact, the bodies
usually called the cerebral lobes of fishes are (ex-
cept in the sharks, &c., which have the vestige of
cerebral hemispheres) entirely composed of the
analogues of the corpora striata. Hence Dr. Car-
penter considered that these bodies, instead of being
appendages to the cerebrum, really belong to the
group of sensorial ganglia, and are to be regarded
as altogether making up the ganglionic centres of
common or tactile sensation, and of the movements
prompted or directed by it. This chain of ganglia,
although comparatively small in man, with refer-
ence to the bulk of the cerebral hemispheres, still
exists in him, and must be regarded as the instru-
ment of the same operations as those to which it
ministers in the lower animals. Arguing from
actions in the latter, and analogous phenomena in
man in health and in disease, the author attributes
to the sensory ganglia the formation of sensations,
and the origination of respondent movements,
which may be distinguished as consensual. To
this category the purely instinctive actions of the
lower animals, which seem executed without any
idea of purpose, and in simple respondence to the
promptings of sensation, appear referrible, together
with a variety of actions in man, such as that of
yawning, from the sight or sound of the act in
another. Dr. Carpenter hence endeavored to show
that we must regard the cerebrum as the instrument
of the formation of ideas, of the memory of ideas,
and sensations, and of the intellectual processes
founded upon them, which terminate in an act of
the will; and he pointed out that ideas may pro-
duce the same effect on muscular movement as
sensations themselves, as when the suggestion of
the idea of yawning induces the action. He also
showed how the anatomical connexions of the
cerebrum with the sensory ganglia would cause its
communicating fibres to exert an influence on the
latter, corresponding with that which is effected by
the sensations directly received from the organs of
sense. With respect to the emotions, he end.
ored to show that they may be regarded as º:
pound states resulting from the simple feeling?
pleasure and pain associated with certain ideas, iſ!
classes of ideas:–the feelings of pleasure or P.
he would locate, with the sensations which .t
monly excite them, in the sensorial ganglia ; whil l
the formation of the ideas, which are esse.
parts of the emotions and propensities, is clearly
cerebral operation ;-and he showed, in conclu.
how this view of the functions of the priº.
parts of the encephalon harmonizes with the know
duplex action of the emotions—first in produciº
involuntary movements, and second in simulatiº
and influencing the reasoning processes. . . 1)r
A lengthened discussion followed, in which §
Laycock denied that we had yet a sufficient num" n-
of facts ascertained either to deny the higher *
tal processes and emotions to the lower animal. ſ!
to induce consent to the physiological distinctio º
drawn by Dr. Carpenter from the anatomical ".
tures in man and mammalia. He defended i-
dissent by facts in natural history, and physiº
cal and anatomical views relative to the enceph”
º by himself, two years ago, in papers”
efore the association.
THURSDAY.
SUB-SECTION E.—ETHNology.
The secretary read a paper, by Mr. W. Bollaerº
“On the Comanche Indians.”—These the author
stated to be a Texian tribe of native Indians, wº
were divided into three divisions.—1. The Comº
che or Zetans. 2. The Lembrack. 3. The.
nukes. They constituted the largest native triº.
Texas, they possessed few traditions, and .
unacquainted with agriculture; consequently º:
habits were migratory. During war, they ack.
edged one chief; they had an idea of a fu%
state, but of a very gross nature, believing 1" t tl”
existence of evil spirits and witchcraft. Thº.
thor, in conclusion, gave some remarks on the
mode of conducting war and on their treaties.
Dr. Latham communicated a paper, by the * n-
author, “On the Indians of Texas.”—This .
sisted of an enumeration of the distinct tribeswº y
were now, or had been, known in Texas. Th;
formed a catalogue of thirty-five tribes. Soº.
these were derived from the Comanches-ºl.
were either wholly or nearly extinct. The .
ners of a few of the most considerable *
alluded to. ks
Dr. Latham read a paper containing “Remº.
on a Comanche Vocabulary.”—After a careful i.
amination of the vocabulary with that of ot h6
tribes, the author came to the conclusion, that .
evidence of language determined the special .
ties of the Comanche tribes to be with the
or Shoshonie Indians.
Section F.—STAT1stics.
The first paper read (by Dr. C. Taylor) ...i
“Report on the Medical Relief to the Parº. by
Poor of Scotland under the Old Poor Law,
Dr. Alison.—It stated that as the objections . al
by Dr. Chalmers and others to establishing.” *;
and adequate provision for the poor in Scotlº,
not apply to medical relief, the efficiency 9
relief, under the old Scottish law, would be...".
test of the efficacy of the voluntary sys.
charity. An association of medical priº. to
was formed at Edinburgh, in November, . that
collect information on the subject. It appear”
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. 313
§º there was no provision for medical relief
in th. ° poor-funds, except for the indoor paupers
sº charity workhouse. Previous to 1815 no
d . was ever given to the sick poor at home ;
grat !ough since that period the duty has been
dis ..ly undertaken by the officers of several
º "Saries, it had not been effectually or regularly
Q ºned. In the Canongate, the dispensary aid
the . Poor came to a sudden close in the midst of
* epidemic fever, in consequence of the death
º: of the medical officers who had acted as
. . By the recent Act ten duly, qualified
of Pºid officers have been appointed to take charge
$."; sick aupers in the different districts; but
jº amented that the provision had been
s O
ºned which compelled the parishes to combine
*ing relief, as in Edinburgh the rich congre-
º * one extremity of the city and the poor at
..". In Glasgow relief has been given by
i.i.al attendants for some years. Returns
r obtained from 40 towns, exclusive of Edin-
iºd Glasgow;-from which it appeared that
€d m ºf these towns there was absolutely no requit-
() edical relief, either from the public authorities
iº". voluntary subscriptions. In 4, an occa-
i. Payment, never exceeding a few shillings,
town * made on special occasions. In Campbell-
urin 1% were allowed to the professional men
sij the epidemic fever. In Kirkintilloch a
* sum was given, but by a private individual.
ai.dee during the same fever 5l. each was
i.º. to six dispensary surgeons. In some
* Places 21. was given to a surgeon ; and in
anj * Small allowance was made for drugs. In
jºion of the new poor law, 10l., has been
i. annually for medical relief in Alloa. In
dº." Gl. 6s., but this includes the supply...of
druš. In Dunfermline 201. a year, not including
i. In Greenock 25l., per annum has been
dr "...each of three district surgeons. In Kil-
15] lºck 101. each to three surgeons. In Week
is: livided between two surgeons. In Dum;
abor 9, to one surgeon. The unrequited medical
"ange * Stated by twenty-five gentlemen, . and
an : from 5l. to 220l. annually in value, giving
on.'...age of 40l. per year. But this is not, the
. * levied on the charitable feelings of medical
furnin' 90 per cent of the cases they had to
sº." wine, food, &c., out of their own sub-
rº.3 and in 33 of the 40 towns brought under
Pj no change has been made in this system.
sº."º ºver the returns of infirmaries and dispen:
tail. supported by voluntary contributions as
Gr
ther ºperfect, we come to the medical relief in
sº. istricts. The number of returns made
SO º * to 325. Out of these, 94 have received
these jºign, but only 39 annually. Of
abov only 13 have received sums above 5l. 3.26
10...'...And less than 5l. ; and 9 il, ºnder.
and "...Pºid by the bounty of private individuals;
ºu. these 1 is paid 60l. by a nobleman, and
°ver . 40l, by a landed proprietor ; both, how-
ther. tive the charge of extensive districts, and as
O nº no fund on which they can draw for drugs
“...aries there are large drawbacks to be
gratiº." the remuneration. 23, have received
âle."...for their services, chiefly during the prev-
*mount. epidemics. In one case this gratuity
!! was ed to 201., in 14 it was under 5l., in 2 cases
this ily three shillings. In one of these cases
twelve €e S illings was the only remuneration for
Consta . attendance on paupers averaging 70
C
sººnd 13 occasional patients: in the other,
e i
LIVING AGE. WOL. XI. 20
the three shillings was a remuneration for passing
paupers of other parishes, and nothing was allowed
for twenty-one years of attendance on resident pau-
pers, averaging 44 constant on the district roll.
211, or above 60 per cent. have never received
any remuneration of any kind for their professional
attendance on the parochial poor, or for the drugs
which they have deemed it necessary to supply to
them; and 208 add that they have had occasion to
give wine, food, &c., from their own limited funds,
and that they had occasion to defray all travelling
expenses when they made distant visits. 136 have
estimated the money value of the unrequited labor
which they have bestowed on the parochial poor;
—it amounts to 34,4471. annually, or an average
of 283l. each. The complaints of inattention to
sick paupers by the parochial authorities are all but
universal; and when applications were made for
the repayment of different outlays, they were
almost invariably refused. It was stated that since
the abstract presented to the British association had
been compiled, several additional returns had been
obtained ; but they in no degree tend to weaken
the general impression likely to be produced by the
preceding statement, and it was therefore deemed
unnecessary to tabulate them.
A brief conversation arose on the amount of
benevolent sacrifice made by the medical profession
generally; and hopes were expressed that the
evils exposed by Dr. Alison would disappear under
a better administration of the new poor law.
The next paper was “A Review of the Mines
and Mining Industry of Belgium,” by R. Walpy,
Esq., of the Board of Trade.—It stated that, as a
coal-producing country, Belgium ranked the second
in Europe. The ratio of the coal district to the
total area is—
Tons
Acres. annually.
Great Britain 1-20, or 2,930,000 producing 34,000,000
Belgium 1-22, or 335,000 {{ 4,500,000
France 1-210, or 630,000 ſº 3,783,000
Germanic Union {{ 3,000,000
In 1838 the total number of coal-mines in Belgium
was 307, with 470 pits in work and 172 in process
of construction, employing 37,171 persons; being
an increase of 8,454, or 28 per cent. on the num-
ber employed in 1829. The increase of the quan-
tity of coal raised was not accurately ascertained,
but it appeared to be about 37 per cent. The
average cost of production is 10s. 8d. per ton, and
the average price 23s. 1d. for first quality, and 16s.
64d. for the second quality of coal; the average
rate of wages is is. 6'3-10d. per day. The estab-
lishments for preparing other mineral productions
for market in 1838 were, for iron 221, copper 8,
zinc 7, lead 2; the total number of furnaces was
139, of which 47 used coke and 92 charcoal. The
total number of accidents from 1821 to 1840 was
1,352, which occasioned severe hurts to 882, and
deaths to 1,710, making a total of 2,592 suf
ferers. *
FRIDAY.
Mr. Heywood read a pº “On the Educational
Statistics of Oxford.”—He described the almost
exclusive attention paid to classical studies and the
neglect of mathematical and physical pursuits.
But he particularly directed attention to the results
of the examination called the “Great Go,” with
which a theological examination is connected at
Oxford, including not merely the historical books
of the Bible, but also an accurate knowledge of the
thirty-nine articles and of the texts usually quoted .
314
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
in proof of their several propositions. Some cri-
terion of the working of the system may be found
in the number of unsuccessful candidates. The
annual average of candidates for degrees is 410–
of whom only 284 pass, while 126 are rejected.
Thus about one third are unsuccessful, after having
kept fifteen terms, which require a residence of
three years and a half. In this examination Aris-
totle appears to be the favorite author at Oxford;
and the examiners appear to pride themselves in
selecting the most difficult and abstruse portions of
his rhetorical and ethical works, looking rather to
the difficulties of grammar and philology than to
their ethical value. Science is the technical term
at Oxford for moral philosophy, and each separate
treatise is called a science;—thus a student who
has read Aristotle's Ethics and Rhetoric, a dialogue
of Plato and Butler's Analogy, is said to have got
up four sciences. Aldritch's Compendium and
Aristotle's Organon are the chief authorities in
logic, and a power of commenting upon them can
only be acquired by a long and painful course of
minute study. Mr. Heywood's object was to call
attention to the neglect of the mathematical and
physical sciences, and to the great proportion of
persons rejected or plucked at the final examina:
tion, and contended that these evils were avoided
by the system pursued at Cambridge.
Dr. C. Taylor, at the request of the president,
stated the system pursued in the Dublin University,
dwelling particularly on the system of examination
at the end of every term, and the strictness of the
entrance examination by which emulation is created
in classical schools. He also stated that at these
examinations classical and scientific attainments
were equally required, and that the scientific course
included mathematics and physics, logic, and men-
tal philosophy, and a very efficient course of moral
philosophy. As deficiency is early discovered by
failure at terminal cxaminations, he stated that the
evil of rejection after long residence was almost
unknown in Dublin.
Dr. C. Taylor was again requested by the presi-
dent to give some account of the University system
of France. He stated that under the term “Uni-
versity” was included the whole national education
of France ; and the points on which he dwelt were
the great attention paid to design in all the schools;
the introduction of standard French authors into the
course of polite literature on the same rank as the
ancient classics; the introduction of an extensive
course of ancient and modern history as a neces.
sary part of the collegiate curriculum; and the
establishment of a distinct course for young men
designed for mercantile pursuits; or for professions
not requiring an extensive knowledge of the ancient
authors.
The Rev. Prof. Elton then, at the request of the
chairman, gave an account of the condition of
academic education in the United States of America.
He stated that the system of terminal examinations
was similar to that of Dublin; but that the courses
were more extensive and the examinations more
severe in the New England Colleges than in those
of the Southern States. He dwelt at some length
on the advantages which had resulted from separ-
ating the colleges from the theological seminaries,
and stated that in most of the latter previous grad-
uation in a college was a necessary conditiºn of
admission. With respect to rejection, he consid:
ered it to be a great advantage in the Dublin and
New England system, that literary deficiency could
be detected at so early a stage by terminal examin-
ations as to give young men an opportunity of
choosing some other pursuit without further 1058
of time. f
In reply to a question from Mr. Heywood, P:
Elton reported that the experiment tried at H.
vard University of allowing young men the op.
at the end of the first year, of pursuing the ". .
of modern; instead of ancient, languages hº.".
been found to work well, and was likely 19
abandoned. f
Mr. M. Philips called attention to the negle” º
living oriental languages in England, suº hat
Chinese, Turkish, Malay, &c., and trusted º:
some means would be dévised for facilitating "
study and encouraging young men to the pu".
There was not at this moment, a professor *.
Chinese or Turkish in any English collegiate *
tablishment. ic
Some reference having been made to the Aº.
Sanscrit, and Hebrew professorships, Col. Syk
pointed out the difference between the dead class
cal languages of Asia and the living langu.
We had professors of the former, as of *.
branches of learned lore, but we had none for .
latter, which were practically the most impº. t
to a commercial nation.—Mr. M. Philips said .
as many Manchester gentlemen were present, . cl
felt a deep interest in the subject, he should fe * *
obliged if Dr. C. Taylor would explain how drº.
ing and design formed so large a part of instructiº
in France.—Dr. C. Taylor said that the Fren.
instructional authorities regarded drawing as ſº tl
able, not merely for itself but for the habits of 9
servation which it formed. The simplicity of .
decimal system of coins, weights and measuſ.
enabled French children to learn arithmetic in *
than half the time which was required to mº
our barbarous divisions of money, weight .
measure. He was no believer in the natural ..
tic superiority of the French—the compº !-
between the recent exhibitions of the Natural º:
lery and the Louvre established the decided H.
eminence of the English school; but in Fr."
the operatives were instructed in design as wº.
the artists, and were able to make such altera";
and adjustments of patterns, as the exigenciº
the machinery with which they had to work.
quired—an advantage at present wanting in
land. icci
Mr. Heywood re-called attention to the subj al
of Oxford Education, by adverting to the te.
examinations in the class-rooms, but stated i.
these were voluntary, and therefore, not so eſſi
cious as those of Ireland and America.
i-
SATURDAY.
The secretary read a paper from Mr. Wig
worth, “On the Mortality of Children.”
The second paper read was “On Plate
making in England in 1849, contrasted Miº.
it was in 1827,” by Mr. H. Howard.—The § ing
furnished carefully all the materials for establis j,
this comparison. Amongst other results he *.
that in 1827 plate glass was sold for abº ſeet
average per foot, to the extent of about 5,000
per week; in 1835, for from 8s. to 9s. per §on
the extent of about 7,000 feet; in 1844, ſº ".
0s. to 7s. per foot, reaching about 23,000 ſº.
in 1846, for from 5s. to 6s–about 40,000 fºº º *
week. The sale is now about 45,000 feet wº i.
He mentioned that, in 1829, a plate glass "...il
factory ceased operations because of "...i. i
profit realized when selling at 12s. ; whi % ;"
1846, a company, with a paid-up capital † at
000l., realized a net profit of 30,000l., selling
gles'
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
315
tº Looking at this extraordinary in-
tions.” in spite of the severity of excise restric-
i. the author asks, what would be the probable
per º if the price were reduced to 4s. or 3s.6d.
exci ºt-which, frce as the trade now is from
§§§ interference, would yield an ample profit!
oº: Sykes then read a supplement to an elab-
tics ;ºount “Of the Civil and Criminal Statis-
y illustrating the administration of justice in
**our presidencies of India.
FRIDAY.
SECTION G.-MECHANics.
º; Robinson gave an account of a “ Modification
veloci Whewell's Anemometer,” for measuring the
Verb . of the wind.—He explained to the section:
i. y the nature of the various anemometers
and ...plºyed to measure the force of the wind,
º stinguished Whewell's from them, as a mea-
3. merely of comparative rate. The fault of it
**hat the instrument gave no absolute measure
* ºcity in miles per hour, and that it reduced the
d to to standard, and therefore the observations
tº. at one observatory were not capable of com-
*n with those at another. He had applied an
ºvation of Mr. Edgeworth, who was a family
..". of his own, to the construction of such
ër m tion as would render Whewell's anemome-
a.º. perfect in this respect. He mounted on
is..."cal axis three or four arms, carrying hem-
...” cups at their extremities. These cups
cj much less resistance to air acting on the
ratio . sides than on their convexities, and in such
te at uniform, revolution was produced at the
F of one third of the velocity of the wind.
..". this measure, which would be the same for
.*. of the instrument, and at all places, the
cº velocity of the wind during a given period
Concl always be obtained in miles per hour. He
of ºld by reading some of the determinations
is. own instrument at the observatory at Ar-
tº: $hairman, in giving the thanks of the sec-
sin. Dr. Robinson, expressed their sense of the
inveſ ific elegance and great practical value of an
of º applicable generally to the measurement
to th ocity of fluids 5 and he called their attention
e i dexterous logical process by which the one
m. desired term had been eliminated from a
*ide of unknown quantities, as exhibiting an
able example of the combination of sound
jºmatical reasoning with sagacious experi-
sº Vignolles read a paper furnished by M. Ar-
...he purpose of being communicated to the
illn ºn, M. Arago himself being prevented by
ing * from attending—“On a new method of Bor-
ign * Artesian Springs,” by M. Fauvelle, of Per-
i. France. The paper WäS aſı abridged
he sa *ion of M. Fauvelle's own account, in which
an a }* -“In 1833, I was present at the boring of
*ian well at Rivesaites; the water was ſound,
the ...ed up abundantly. They proceeded to
holºg, and for that purpose enlarged the bore-
tºº. the top downwards. I was struck by ob-
oring that it was no longer necessary to draw the
W º ºls to get rid of the material, and that the
a sta ºng from the bottom, brought up with it, in
tool i: sºlution, all the soil which the enlarging
Served ºached from the sides. I immediately ob.
‘This * my friend, M. Bassal, who was with me—
imit.'" * remarkable fact, and one very easy to
sent down into the bore-hole, as it is sunk, the water,
in coming up again, must bring with it all the drilled
particles.' On this principle I started to establish a
new method of boring. The apparatus is composed
of a hollow boring rod; formed of wrought iron tubes
screwed end to end; the lower end of the hollow rod
is armed with a perforating tool, suited to the char-
acter of the strata which have to be encountered.
The diameter of the tool is larger than the diameter
of the tubular rod, in order to form around it an an-
nular space through which the water and the exca-
vated material may rise up. The upper end of the
hollow rod is connected with a force-pump by jointed
or flexible tubes, which will follow the descending
movement of the boring tube for an extent of some
yards. This boring tube may be either worked by
a rotatory movement with a turning handle, or by
percussion with a jumper. The frame, and tackle
for lifting, lowering, and sustaining the boring tube,
offer nothing particular. When the boring tube is
to be worked the pump must be first put in motion.
Through the interior of the tube a column of water
is sent down to the bottom of the bore-holes, which
water, rising in the annular space between the ex-
terior of the hollow boring rod and the sides of the
bore-hole, creates an ascending current which car-
ries up the triturated soil : the boring tube is then
worked like an ordinary boringrod; and as the ma-
terial is acted upon by the tool at the lower end, it
is immediately carried up to the top of the bore-hole
by the ascending current of water. It is a conse-
quence of this operation that the cuttings being con-
stantly carried up by the water, there is no longer
any occasion to draw up the boring tube to clear
them away, making a very great saving of time.
Another important and certainly no less advantage,
is, that the boring tools never get clogged by the
soil; they work constantly (without meeting ob-
structions) through the strata to be penetrated,
thus getting rid at once of nine tenths of the diffi-
culties of boring. In addition, it should be men-
tioned, that experience has shown there are no
slips in any ground which ordinary boring rods can
penetrate; that the boring tube works at 100 yards
in depth with as much facility as when only 10
yards down, and that from the very circumstance
of its being a hollow rod, it presents more resist-
ance to torsion than a solid rod of equal thickness
and quite as much resistance to traction: these are
the principal advantages of the new system of bor-
ing. Indeed, these advantages have been fully con-
firmed by the borings which I have just completed
at Perpignan. This boring was commenced on the
1st July, and was completed on the 23d, by finding
the artesian water at a depth of 170 metres, (560
English feet.) If from these twenty-three days,
each of ten hours' work, are deducted three Sun-
days and six lost days, there remain fourteen days
or one hundred and forty hours of actual work;
which is upwards of 1 mêtre per hour, that is, ten
times the work of an ordinary boring rod. In the
method I have described, it will be perceived that
the water is injected through the interior of the
boring rod. Experience has taught me that when
gravei, or stones of some size are likely to be met
with, it is better to inject the water by the bore-hole,
and let it rise through the boring tube. The addi.
tional velocity which may be thereby given to the
water, and the greater accuracy of calibre of the
tube, allow the free ascent of all substances which
may be found at the bottom of the bore-hole, and
which the former mode of working may not so read-
; if, through a hollow boring rod, water belily accomplish. I have brought up by this latter
316
RAILWAY LUXURIES.
way stones of 6 centimétres long and 3 thick, (2) by
14 English inches.) The idea of making the water
remount through the interior of the boring tube sug-
gests an easy mode of boring below a film (sheet)
of flowing water: it would be sufficient to close the
orifice of the bore-hole hermetically, still, however,
so as to allow the boring tube to work, but yet so
that the flowing water should be always forced down
to the bottom of the bore-hole to find its way to a
vent: it would thus draw up and carry away all the
detritus. If, in addition to the above, we consider
the possibility of making the hollow stem of the
boring rod of wood, and of balancing it so that it
would weigh no more than the water in which it has
to move, the problem of boring to depths of 1,000
mêtres (1,100 yards) and upwards would appear to
be solved. In the square of St. Dominique, at Per-
pignan, a boring had been carried on upon the old
method for upwards of eleven months for the pprpose
of forming an artesian well, and the water had not
ben found.” Fauvelle placed his new tube alongside
the old boring tackle, and soon got down to a depth
of nearly 100 yards, when an accident occurred
which would have required some days to remedy.
Fauvelle decided upon abandoning the bore-hole
already sunk so deep, and commencing a new one,
satisfied that there would thereby be a saving in
time. The rate of sinking was equal to four Eng-
lish feet per hour of the time the hollow boring rod
was actually at work, the depth of 560 English feet
having been obtained in 140 working hours, for a
bore-hole of about six English inches in diameter.
M. Arago, who had seen the rods of Fauvelle at
work, mentions how fully they answered, and that
the large powerful tools at the bottom of the hol-
low boring rod cut easily through the hardest stra-
ta; he confirmed the fact of the large sized stones
and gravel coming up with the ascending current,
having himself watched them. He also mentioned,
that such was the opinion of the people in the vi-
cinity of Perpignan, and so much was water want-
ed, that orders for the sinking upwards of 200
artesian wells had been given to Fauvelle. The
introduction of this system into this country, espe-
cially if combined with the Chinese or percussive
system of boring, as practised with bore-holes of
very large diameter, at the Saarbruck mines, and
at many other places on the continent, must be
productive of great benefit, and would not merely
effect a saving of money and labor, but the para-
mount advantage of immediately solving the ques-
tion of the existence of coal, minerals, water, &c.
Sir John Guest asked Mr. Vignolles, to explain
the system of percussion boring, for the information
of those gentlemen present who might not be ac-
quainted with it.—Mr. Vignolles said, instead of
boring with angers or rods, there, was a heavy
weight suspended by a rope and pulley; and fixed
to the bottom of the weight was a toºl of the crown
form, viz., a circular tool of iron, indentated at the
bottom. There was no description. of rock on
which he had tried it that this tool did not pene-
trate with facility. The prejudice of English
workmen, however, had hitherto prevented its in-
troduction in this country; but he had no doubt it
would make its way, particularly if it could be
combined with Fauvelle’s system.—J . Lobb, Esq.,
mayor of Southampton, wished to ask a question
relative to the applicability of Fauvelle's plan to
the boring of the Southampton artesian well.
They had got to the depth of 1,200 feet with a
bore 6 inches in diameter, and the expense had been
nearly £20,000; this system, however, seemed to
diminish the expense of boring in an extraordi;
manner; and he wished to ask if it could be app".
to the present boring at the Southampton com.
—Mr. Vignolles, as an engineer, had no hesi.
whatever in saying that it could be applied will.f
difficulty. If they wanted force to send the wº
down the tube, they might use a steam-eng.
Dr. Robinson suggested that a deputation from t Il
section should go to the works of the Southalº.
well, and inspect them.—Mr. J. Hill said that."
cussion had long been used in this country. T.
had used that plan whenever they came to lº.
substances in the Southampton boring. Thº.
were drawn up by a windlass, and dropped dº.
foot or six inches; and after the material was lº.
ened the rods were drawn, and the pulverized .
terial raised up by a cylinder.—Mr. Vignolles .
this was different from the Chinese system of !.
cussion, where a rope was used, which sº.
trouble and loss of time in drawing the rods. .
power required for sending down the water on Fa d
velle's plan was much less than might be suppº s
—The Marquis of Northampton suggested *.
committee of the geological section should bº.
vited to accompany the committee from this *.
tion.—Dr. Lankester expressed his warm appr li-
of M. Fauvelle's plan, and his opinion of its apº
cability.—A conversation followed, in the cº.
of which Sir John Guest said the weight of a " 31
low rod, three inches in diameter, and the irº"
quarter of an inch thick, would be jess than that d
a solid rod of an inch diameter: the weight wo"
be further lessened by the rod floating in water.
RAILwAY Luxuries.—The smoking saloon :
the eastern counties is only the first of a serie” .
luxuries which it is intended to bestow upon trº
lers by railway. It is in contemplation to .
refreshment-room with every train, so that P*.
will have time allowed them to eat the articles *.
instead of being restricted as at present to the P.
ilege of payment. Various plans have been º
gested to enable passengers to swallow a cuP.
boiling tea or coffee, or a basin of hot soup '.
minute and a half, but it has been proved tha' r-
period specified is quite insufficient for such º
[. It has been suggested that there mig
ept and sold at all the refreshment-rooms " . iſ!
paration similar to that which enabled a .
Monsieur Chabert some years ago to swallow nº 10-
lead without any inconvenience. Others have
posed that parties should be allowed to take sº.
tea into the carriage with them, and send back urſ!
cup or basin by the up or down train, with a ret f
ticket fastened to the piece of crockery as a P"
of its contents having been paid for.
The most feasible scheme is, however, a pº
refreshment-room, one of which should travel ".
every train; and it might be advisable to hº. of
boiler of the engine supplied with soup ins”.
plain water. It has been calculated that the º
produced from the former liquid, would have ºr.
greater force than the vaporarising from theº W6
and the power of a pea in pea soup would ha ive.
wonderful influence on the speed of the lº. b6
A circulating library and reading-room will” ºr
shortly placed on the eastern counties, and p. y
gers will be at liberty to subscribe by the milº'.
the whole journey. There will be a mechanijy
tute for the third class, and the secretary has *. ator
undertaken to deliver a course of lectures 9.
my, life insurance, and other subjects likely" . ch,
useful to persons travelling on this railway |-Pu
rtablº
DENMARK–FOREIGN POLICY.
317
DENNIARK.
Two questions are at this moment agitating
łº diplomacy, each affecting the indepen-
& O ; a sovereign state. One concerns Spain,
tº: º, Denmark. The French king seeks to
© . Spain to his dynasty, and he has chosen
and . for perpetrating the act whilst the German
a.Stern powers are differing with each other
ºf Denmark.
com. Sapient statesmen who rearranged and re-
...ted Europe after Napoleon had left it in
j". were guided by principles the most
i. and, most pregnant with future disorder.
d . of France suggested the natural barrier
#"st that ambitious power, in the establishment
i. Strong, united, and free German nation. But
Feat autocrats were as much afraid of this as
i.”. So they made a tessellated kind of
they’; called the German Confederation, into which
...thrust as many non-German elements as they
terſ, Every prince was comprised in it, no mat-
mini. how miserably small, a portion of his do-
i. is the king of Holland for Luxembourg, the
§ ºf Denmark for Holstein, not so much for the
vid *ion of a compact political whole, as to pro-
* for a future defensive league against France.
* Statesmen of that day considered and meted
jºipalities and powers, but never deigned to
Popul ºf the perplexed and unnatural condition of a
d àtion, ordained to yield a double allegiance,
Dutc idden to be at once Danes, or Sclavonians, or
Thi. and at the same time Germans. º
and . edifice, built of such discordant materials,
ept together by such temporary cement, has
jºr since cracking and crumbling ; so rotten
im It is dangerous to touch, diſficult to prop, and
§.ible to repair. The whole diplomacy of
th º was for months and months pothering over
...sion of Luxembourg without being able to
...; and they only came to an arrangement by
"g the poor province in two. s
and #. comes the turn of the duchies of Sleswig
for Ølstein, and of Denmark, which, after having
º 0Ile monarch for centuries, and having
how as closely united as England and Wales, are
º be broken up and parcelled out like an
i., as if sovereignty followed a mere law of
j property. The great neighbors of Den-
ing lave certainly a good legal excuse for brºk:
cºw. and partitioning that monarchy; The
Ot y can descend to females, whilst the duchies,
Clai least one of them, is a male fief, , Russia
m. the crown for a son-in-law by right of his
..". Prussia claims the duchies as a male fief
an * Prince in her interests. Austria cries Hold,
i:"...would much like to keep old Denmark together
! Could. But Russia and Prussia, with the
jºy of despots, have called in popular feeling
and ighborly hatred to their aid. The people
sis. lawyers of the duchies—the O'Connells of
*Wig and Holstein—declare that they are Saxon,
i.” iſch cannot live harmoniously with the
* e countrymen of Klopstock repudiate
lenschlager as foreigners, because they
the German language differently, and
thrown up and speeches made for inde-
Poor ignorant wretches of would-be
Not more surely would the Irish re-
ºuld he carry out his wish, fall under the
ãº. theocracy at home, and of some interested
*m abroad, than the Holsteiner and the Dane
those of OE
*centuate
Ps are
Pendence.
Patriots :
Pealer
would be absorbed, the one in Prussia, the other in
Russia, if they separated.
The Holsteiner would, however, like very much
to become altogether German. But it would be
neither convenient nor agreeable for him to become
so, unless he could drag Sleswig with him. That,
however, would be without a shadow of right.
Nay, if Holstein does separate from Denmark, the
province can probably not even hold itself together,
for there are different claimants for its different dis-
tricts. There is the Gottorp district and the Ploen
district, and there are claimants for all.
Whilst the German provinces on the Baltic are
thus stretching out their arms to father-land, the
Danish patriot raves for a restoration of a Scandi-
navian empire, by a renewal of the union of Cal-
muc, in which Dane, Swede, and Norwegian
should join. It is difficult to conceive how this
could be effected. If Denmark of old oppressed
Sweden, Sweden has in turn trodden Denmark
under foot, and robbed her of Norway ; whilst
Norway seems to detest both, and to be determined
to live to herself. The tendency of the north
seems not to be towards agglomerated and united
empire, but to provincial isolation and local inde-
pendence. There might be some sense in these
longings, if they were possible of attainment. But
with such neighbors as Russia and Prussia, for any
little province or small kingdom to shut itself up in
its own blind and isolated importance, can merely
prepare food and victims for that universal empire
of despotism which already covers the east of
Europe, and will infallibly cover the north, if the
German and Scandinavian races are not wiser than
they seem to be.—Eraminer, September 26.
for EIGN POLICY.
.WE began by recognizing the present king of
the French with such headlong haste as to offend
Russia and Austria; and we continued to give
Louis Philippe so cordially the hand, that we ren-
dered any European coalition to crush him utterly
impossible. ...We had scarcely taken this position,
when the Belgian insurrection occurred. Louis
Philippe instantly declared that no one should
meddle with it; that the treaty of Vienna was
abrogated, as far as the Low Countries were con-
cerned; and that neither Europe nor Holland should
restore the status of 1815. We acquiesced. We
took the French view of the question against our-
selves. We approved of the siege of Antwerp.
Louis Philippe, to gratify us, did not, indeed, put his
son on the new Belgianthrone; but, by means of a
marriage, he did the same thing. Commercially,
olitically, and militarily, Belgium was absorbed by
rance; and we have taught ourselves to consider
it the natural order of things. *
Then occurred the death of Ferdinand, and the
revolution effected in Spain by his testament.
Here again we joined France, and recognized Isa-
bella, without taking expressr. against
her or her sister's marrying a French prince. But
we had at that time so loaded Louis Philippe and
his house with benefits, that we did not doubt his
gratitude. We concluded the quadripartite alli-
ance. We sent our soldiers and sailors to combat:
gave arms, money, English blood. Whilst Louis
Philippe endeavored to make a merit with the East-
ern powers of not cordially coöperating with us,
we, in despite of French lukewarmness, saved Bil.
boa, and with it the throne of Isabella. The sword
318
INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.
of Espartero secured it. And then in stepped
Louis Philippe to profit by all that we had done.
He suborned a party to oppose England in Spain;
he set up a press to calumniate her; and in a few
months he drove out of the Peninsula, with every
friend of England or of liberty, every vestige of
English influence. Further, to render security
more sure, he placed his minions near the throne
of Portugal, and was as much master of the court
of Lisbon as of Madrid. And this course of policy
he has now wound up by putting an extinguisher
on the little queen; and by giving openly to his
own son the succession to the Spanish throne, by
means of a marriage with the Infanta. We won-
der that the ghosts of William the Third and of
Marlborough do not rise from the grave, to reproach
the men who wield the sceptre and the sword of
England.
Now, we ask, would we not be much better off,
had we possessed no foreign minister, no diplo-
macy, no far-seeking policy for the last sixteen
ears? Need we speak of Italy; where we helped
the French to take Ancona, one result of which is,
that the French are now predominant at Rome!
Need we speak of Greece; which we helped to
liberate, in order to have it governed by the French
prefect, Coletti! Need we speak of Syria; where
we endangered the peace of Europe in resisting
France, and where the French, by their monks;
have won almost more influence than they wielded
through the sword of Ibrahim!
Turn away from France, and look to America.
We have had two causes of difference with the
United States, their north-east and their north-
west frontiers. In both we yielded more than even
the Americans themselves dared ask ten years
back. We were right, indeed, to yield. But
would it not have been more dignified to have flung
it up carelessly and magnanimously from nation to
nation, than to have employed diplomatic agents
to cavil and discuss ; to have heard Polk blus-
tering and Peel replying, with the certainty of
concession in the end? To have held our tongues,
and abided by our fate, would have been just as
profitable.
Then there is Texas. How lucky would we
have been to have had no Mr. Pakenham simply to
spirit up Mexico, and intrigue with Texas, that
Mr. Polk might break through the web of our
intrigues with a kick of his foot. In the Old
World as in the New, our habit universally is, to
thrust ourselves between two combatants when
they are nearly done fighting, and encourage the
weak and halfbeaten party to stand up once more
against the stronger, in. order to get himself en-
tirely beaten, and definitively crushed. ſº
But all this proceeds from the absurd vanity of
our statesmen, who will aspire to have a foreign
policy, when the nation not only has none, but
does not care to have any. Here, for example, are
these marriages of the Spanish princesses. Minis-
ters have thrown themselves into all kinds of men-
acing attitudes, of hurt pride, of angry remon-
strance, or of contingent war. To what, purpose!
except to show that England ought to be angry,
but has not the stomach to be so. Lord Palmer-
ston makes his press thunder, it is true : and is
full of deep ire in his own heart. But he is forced
to be bland, even when addressing that arch-traitor
Louis Philippe. He has to smile and promise
“ that the amicable relations between the countries
will not be disturbed ;” simply because he knows
the people of England would see, without the least
disturbance of their perfect indifference, all the
princesses of Spain married to all the emperor.” 0
all the realms of the universe. t
We now learn, that because government cº
resent Louis Philippe's falsehood at present.".
protest; it will, by a public declaration, disinhº.
the offspring of the Duke of Montpensier: ".
thus appeal from the impossibility of present waſ,
to the possibility of a future one.
This, we fear, is nonsense. If we will not .
to war now—and certainly we will not—to prº
a prince of Orleans from ascending the throne.
Spain, we shall be little likely to go to war for
same cause at any future time. And, knowing
this, it is unwise and unfair to throw upon I.
terity the task of avenging injuries which we dº.
not resent. Louis Philippe will laugh at ou. pro
tests; will sneer at our present backwardnes”;
and our valor in futuro; and will sheath his sº".
with a contemptuous “Well, gentlemen, W º
ever you are ready ;” showing how fully he º:
fathomed our purposes, and seen through *
political subterfuges. #
If people will but reflect on this state of thiº.
they must come to the conclusion, that the sº BS
and most dignified way for England, would bºº.
its government to conform itself to the public ſº.
ing of the nation, and to have no foreign policy 3.
all... There is no use in having any, unless th9
public have faith and sympathy in it, and unless *
statesman can act up to it. Óf this, at least, *.
are certain, that it would be much better to hº
no foreign policy at all, and no foreign office, t .
to reap from them such fruits. Every aim .
peace and friendship missed; every scheme of all.
ance abortive; every cherished freedom crush.
every useful influence undermined; every fee";
of national pride outraged; every guarante” .
national power and independence swept away; *. d
even all openings of trade and commerce clº
against us one after the other.—Daily News.
INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.
LITTLE by little the principle of internatiº.
copyright is obtaining recognition among the sº.
of Europe, and a relic of ancient barbarism is pass.
ing away into the limbo of history, to 3. 3.
droit d'aubaine, the right of wreckage an º
age, and other similar mediaeval enormities. .. ]
and by, the wonder will be how it could possib y
have kept its ground so long in an age that P*.
itself on its high civilization, and professes.
almost superstitious respect for the rights of P.
erty. Surely if there 'be one thing which ".
than all others deserves to be designal. t.
property, one thing which a man may with .
clearest and largest title call his own, it is the ºf
ductions of his brain. Strange that the *P.
nineteen centuries has been too short to *
{
* § { : G bè"
christendom to master this simple truth ! It ent
ginning to make way however. The most ..
or 11:
instance of its progress is notified in an act 1ſt
majesty's privy council, dated the 27th August, n-
pursuance'of a reciprocal treaty between this *.
try and Prussia: it directs that the authoº *.
makers of “books, prints, articles of sculptuº
dramatic works, and musical compositions...";
other works of literature and the fine artº.ht
published in Prussia, shall have the same copyrig
* # * . h6
therein as the law assigns in the like cases” t
BANKING IN PRUSSIA. 319
§ºtors of works first published in the United
ºngdom.
sº: exchange of a similar treaty with the United
€re would be an inestimable good fortune; and
i., very cheering tokens of our approach
*ds that consummation of justice and wisdom.
i.ercial benefits which it would confer on
d on. are so obvious and so great, that these
thou | ºuld render it an object of earnest desire,
8i . it were recommended by no higher con-
jº It may even seem, indeed, upon a
from ºl view, that the immediate gains resulting
€tW e measure would be very unequally divided
ol º the contracting parties; and that the
of E. ºicher, and more abundant art and literature
the §. would carry off the lion's portion. But
ise ºlder spirits in the United States think other-
natio they aspire to create, for themselves a
that i. literature, without which they contend
on." Union itself cannot stand. “Let us have
.."... thoughts,” says one of their writers; “or
hº cease to live. This is the cry and the
...sity of all nations that would endure either in
d.º. or the memory of mankind. Let us
te ºne to have a voice of our own in our litera-
oe. Mºh the world shall listen to and regard as
i. º”. But that voice can scarcely struggle
...tº late form so long as the temptations of
m; sanctioned both by law and custom, render
i.ºap publishers averse to purchase the writ-
& of American authors.
or. is it alone on the ground of justice to the
pi. author or of enlightened patriotism that the
e iple of international copyright is advocated on
li ...her side of the Atlantic ; its expediency is
Q Wise very cogently argued on purely trading
"siderations. #. this respect a very marked and
ºlesome change has occurred of late in the
ºws of American publishers. Eight years ago,
in * the agitation first began, they were unanimous
§...ºr opposition to the proposed innºvatiºn.
...the afterwards the business of republishing
..". d mighty impetus; the cheap rera arose,
*noth rought with it another class of interests,
The ºr race of traders—the cheap publishers.
Creti zeal of these men rapidly outran their dis-
the * , and after deluging the country with trash,
§. sº , themselves landed in bankruptcy.
i...by this practical refutation of their theºliº,
"nevitable reductio ad absurdum—the publish-
p." to reflect that there was more credit and
5...", he gained by each man's dealing in his
h ºliased and indisputable copyrights, than
j “chances of a piratical scramble from which
.."ght come off losers. Accordingly, when
... he authors appealed to Congress, in 1844,
were joined, not only by the chief publishers
l º had been their most formidable antagonists in
, but also by most of the disappointed purvey-
tº Sheap reprints. The copyright question has
if ...dily gaining ground ever since. Indeed,
of tº.". believe a fact alleged by a correspºndent
thems l €10 York Morning Courier, the publishers
C. ves have anticipated the tardy action of
cij". and have to some extent practically de-
the *he question. Besides occasionally paying
ū’īl, ºr ign author for early sheets of his book,
of i. i. consummated their acknowledgment
him". solute right in his work, by purchasing of
° privilege to publish it in perpetuo in the
%
di.º hºlderspirits may think otherwise; but the more
take the “superficial view.º-Living Age.
United States; allowing him, as his share, a por
tion of the profits. This arrangement has been
made more than once, and is growing to be a cus-
tom of the trade.” If this be true, the legislature
cannot long refuse its sanction to a law already
virtually enacted by opinion and necessity.
BANKING IN PRUSSIA.
A REMARKABLE movement in political finance is
going on just now in Prussia ; interesting to a
commercial nation like England, not only because
it has a direct hearing on trade, but also because it
is instructive as a living illustration of questions
that ought never to be lost sight of........
The efforts of King Frederick William to re-
lieve the pressure felt by the leading portion of his
subjects from the prevailing scarcity of money are
unremitting and so far praiseworthy. It was
probably the success that attended the establish-
ment of the Vienna Bank after the French war,
that has led to the attempt to extend the operations
of the national law at Berlin. The long experi-
ence of Austria, however, tells the same tale that
the few weeks' initiatory practice of the Prussian
financiers has proclaimed at Berlin. A circulating
medium that has no intrinsic value cannot be
created “de par le roi” if the basis of all transac-
tions on credit be overlooked.
The Austrians were after the war reduced to the
lowest state of financial distress. Notes issued on
emergencies, like the French assignants, without
calculation and without limit, had fallen to a course
of about 30 per cent. ; a circumstance which, by
placing all contracts in jeopardy, threatened totally
to demoralize society. At this juncture, the estab-
lishment of the bank at Vienna under the auspices
of the crown, with a new issue of notes convertible
into silver on demand, was hailed with pleasure by
the nation. The old notes were exchanged for
new at a fixed rate, at which the government
chose to value them. The crown declared itself
bankrupt; but was able to give some guarantee for
honesty as to the time to come, by establishing a
tolerable equality between its revenue and expendi-
ture. Its credit has hitherto been kept up by a
scrupulous adherence to its promise of redeeming
periodically portions both of the old and new debt.
his punctuality saved the Austrians from the
necessity of tying themselves down by, promises
not to contract loans. The liberty of dealing as
they pleased with the money market was willingly
allowed to men who had used this power with dis-
cretion. - º
Prussia undoubtedly assumed a higher stand on
the same occasion. The government undertook
more and demanded a greater exertiºn on the part
of the people. The paper issues of Prussia during
the war were not so extensive as those of Austria
had been. Moreover, Prussia had spared to itself
the fearful exhaustion that Austria had incurred by
its grand exertion against the French invader in
1809. The rising of 1813 was a levy “en masse,”
and those who went to the seat of war lived at free
quarter upon both friends and foes. Prussia was
consequently able to avoid that fearful visitation
which a discredited currency entails upon a coun-
try. But it could only accomplish this great object
by the aid of the people, to whom the king in his
emergency appealed. A commission of men whose
names inspired a confidence which the conduct of
some of them has lately justified, was established
320
THE BIBLE AND HOME.
to report to the king openly on the state of the
national debt. Its extent was unreservedly pro- has been mentioned, has been fulfilled in
claimed, and a solemn covenant was entered into
by the king and the members of the commission to
the purport that no addition should be made to its
amount without an appeal to a national representa-
tive assemply. The political development and the
commercial prosperity of the nation were in the
manner placed in the royal hand by a confiding
people. The value of the paper that remained
current depended of course upon the confidence
thus reposed in the good faith of the crown and in
the character borne by the members of the com-
mission for the national debt.
In various changes that took place in the paper
issues, (which in Prussia as in Austria are ex-
chequer bills of small amount, but having no inter-
est,) the original afilount, then supposed to be
about thirty millions of dollars, was not exceeded.
The general prosperity augmented, and with it
confidence in the government securities. The
market price of stock was further increased through
the privilege enjoyed by capital so invested of being
exempt from taxation. In consequence of this cir-
cumstance, perhaps far the largest portion both of
the Austrian and Prussian debts is held º natives
of the respective countries, or at least by conti-
nental capitalists. It must be clear to all who take
the trouble to examine into those things, that both
the restoration of public credit in Austria, and its
preservation in Prussia, were effected by inspiring
the people of those countries and the public at
large with confidence. To shake that confidence
was tantamount to threatening the existence of the
two governments. Hence the intimate alliance
that has so long united the two rival crowns.
Hence, too, the peaceful, although repressive
policy that has so long served to keep up the ap-
pearance of stability. Hence, finally, the sub-
mission of the two countries no less deeply inter-
ested in the preservation of public credit than their
rulers, to a subjection that for years has been
scarcely tolerable for enlightened men. The case
is parallel, although the circumstances, are differ-
ent, to the patriotic declaration of the British mer-
chants on the suspension of cash-payments by the
Bank of England; a declaration which made the
suspension both possible and useful. Without the
support of the people the British Crown would
then have been as little able to avail itself of the
disposable resources of the nation to continue the
revolutionary war, as those of Austria and Prussia
would have found themselves to consolidate their
power and the advantages of peace.
In each of these cases the importance of a paper
currency judiciously organized is apparent. In each,
the necessity of awakening confidence "... pre-
cautions is shown to be indispensable. ach coun-
try has tested the utility that may be drawn from
issues based upon credit on emergencies. ... But no
one will be so bold as to pretend that the mere
government sanction lent to the issues so made the
value that they maintained. Had the issues
originally been, as in Austria, beyond what public
opinion esteemed it practicable for the state to
redeem, they could enjoy no confidence until they
were reduced within that limit; and in 1811, Aus-
tria annulled the value of a large portion of its cir-
culating medium, on account of its depreciation in
the market. Prussia, which since the war has
injured the national credit by unlimited issues, was
last year compelled to adopt the same measure.
The promise made in the solemn manner that
Prussia
during the last reign and the commencement 9 .
present. Its spirit has, however, more than ".
been infringed. Nevertheless, the Prussian ſº
are at this moment higher than the Austrº".
Prussian three-and-a-half per cents are quo; º
933; Austrian five per cents are at 110}. sº
of the causes of this difference, as well as the Imall
ner in which the spirit of the compact appears.
have been infringed in Prussia, we propose tº º:
plain in a subsequent article. The importanſ” º
the subject at the present moment will justify"
returning to it.—Spectator, October 3.
THE BIBLE AND HOMIE.
Some recollections haunt us through all º:
chances and changes of our existence. º:
early memory walks with us, step by step thrº.
the paths of the green earth: it clings to *.
sickness and in sorrow ; it dwells with us in *"
shine and in shade; perhaps giving tone *.
color to the circumstances by which we are *
rounded, and often, very often, thus influencing 9.
actions in every stage of life. It may be the nº
of the foaming wave, or the glimpse we catch.”
the sweet violet underneath the hedge, which brings
back our first remembered grief, or our earliest jº.
—but there it is; and, in an instant, to each 9.
of us is the page of the past opened; and clearly
does the scene stand forth from among those neº.
fading pictures, drawn by the keen observation* t
the simple truthfulness of childhood. Would...
parents do well to make these first pictures in life,
these recollections which go with us even tº
grave, as pleasant and profitable as possible to tº:
whom they so fondly love? Happy are the ‘.
dren who by such remembrances do not weal.
their affection for the absent, or, worse than this,
cannot wound the memory of the dead. for
I seldom open my Bible but I feel grateful.”
the early carë which allows me now to assoº t
my first thoughts of that holy book with ple.
remembrances. No weary task rises up befºrd
me; no toilsome repetition ill understood ; no º:
page, blotted with my tears; no sad, sad pun” ſ]
ment-lesson ; but, instead of these, memorie.
which I love to dwell, and, among them, the k"
look and the gentle tone of commendation that.
warded any voluntary exertion of reading or repº.
tion. A privilege and a pleasure I felt it was.
those first days of life, to pore upon the large P.
of our old Family-Bible, and to spend hours, happy
hours too, in, most literally, spelling over º 6
simple and beautiful histories of Scripture, whº *
the sunbeams, I well remember, when in.
favorite nook in a western window, not unfreq'º'
ly illuminated the page. How suitable the gil ing
for the book ly
Nor do I ever read the 23d Psalm, but .
recollections steal over me; and I am in an ins” &
by the magic of memory, transported to the .
of my childhood; and the hour, brief and brig st
when I first heard those sacred words, shine” ".
vividly from the midst of the surrounding gº.
ty. do not think I have an earlier recolle?”
than this ; for after it there comes a blº.
dimness; and then life begins to tell its contin"
story.
CHARACTERISTIC NOTE–CUSTOM-HOUSE DIFFICULTY.
321
Le
j Ine look
slig
.*lifecall back through these long, long
tº wi
that hour. The sketch, though
be truthful, for I have treasured up
of it, day after day, and year after
will
Iſle
Year. mory
It
for ".
d have been a winter's evening, I suppose,
*ems º bright fire burned before us; and it
Since. . me I have never seen so bright a fire
lma #: table was drawn close to it. The night
§ll tº * been cold; but it was not stormy, for I
The jºmber the stillness without and within.
a Sa º not an ordinary one : probably it was
less i evening, for there seemed to be a calm-
§ng * very atmosphere, a hush upon my
ikºº ºrit. The room is indistinct to me—dream-
*We no recollection even of familiar furni-
biºlse is in the background, save that
§tou ; Pºlished table, the glowing fire, and the
there *ide it. I could at this moment, were I
Sat: º: out the very spot where my mother
him tº father was opposite to her; and before
ś.*Pen, upon the table, what seemed to my
laº; ºnced comprehension of size, a large, very
sid: "%k; while I a little child stood by his
When I... young indeed I must have been,
has in *Collect I was alone by that hearth which
S ... been gladdened by many a childish tone.
sº.”h as I was, I well remember there was a
side...ºnse of comfort, of happiness, of “fire-
thent *Yºnent,” at my young heart at that mo-
tºlice, º, the very fulness of this feeling, I
alſ. looking gladly on all things around; and
the "Sº, too, seemed to look smilingly back upon
M
hº ºther was reading “The Lord is my shep-
Pºssibi shall not want.” And beautiful, inex-
§ccee#. beautiful, did these words, and each
far...; one, seem to me. The imagery—thus
hº. of the country—was within my compre-
jº, and it was at once understood. “The
hy jºres, the still waters,” were they not
*i. W companions! Even “the valley of the
to m "...ºf death” thus presented, brought no terror
ºng imagination. While, with a loved
*mom "ear, where is the child who would not in
Similº ºn: feel the force and fondness of that home
Overjº, the prepared table, the cup that runneth
A
A gl
0.
Ound rst heard and felt these sublime words,
...by the halo of affection; and 0 this i;
US light to shine upon early impressions !
stic affections beautifully interpret the
first Scripture-lessons: " I know my
look was full of gentleness and tenderness.
y and º, yes, I still remember, the real solem-
ºf, "...ºness of my father's voice and man:
§ a child, I knew not the meaning of all
Unti Words h
il Il
Press ſº
th
S
|other,
e read; but I felt them then-felt,
"ºned the language by which I could ex-
hat love and faith were at that fire-side.
child...years passed; and, while yet a little
work'; it my early home. I exchanged “God’s
I 19 country, for “man’s work,” the town.
in the path of life. My parents faded,
Yºt least, from my recollection ; for other
*::clatives called me their own, in all save
"d now new pursuits engrossed my at-
i.e." friends were gathering around me,
Som ** and circumstances were before me.
§reat cit *mes, even amid the din and tumult of a
ever- ; and above the noise and bustle of the
song §§ mass, would I hear, in fancy, the glad
Fº
chil
i. dles
mountain-stream, or the wild wind rustling among
the trees, which I had so often listened to in the
quiet of my infant years.
How often, too, would I wander back in imagi-
nation to well-known spots I would be once more
in the green meadows, where I used to gather the
daisies and the buttercups, those treasured flowers
of childhood; and nooks, well remembered nooks,
rich with pale primroses, would .# up before
me. And then the rushing water-fall, the huge
grey rocks, and those bright green mossy spots in
the deep glen, the beautiful wild rose, the sweet-
smelling honeysuckle, and the brilliant red berr
of the mountain-ash—could I forget these ? No,
they were never forgotten; nor were the heather.
clad hills around my home, the distant mountains,
and the far-off blue lake. Yet better remembered
than any of these, and oftener—far brighter than
the flowers, and sweeter than earth's sweetest
sounds—was the thought of that calm, happy
Sabbath evening. And more blessed, too, than
either of the eye or of the ear, was that memory
of the heart! Since, in far wanderings on the
quiet earth and on the stormy sea, in the anguish
of sickness, in the gladness of health, in the dark-
ness of sorrow, that hour has spoken “peace” to
IIMC.
Yes; I have dwelt in fairer and more cultivated
scenes since those early days. I have been sur-
rounded by the luxuries which wealth can call up;
I have listened to the rich eloquence of the gifted,
and the wisdom of the learned; I know the hom-
age which noble birth obtains. Yet I would not
now exchange the recollection of that happy hour,
I would not lose the tone of it, such as my loved
parents made it to me, for any one of these, earth's
choicest gifts. For is not our yellow gold ashes,
our rank, a vain flecting breath, and our boasted
learning dark ignorance, compared with the riches,
and the titles, and the wisdom that chapter con-
tained for the child.—Ch. of Eng. Mag.
A “CHARACTERISTIC” Note.—The president of the
Preston Institution, Mr. John Paley, Jr., presented,
on Tuesday last, to the museum of that society, an
autograph letter of his grace the Duke of Wellington.
The advice contained in the characteristic and piquant
epistle is so excellent, and so generally applicable.
that we present our readers with a copy of it:—
º London, Feb. 13, 1843. F. M. the Duke of Wel-
lington presents his compliments to Mrs. C–. He
really regrets much that he has not been able to read
her letter. He entreats her to write in a plain hand,
in dark ink, and in few words what her commands
are, Mrs. C–, , Liverpool.”—Preston
Chronicle.
A Custom-House Difficulty.—--Several weeks
since, the importation of a quantity of Indian corn
took place in the ear, or attached to the stem or cob,
amounting to 28,000 heads of the article, by a vessel
named Richard Cobden, arrived from South America.
The whole of the parcel has remained in bond up to
the present time, and the owners now requiring the
delivery of the same for home consumption, a diffi-
culty arose as to the manner of measuring the corn
for the duty, viz., 1s., per quarter, which it was of
course impossible to do in its existing state, and ap-
plication having been made to the revenue authori-
ties for the purpose, permission was given in this
particular instance, for the whole quantity to be
thrashed in the warehouse, in order that the grain
might be detached from the huge husk, coh, or stalk,
for the purpose of being metered for the duty due
° Summer bird, or the music of the clear thereon.-Examiner.
322 WILD SPORTS AND NATURAL
HISTORY OF THE HIGHLANDS.
From the Examiner.
and Natural His-
rom the Journals of
Short Sketches of the Wild Sports
tory of the Highlands.
Charles St. Jolin, Esq.
This is a delightful book. In raciness of style,
force of description, and hearty love of the matters
described, it is quite equal to the books of Mr.
Waterton. The naturalist will be most charmed
with it. There is indeed enough of adventure in
Mr. St. John's hunting exploits to make the book
attractive to general readers; but its great fascina-
tion consists in its vivid and truthful pictures of ani-
mated nature in Morayshire and some of the sur-
rounding districts.
Mr. St. John is no battue man ; no wholesale
slaughterer in the disguise of a sportsman. His
pleasure lies as well in the excitement of the pur-
suit, as in those delightful impressions from natural
objects which come unsought during extensive
rambles through varied scenery; and both he has
the happy art of transferring to the reader. He is
not insensible, indeed, to the comfort of bringing a
dainty morsel to his own larder, or to that of a
friend. He can taste a delicacy by proxy, and rel-
ish it the more that another joins in the enjoyment.
In all which, we take it, he fulfils the true condi-
tions of the character of the gentleman sportsman,
from the days of Will Wimble and Sir Roger de
Coverly to his own.
Mr. St. John can also sympathize with what is
good or what is merely picturesque, in the Highland
poacher; and he throws an amusing light on the
rigorous exclusion of sight-seeking tourists from
“the hills of the buck and the roe.” It is clear,
from Mr. St. John's revelation, that the gamekeep-
ers find it safer to interfere with urbane and pacific
ramblers, than with the indigenous poacher; and
that they catch as many of the more innocent class
as possible, on the same principle that bad shots
will bag anything that comes in the way to hide
their inefficiency for better sport.
Mr. St. John, the reader will understand from all
this, is a gentleman who takes life easily, and who
has unwittingly become a naturalist, while he
thought himself in pursuit of amusement merely.
The close observer passes, by easy transition, to the
faithful describer, of the habits of all classes of liv-
ing beings. From the tiny eels, which wriggle in
myriads up the moist and moss-grown stones of
Highland streams in spring, to the eagle and the
mammoth stag, who have for years been the tyrants
of their district—nothing escapes him. He is
familiar with the inmost economy of the badger's
house; he has lurked in ambush to see the tricks
of the fox; he has drifted on the waves beneath H
the cliffs of Cromarty, intent upon the doings of
seals and gannets; and he has bivouacked near the
mountain summits in his chase of the deer.
Let us endeavor, by a few extracts, taken rather
with a view to our own space than to the prefer-
ence we might else have given, to communicate to
our readers some taste for the pleasure this delight-
ful book has given us.
GAELIC FISHERMEN -
“In the quiet summer evenings it was interesting
to see my crew of five Highlanders, as; singing a
Gaelic song, they rowed the boat in a large semi-
circle round one of the bays, letting out the net as
they went, one end of the rope being held by a man
on the shore at the point from which they started.
When they got to the other side of the bay they
re-
landed, with the exception of one man, wº iſ!
mained in the boat to right the net if it got radu"
roots or stones. The rest hauled in the *:::
ally, bringing the two ends together. i. º seed
in, a fine trout or pike now and then would in the
making a dart round the enclosed space wºo.
net, or dashing at the net itself, dragging {} d mºº
ment half the corks under water. The ...tif
of the crew, a little peppery Highlander, ". emen"
got into a state of the most savage exº * ore
which increased as the net approached the caugh'
and if any stoppage occurred from its belºë excitº
by a root or stick, he actually danced wº e nº
ment, hallooing and swearing in Gaelic at th othly
the men and the fish. When all went on *. p0
and well, he acted the part of fugleman, ... and
little dignity, perched in the bow of the,".. as
keeping the men in proper place and .ht 3
they dragged in the net. We generally ºgº
great number of trout and pike, some of yº, and
size. By the time we had killed all the fis and
arranged them in rows to admire their bºhim)
size, the little captain (as the other men co
subsided into a good-humored calm; an
offered a pinch of snuff to the game-keeper.
he generally fixed upon in particular to shº
consequence of a kind of rivalry between *.
also in consequence of his measuring som brief
and shoulders higher than himself, he made *... by
apology for what he had said, winding it,”
e *
having
wº
t
t d } d
* uſ
saying, “And after all, that's no so bad, º
honor,' as he pointed to some giant trout; hº hiff,
would light a pipe, and having taken a few . t
deliberately shove it alight into his waistcoat P
and extracting a netting needle and sº
work, mending any hole that had been mad".
net. This done, and a dram of whisky h thé
been passed round, the net was arrange od
stern of the boat, and they rowed round the ... to
promontory to the other creek, keeping ... 3
their oars with some wild Gaelic song, . of
chorus in which they all joined, and the fººd
which, as it came over the water of the º }
died gradually away as they rounded the he*
had a most peculiarly romantic effect.”
set !”
in th9
3.W ing
AN EAGLE's DEATH.
!
- “Soon afterwards a magnificent eagle º
arose almost at our feet, as we came to the * jº
a precipice, on a shelf of which, near the sº.
he had been resting. Bang went one barre sho!
at a distance of twenty yards. The sm"...se
struck him severely, . dropping his legs, le ulaſ”
into the air, darting upwards nearly perpend ‘in.
ly, a perfect cloud of feathers coming out... ack
Ie then came wheeling in a stupified mann; er 3:
over our heads. We both of us fired togeth and
him, and down he fell with one wing brºjº
hit all over with our small shot. He º not
hard to keep up with the other wing, but cºº him *
do so, and came heavily to the ground wº ſ!
ard of the edge of the precipice. He ſell 9. feet,
#. back at first, and then rising up on jº
looked round with an air of reproachful,” bcak,
The blood was dropping slowly out of hº.ad
when Donald foolishly ran to secure him, ". cmC0
of leaving him to die where he was ; in col.s,
of his doing so, the eagle fluttered back a few ºt
still, however, keeping his face to the ſº lººk.
coming to the edge of the precipice, he tº d strug’
wards over it, and we saw him tumbling * pro-
gling downwards, as he strove to cling to the ſ:0
jections of the rock—but in vain, as he cam”
wild sports AND NATURAL HISTORY OF THE HIGHLANDs.
323
$ton ºf
tº. he reached the bottom, where we beheld
taduall * *gaining his feet for a short time, sink
to tº. to the ground. It was impossible for us
$0 far the place where he lay dead without going
Im.”und that the daylight would have failed us.
i..."; notwithstanding the reputed destruc-
§et at º: the eagle, that I looked with great re-
that I h e dead body of the noble bird, and wished
was o * not killed him, the more especially as I
bliged t - d in-
*cessi. º: Jºe him to rot uselessly in that in
Yen
RATS.
(t
sºbºdy must be glad to encourage any
$ºn. * kills a rat, and the owls are the most
$g. enemies to this, the most obnoxious and
Fo: W "g animal which we have in this country.
*hima * can be so sickening as to know that these
theſ, lºne direct from devouring and revelling in
tº. ºlºst garbage in the drains of your house to
? Ire º where your own provisions are kept;
tun dº from their stinking and filthy banquet,
a... your meat with their clammy paws, and
§ans your bread with their foul teeth? what
No. .# and washing can wipe away their traces?
have . will keep out these animals when they
Raw . established themselves in a house. They
he jºgh stone, lead, or almost anything.
ly find dy be extirpated for a time, but you sudden-
old ta yourself invaded by a fresh army. Some
that . * too, acquire such a carnivorous appetite,
Sall . and ducks, old or young, pigeons, rabbits
yell .." prey to them. Adepts in climbing as
dead . * undermining, they get at everything,
ºt. ºlive. They reach game, although hun
Šing *fully in a larder, by climbing the wall, an
the ... to beam or rope till they get at it; they
have jºur and destroy all that can be reached. I
3. i.ntly known them in this manner destroy
to c . full of game in a single night. They seem
$º eat .* with the hind legs of the hares, and
§§ ºwnwards, hollowing the animal out as it
fieli. P. till nothing but the skin is left. In the
Sum º which the rats betake themselves in the
."º not only corn, but game, and eggs of
“M * fall to their share.
has . Waterton says that no house in England
his." Buffered from the Hanoverian rats than
boo. I don't doubt it—in every sense. The
ſeedi. “ºrat is a comparatively harmless animal,
ho. Pºincipally upon herbage, not refusing,
*fish, or even toads, when they come in its
Śles of . succulent grasses that grow by the
itches seem to form its chief food during
ºmer season. Early in the spring, before
*ses are well grown, the water-rat preys
* toads. I have found little piles of the feet,
*ins of several of these animals, near the
Water frequented by these rats, which they
ave collected together in certain places,
there. I have known the water rat to do
$fº.ge to the artificial dams and the heads
*Very i. by undermining them, and boring holes in
tk ...iºn through them, below the water-
ºlia. 8 well as above it. The water-rat has pe-
alººnsitive organs of scent, and it is therefore
Cove. Possible to trap him, as he is sure to dis-
i...the tai
Timer may
*Stant tra
°re aro s
who will
by c
and ()
archs
not enter any kind of trap.
lieve that the best kind of trap in a house is the
common gin, laid open and uncovered in their runs.
They then do not seem to suspect any danger, but
when the trap is covered they are sure to detect its
presence, and like all wild animals, they are much
more cautious in avoiding a concealed danger than
an open one. Poison is the best means of getting
rid of them, and the manner of applying it is as fol-
lows:—For the space of a fortnight feed the rats
with good wholesome meal and water in some quiet
room or cellar accessible to all these troublesome
inmates of your house. At first two or thee rats
may find it out; these are sure to lead others to
the place, till the whole company of freebooters go
for their share. As soon as you see that they seem
to have collected in numbers in your feeding room,
season your meal with plenty of arsenic, and you
may be pretty sure of its being all devoured. Con-
tinue giving them this till you find no more come,
and by that time probably there are none left alive
in the house. The only danger is, that some of
them may die behind the wainscots of your rooms,
in which case you must either open, the place and
search till you find the dead animal, or you must
vacate the room till the dreadful stench is over.
That rats carry off hens' and even turkeys' eggs to
some considerable distance is a fact; how they ac-
complish this feat I should like to know, as they do
it without breaking the shell, or leaving any mark
upon it. A crow or magpie, Columbus like, short-
ens the difficulty by sticking the lower mandible of
his bill into a hen's egg when he wants to carry it
off, but this is beyond a rat's capabilities; never-
theless, eggs form one of their favorite repasts.
The increase of rats, if left to breed in peace,
would exceed that of almost any other animal, as
they produce broods of six or eight young ones in
rapid succession, throughout the greatest part of
the year. In building a nest for her young, the fe-
male carries off every soft substance which she can
find ; pieces of lace, cloth, and, above all, paper,
seem to be her favorite lining.
“The natural destroyers in this country of this
obnoxious animal seem to be the hen-harrier, the
falcon, the long-eared and the tawny owl, cats,
weasels, and stoats; and ante omnes, boys of every
age and grade wage war to the knife against rats,
wherever and whenever they can find them.
“As for rat-catchers—find me an honest one,
and I will forfeit my name. I would as soon admit
a colony of rats themselves, as one of these gentry
to my house—not but what I have amused myself
by learning slight tricks of the trade from one of
these representatives of roguery and unblushing
effrontery, but, fas estaet ab hoste doceri. Rats
swarm about the small towns in this country where
the herrings are cured, living amongst the stones
of the harbors and rocks on the shore, and issuing
out in great numbers towards nightfall to feed on
the stinking remains of the fish: ,
“They have been seen migrating from these
places at the end of the fishing, season in compact
bodies and in immense numbers. They then
spread themselves, an invading host, amongst the
farm-houses and stack-yards in the neighborhood;
repairing again to the coast for the benefit of a fish-
diet and sea air, when their wonderful instinct tells
Oll * taint of the human hand. Cunning as them that the fishing season has again commenced.
the fo ...at is, this kind is much more so. Though But I really must finish the subject, or my reader
! be in a measure kept down r
pping, it is a troublesome method, the unprincipled greediness and voracity of the
ure to be some cunning old º: Hanoverian or grey rat, who has made for itself a
be- home in this country, after nearly extirpating the
will be as tired as I am myself of these accounts of
324
HISTORY OF THE HIGHLANDS. :nºf
WILD SPORTS AND NATURAL
original indigenous and much less vile race of Brit-
ish rats.”
HABITS OF FOXES.
“A fox, after he has lost one of his feet in a
trap, is still able to get his own living, and to keep
himself in as good plight as if he had his whole
complement of legs effective. One, which had left
a foot in a trap, and escaped on the other three,
lived for two years afterwards about the same
ground. We knew his track in the sand, by the
impression of his stump. This winter, while
shooting in the sand-hills, we saw a fox sneak
quietly into a small thicket of trees. I immediately
placed the two sportsmen who were with me at dif-
ferent points of the thicket, and then took my re-
triever on the track. The dog, who, from his
former battles with fox and otter, is very eager in
his enmity against all animals of the kind, almost
immediately started the fox, and, after a short
chase, turned him out within shot of a very sure
gun. The consequence was the instant death of
Mr. Reynard. On examining, he turned out to be
the very fox whose foot had been nailed up two
years before. He was an immense old dog-fox, in
perfect condition, although he had only three legs
to hunt on. The fox is a constant attendant on the
rabbit-trapper, robbing him of most of the rabbits
that are caught in his traps or snares. He some-
times, however, pays dearly, by getting caught in
the wires; and although he generally breaks the
snare and escapes, does not do so without most ser
vere punishment. I shot a fox this season who had
the remains of a rabbit-wire round his hind leg,
which was cut to the bone by his struggles to es-
cape.
“When living in Ross-shire, I went one morn-
ing in July before daybreak to endeavor to shoot a
stag, who had been complained of very much by an
adjoining farmer, as having done great damage to
his crops. Just after it was daylight, I sºw a large
fox come very quietly along the edge of the planta-
tion in ... } was concealed; he looked with
great care over the turf wall into the field, and
seemed to long very much to get hold of some
hares that were feeding in it—but apparently knew
that he had no chance of catching one by dint of
running; after considering a short time, he seemed
to have formed his plans, and having examined
the different gaps in the wall by which the hares
might be supposed to go in and out, he fixed upon
the one that seemed the most frequented, and laid
himself down close to it in an attitude like a cat
watching a mouse-hole. Cunning as he was, he
was too intent on his own hunting to be aware that
I was within twenty yards of him with a loaded
rifle, and able to watch every mºvement he made;
fwas much amazed to see the fellow sº completely
outwitted, and kept my rifle ready to shoot him if
he found me out and attempted to escape. In the
mean time I watched all his plans ...he first with
great silence and care scraped a smallhºllow in the
ground, throwing up the sand is a kind of screen
between his hiding-place and the hares', meuse—
every now and then, however, he stopped to listen,
and sometimes to take a most cautious Peep into the
field; when he had done this, he laid himself down
in a convenient posture for springing upon his prey,
and remained perfectly motionless, with the excep-
ſ]
tion of an occasional reconnoitre of tº fº
hares. When the sun began to rise, thé lanº
one by one from the field to the cover of the º
tion; three had already come in without pºſs
his ambush, one of them came within twº." §uch"
of him, but he made no movement beyo"
ing still more flatly to the ground-prº"
came directly towards him; though he dº...ofhi:
ture to lookup, I saw, by an involuntary mºnt;
ears, that those quick organs had already jº
him of their approach; the two hares cam" "...is
the gap together, and the fox springin; . iſſ!”
quickness of lightning caught one and killedº.
mediately; he then lifted up his booty and .
rying it off like a retriever, when ſpy n back
stopped his course by passing through. * †er
bone, and I went up and despatched hiº, fox
seeing this I never wondered again as to ". ºr tha"
could make a prey of animals much quº. º
himself, and apparently quite as cunning. at #
We must repeat of Mr. St. John's book, f Sek
takes a place beside Waterton's, Whitº °, the
borne's, and other of the happiest effusio...! in
literature of natural history. It is a º th9
which the seasons of the year are indicated." ſt
migrations and businesses of the inferior aſſ!
is for Morayshire what White's history of: e 3
is to his more domesticated region. Tº Al-
great variety in Morayshire scenery, from º th9
inc to the Champagne; from the sea-coast t irds
inland. Nor are its occupants less varied...thet
and beasts, which cultivation has driven fro º
parts of the island, still house there. Thº adv dis’
of arboriculture has attracted to that north".ºf
trict, birds which once were only met will.iſ.
to the south; and storms, or erratic § moſº
I
often bring thither winged visitants, whº", hº
commonly confine themselves to the short” O
Baltic. - moſ"
The difference of the seasons, too, *i. th9
marked in Morayshire, than with us herº '...uch
south. The systematic naturalist may lºº," who
from Mr. St. John that has escaped tº:
walk in the trammels of system and classific” esh"
and every reader will find in his pages tº
ness and animation of real nature.
—-mº 0°
CANADA—The Toronto Board of Trade hº º:
rialized the Queen for a repeal of the differen!' ation
ties in favor of British importations, a moºn re.
of the Navigation-laws, and the removal of ºntº
strictions on the free navigation of the St. Jº. ſt wº
It was generally understood that Lord Catº. was
about to return to England; and great anxiet Sptº
felt for the appointment of a new Governo"T
tator, 19 Sept.
efl’
The Indian Meat, Book; comprising the bes' *...*
can receipts for the various preparation? jade;
excellent'article. By Eliza Leslie, of P j."
phia, author of “American Domestic 0°
&c.
A useful manual for the preparation of an *.
food destined, it would appear, to take its pla;...is of
us as a necessary of life. The different e very
meal, and the various modes of cooking, "...about
clearly described; the little volume comp.'... un’
seventy different receipts, set forth in a plain *
..le of
icle
t oná
mistakable phraseology.—Spect.
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
325
From the United Service Magazine.
* MILITARY DEFENCE of Rivers.
T BY JOHN FINCH, Esq.
HERE h
tory of all ave been numerous instances in the his-
handed nations, where a small army, well com-
W have beaten a superior numerical force,
cho ºling them in the open field, or when,
dwe º * Strong position on fortified heights, they
any . for the approach of the enemy. On
Yities.” occasions, mountain passes have often
he stº the destruction of numerous armies.
K ber º of Thermopylae and the Passes of the
*bray: ºve, in various ages of the world, enabled
'limost ºd determined race of people to defy the
fore of “forts of disciplined armies. It is there-
"asses gºat importance that the position in which
should º men, composing, armies, are placed,
in * such as to render their strength available
ighest possible degree. But it is rather a
Circumstance in the history of the wars in
"stanc * human race have engaged, that in every
hind. ° where a general has placed his army be-
been i. to defend the passage, he has always
Strate *ated. It is a very important rule in the
ºn.' of war, and has not hitherto been
des. With the attention which it appears to
ve,
singul
5ula
Which
i. is a bad military line.
have . instances may be exhibited where they
the . chosen as strong military positions, but
º, *e always deceived their possessor.
St.* was not so good a barrier against the
* the Roman Wall.
hine was a military barrier against the
* \ºermans, but would not have been against
*ed power. r
* Ronans defended the line of the Danube
..", years, against the savage tribes of
of t ºth, but at length retired to the true barrier
des. annonian Alps, leaving the interval a
, Ri
lſ, º are more an apparent than a real obstacle
T * * g º
º: attles of the Po, the Mincio, the Taglia-
lar. s !he Rhine, and the Danube, have had simi-
Of ºl, in the most distant periods of the history
that". "ºld, and from the battle of Granicus to
alwa eresina, the defenders of rivers have
* ten unfortunate.
Place * following essay we propose, in the first
this . give an account of various battles in which
deas. is exemplified; we shall afterwards en-
and, i tº explain the reason of its occurrence ;
that ſ the third place, we shall endeavor to show
Who º great generals of ancient and modern time,
ºn the . been inferior to their adversaries either
Xho ha "mber or the discipline of their forces, and
time "º therefore been compelled to remain some
bank efensive positions, have never selected the
!" pref * river for their encampment. They have,
tain .*. stationed their army in strong moun-
ºre. or in hilly countries, where the natural
ficial. .9f the position, aided by redoubts and arti-
Of #. enabled them to resist the attacks
t º
º: of the defeat of armies stationed on the
th ers :
of . Emperor of Persia, assembled the forces
to .**ive dominions on the river Granicus,
donia. st the invasion of Alexander the Mace-
*mpelled "t his troops were defeated, and he was
to wander as a fugitive over realms
which, a short time previous, had witnessed his
magnificence and power.
In the first war for the reformation in Germany,
Frederick of Saxony and his Protestant allies
assembled their forces, to contest their rights and
privileges against the encroachment of the emperor,
Charles W. After a campaign of some duration,
the elector stationed his army on the bank of a
river, considering it to be a place of perfect safety;
he was surprised by the emperor, and a tedious
imprisonment, and the loss of his electorate, were
the reward of his bad generalship. . .
King James II. assembled his Irish forces, and
several French disciplined regiments, by whom he
was assisted, to contend for the possession of the
British crown, with his rival, William the Third.
He marshalled his forces on the river Boyne; but
the English monarch crossed over with his army,
defeated the French and Irish forces, and James
was compelled to become an exile from the country
over which he had formerly ruled.
When Louis XIV, invaded Holland, the Dutch
troops were stationed on the bank of the Rhine to
defend the passage; but, after a very trivial re:
sistance, they broke their ranks, and fled in all
directions. A medal, struck in honor of the event,
attested the success of the conqueror.
In the Seven Years' War in Germany the Aus-
trian forces were commanded by two veteran com-
manders, Marshal Daun and General Brown. In
the sixth year of the war the Austrian forces were
encamped on the border of a river in Bohemia, as
a safe position, under the command of General
Brown. Frederick the Great crossed the river
with his army, overwhelmed the Austrian forces,
and the conquest of great part of Bohemia was the
result.
Montcalm, the commander of the French forces
in their North American colonies, encamped his
army on the shores of the river St. Lawrence, to
defend the city of Quebec against the attack of the
English. General Wolfe landed with his troops
in spite of all opposition, and by a complete victory
extinguished every trace of French dominion in
North America.
In the war of the American revolution General
Howe, the British commander, conquered New
York and New Jersey. He then stationed two
regiments of Hessian troops at Trenton, on the
Delaware, to defend the passage of the river
against the American forces. Washington crossed
over with his army, and inflicted a severe defeat on
that portion of the British army.
In the following campaign General Howe assem-
bled his forces, embarked them on board the fleet,
and landed at Elktown, in Maryland, from whence
he marched to take possession of the city of
Philadelphia. General Washington assembled his
troops on the river Brandywine, to contest the
passage, and save the city from capture; but
General Howe defeated the American army, and
then achieved the conquest of the capital of
the American States without any further oppo-
sition. * -
The misfortunes of the Austrians, in their first
campaigns in Italy against Bonaparte, arose in a
principal degree from stationing their forces on the
banks of rivers as defensible positions, and it was
only after repeated defeats that they changed this
portion of their military routine of war.
In the year 1796 Marshal Beaulieu commanded
the Austrian army in Italy. He attempted in the
first place to defend the line of the Po against the
326
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
invasion of the French army, but was defeated at
Valenza. He then attempted to defend the line of
the Adda, and stationed his forces at Lodi, to pre-
vent the passage of the French. As this was one
of the most celebrated victories of Napoleon, and
elucidates in some important particulars the theory
which it is attempted to establish in this essay,
we shall insert from a contemporary history some
of the more important details of this feat of
31IITIS.
“Upon the 10th of May, attended by his best
enerals, and heading the choicest of his troops,
apoleon pressed forward towards Lodi, where the
bridge was left standing, but was swept by twenty
or thirty pieces of Austrian artillery, whose thun-
ders menaced death to any one who should attempt
the pass of peril. The French with great alert-
ness got as many guns in position on the left bank,
and answered this tremendous fire with equal
spirit. During this cannonade Bonaparte threw
himself personally among the fire, in order to sta-
tion two guns, loaded with grape-shot, in such a
position as to render it impossible for any one to
approach for the purpose of undermining and de-
stroying the bridge, and then calmly proceeded to
make preparations for a desperate attempt. The
cavalry were directed to cross, if possible, at a
place where the Adda was said to be fordable ; a
task which they accomplished with difficulty. In
the mean time Bonaparte observed that the Aus-
trian line of infantry was thrown considerably be-
hind the batteries of artillery which they supported,
in order that they might have the advantage of a
bending slope of ground, which afforded some
shelter from the French fire. He, therefore,
drew up a close column of 3000 grenadiers, pro-
tected from the artillery of the Austrians by the
walls and houses of the town, and yet considerably
nearer to the enemy's line of guns on the opposite
side of the Adda, than were their own infantry,
which ought to have protected them. The column
of grenadiers thus secured waited in comparative
safety until the appearance of the French cavalry,
who had crossed the ford, began to disquiet the
Austrians. This was the critical moment which
Bonaparte expected. A single word of command
wheeled the head of the column of grenadiers to
the left, and placed it on the perilous bridge. The
word was given to advance, and they rushed on
with loud shouts of ‘Vive la Republique.” But
their appearance on the bridge was the signal for a
redoubled shower of grape-shot, while, from the
houses on the left side of the river, the soldiers
who occupied them poured volley after volley of
musketry on the thick column, as it endeavored to
force its way over the long, bridge. At one time
the French grenadiers, unable to sustain this dread-i U
ful storm, appeared for an instant to hesitate, but
Berthier, the chief of Bonaparte's staff, with Mas-
sena, L'Allegmagne, and Corwini, hurried to the
head of the column, and by their presence and gal-
lantry renewed the resolution of the soldiers, who
now poured across the bridge. The Austrians had
but one resource left, to rush upon the French
with the bayonet and kill or drive back into the
Adda those who had forced a passage, before they
could receive support from their comrades, who
were still filing across the bridge. But the oppor-
tunity was neglected, either because the troops
which should have executed the manoeuvre had
been, as we have already stated, withdrawn too far
from the river, or because the soldiery, as happens
when they repose too much confidence in a strong
it
position, became panick-struck when º
unexpectedly carried. Or it may be that 9.
Beaulieu, so old and so unfortunate, had sºme
lost that energy and presence of mind W.
critical moment demanded. Whatever. wāś
cause, the French rushed on the artiller
from whose fire they had lately suffered.
mendously, and, unsupported as the wºn
little difficulty in bayoneting them. The ...it
army now completely gave way, and lost "...iſ
retreat, annoyed as it was by the French ºff
upwards of twenty guns, a thousand prisºn.
perhaps two thousand more wounded .9% dge 9
Such was the famous passage of the Bridſ.
Lodi, achieved with such skill and gallanº in-
gave the victor the same character for fe?" ºth
trepidity and practical talent in actual battlº.
the former part of the campaign had gaine
an able tactician.” ulieu
After the defeat of Lodi, Marshal Bea roſſ,
attempted to defend the line of the Minº Aus.
which being driven, he finally assembled tº
trian forces on the Adige, but with no be!”
cess. The command of the Austrian ar"
then conferred upon another commander. &
In the campaign of 1797, in Italy, hº
commenced between the French republic. º. ºf
pope of Rome. . The papal army, consistºred
about seven or eight thousand men, was ene.
on the river Senio, which runs to the south'.
of the town of Imola, to dispute the passage.
banks were defended by cannon, but thº.
being unusually low, the French crossed abº 0
league and a half higher up than the posiºn
the Roman army, which, taken in the rear, º,
every direction." A few hundreds were *
among whom were several monks. turb
After the defeat of Wurmser, and the tº.
of Mantua, the Archduke Charles took the ‘...in
mand of the Austrian forces, and attempted "ºne
to stop the triumphant career of Bonapart° ºf the
archduke first occupied Friuli and the line...is
Piave, from whence being driven, he statioſº
forces on the river Tagliamento. There.” nz0.
defeated, and he finally encamped on the List re-
Again the same fate attended him, and º thé
treat to Vienna, and a treaty of peace wº
victorious French, ended this unfortunatº C
pai Il. M
n the disastrous year 1807, General
assembled the Austrian forces on the river!" Cf
dispute the possession of Bavaria and the *he
Austrian provinces against the advance 9.2 ic.
French army; but Bonaparte inflicted sey.
feats upon several corps of his army, an . at
compelled him to surrender as prisoner of "
lm. wit”
After Napoleon, Emperor of France, had aniff:
nessed the almost total destruction of his º: of
cent legions in the cold and hostile provinºnd
Russia, he assembled the wrecks of his army. Il
attempted to secure his retreat from the Cou
which had been so fatal to his ambitious *.cr.
The Russian Admiral Tchitchagoff, with * .
ous army under his command, stationed tº
the Beresina, to defend the passage; bº
peror crossed over with the greater part of .
in spite of all opposition. His rear-guard, *
with the numerous followers of his army'
surprised and cut off on the eastern bank : l
river, but he succeeded in effecting his retrº”
Poland with the remainder of his force. ....a bat-
After Napoleon had been defeated in various
500"
was
river
sº
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
327
tles º
tºy, in the campaign of 1813, he as-
lis beaten and diminished forces in order
of *9 France. To prevent the accomplish-
this purpose, General Wrede, commander
ºrian army, collected several corps, to-
tº." Some Austrian auxiliaries, and sta-
£m ºn the river Hanau, to contest the pas-
apoleon defeated his army, and effected
t in safety to France.
* commencement of the war in Portugal,
*ch army had possession of the whole
" Pºrtion of that kingdom. On the landing
ºral Wellesley to command the English
*rshal Soult assembled his forces on the
9port, bank of the Douro, to defend the city of
"ance º the adjoining territory, against the ad-
With hi the British. Wellington crossed over
em."" battalions, inflicted a severe defeat on the
the ºl and drove them as helpless fugitives from
ºuntry
We *
return
ent
Of t
§ether
tioned
Sage,
his retrea
n
the t
"ºrther
of Ge
ar
y
thay .." now notice two or three battles which
abº. Supposed to prove a contradiction to the
found *amples, but which on examination will be
A..." to possess that character.
the ... the possession of Vienna by the French in
the . 1809, the Archduke Charles assembled
in o.ºps of the Austrian empire on the Danube,
buſi *...!? stop the further progress of the French,
i." “id not attempt to contest the passage of the
s.r.º.stationed his forces on the heights of
fº...", and Wagram, two small villages, about
th."les from the bank of the river. He allowed
and . part of the French army to pass over,
With °y on the plains, and then attacked them
t * whole of his forces, and gained one of
nºtest victories the Danube had ever wit-
lº Wallace, the champion of Scotland, had
§ is native country from the yoke of the
§. monarch, he assembled all his forces at
$nce f on the river Ayr, to defend the independ-
lish ar the country against the attack of the Eng-
ºlder § He allowed great part of the troops
tion. Yºssingham to pass over without opposi-
§: then attacked them, and gained a complete
**itish forces, under the command of Gen.
Yue jºin Upper Canada, were stationed In ear
Shvasio * Niagara, to defend the frontier from the
lat."... of the Americans. They allowed the
them ° cross over in some force, and then put
0 the •: reat
*gh. rout, and pursued them with g
per. in the three instances last adduced, we
to def ...hat so far from there being any attempt
$ncoura the passage of the river, the enemy were
and d ged to pass over, and were then attacked
efeated.
liver hat is the reason that troops stationed behind
displ "ºver make the same resistance they would
t º any other situation? * * *
taken ably arises from the fact of their being
... urprise. An army, encamped in the
"ntry, and expecting to be attacked, will
° usual amount of courage, which may
from their natural disposition, their
and the skill of their commander. But
p *ed behind a river do not expect to be at-
"...the river appears to them to be an insur-
º ºbstacle, and they gradually begin to
§uently * in that light. The river is also, fre-
is tº Passed at a place distant from that which
and thus the arrangements for defence
00 S
tº.
*xpected
at the particular point where the army is stationed
are frustrated.
Let us now notice some of the campaigns of the
great generals of various periods of history, and
from their example, trace what was their opinion
of the best ground for encampment for an army,
which was inferior in numerical or physical force
to its adversary. ſº
When Hannibal, the Carthaginian general, had
exterminated two or three of the Roman armies
which came in contact with him in Italy, and the
Roman republic, which had hitherto been so pros-
perous in its ambitious career, seemed to be on the
point of falling under his power, the senate of
Rome conferred the office of dictator on Fabius,
who took the command of the remaining Roman
troops, and set out to oppose the dreaded Cartha-
ginian. What was the policy he pursued on this
occasion 1 his troops were dispirited and unable to
cope with the victorious army of Hannibal. Italy
is intersected by numerous streams, but instead of
placing his army on the banks of any of those riv-
ers as a defensible position, he placed his camp on
the range of the Apennines, from whence he con-
stantly watched over and harassed his formidable
opponent.
n the seven years' war of Germany, when Fred-
erick the Great of Prussia was contending at the
same time against the armies of the empire, of
Austria, of Prussia, of Sweden, and of France,
and made war in a country intersected by various
rivers, the Elbe, the Oder, the Muldaw, the Saale,
and their numerous tributaries, he seldom placed
his camp upon the border of those streams,
When Frederick the Great of Prussia invaded
Bohemia, he defeated the Austrian forces in a
great battle, and laid sicge to Prague, which was
on the point of surrendering. In this extremity
the Austrian government conferred the command
of their army on Marshal Daun, and well did he
repay the confidence reposed in him. He was a
worthy competitor of Frederick in the art of war.
His troops were superior in number but inferior in
discipline to the Prussians, but by great judgment
in the position of his camp, which by redoubts
and batteries he rendered impregnable, and send-
ing various parties of his soldiers to the relief of
the besieged city, and finally, by obtaining a victo-
ty over the Prussians when they attempted to storm
his camp, he compelled Frederick to relinquish his
conquests and return to his native dominions.
General Washington, in America, commanded a
provincial force, which, in the first years of the
war, was totally unable to contend in the open field
against the disciplined armies of England. He,
therefore, chose for his encampment, some strong
hilly country, which was unassailable, with any
prospect of success, from whence he sallied out to
various parts of the continent, where the services
of his army were required. The highlands of the
state of New York, and the mountainous region in
the vicinity of Morristown, were his usual head-
quarters; he thus disciplined his army, and finally
achieved the independence of his country.
The Russian Czar Alexander assembled the
forces of his empire, under the command of the
German Barclay de Tolly, on the river Dwina,
where several fortified camps were erected to resist
the invasion of the French ; the choice of the posi-
tion proves that general to have been unequal to
his task. At a subsequent period the destinies of
the Russian army were committed to the charge of
Kutusoff, and he selected, with much better judg-
328
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
ment the heights of Borodino as his final battle-
fround against the enemy.
When Blucher commanded the Prussians he was
frequently inferior in force to the French by whom
he was opposed, but he never took refuge behind a
river as a secure position, which would confer
safety upon his army, and where he could not be
attacked. The strong country of Silesia was his
usual “point d'appui,” and selecting his encamp-
ments with consummate skill, and giving battle on
all occasions where there was any prospect of suc-
cess, he was finally successful in freeing his country
from the yoke of the foreigner.
In the campaign of France, in the year 1814,
Bonaparte commanded an army, whose numerical
force did not probably exceed 60,000 men, with
whom he had to resist the attacks of armies of
greatly superior force. In this extremity of his
fate he never stationed his forces behind rivers, but
choosing his fields of battle, and in some measure
making up by his extreme activity for the smallness
of his battalions, he inflicted many severe defeats
on his enemy.
When Wellington, with a far inferior force, de-
fended Portugal against the numerous and disci-
plined armies of the French, commanded by Mas-
sena, he did not attempt to defend the line of the
Tagus, the Douro, or the Minho, but he chose a
position on the heights of Busaco, and, finally, on
those of Torres Vedras, where he took up an im-
pregnable position, from whence he defied the ut-
most efforts of the French to dislodge him.
We have thus given many examples, from vari-
ous periods of history, from different continents,
and from several nations, where the armies at-
tempting to defend rivers have always been defeat-
ed; we may therefore consider that we have estab-
lished the proposition that rivers are indefensible
in war. *
In a former memoir we have given some exam-
ples of armies which were defeated when they
attempted to prevent the passage of rivers by an
hostile army. We now propose to enumerate
some more instances of battle, in which this impor-
tant fact in the science of war is elucidated and
confirmed. The accounts of the various engage-
ments have been collected from the pages of #.
Gibbon, Scott, Alison, Thiers, and other authors,
and may be easily traced by any one who is desir.
ous to ascertain their correctness. Two or three
of the engagements here recited were mentioned in
the first essay; but the fuller details now presented
are supposed to possess various points of interest
both to the general and professional reader.
The great strategetical operations of war have a
common character by which they are distinguished
in all ages, and in all times. An army stationed
on the bank of a river to defend the passage is al-
ready half defeated, for it occupies a bad defensive
position. The difference in arms appears to make
no difference in the result. The Scythians, armed
with bows and arrows; the Britons, with their
lances; the Persians, with their Seymiters; the
Austrian infantry, the French cuirassiers, the Prus-
sian riflemen, the Russian cannoneers, were equally
defeated when they attempted to defend rivers.
That the principle is an important one must be con-
ſessed, when we consider that the Empire of Persia
was lost on the banks of the Granicus—the fate of
the kingdom of Ireland was decided on the banks
of the Boyne—Scotland was conquered on the
shores of the river Earn—half the Italian States
were subdued on the bridge of Lodi, and the other
14-
half were extinguished at the battles. of º:
mento and Lisonzo—the Austrian emplº i. ... •
cause her troops attempted to defend the º
the Iser and Inn, as the Prussian mona": §º.
extinguished on the banks of the sale-º. of
land was subdued by a battle on the w.
Zurich—and the French lost the nº. 0.
of Portugal by attempting to defend the '..cº.
The Persian army, stationed on the Gra cord:
consisted of 10,000 horse and 100,000 foºt, ...it
ing to the history of Diodorus. When A*.*
arrived at the river, he ordered his troops, ...i.
delay, to pass over, although the stream W** as
and the opposite bank, which was very stºº,
lined by the enemy. The Persian horse, "...st
drawn up in a line before their foot, made i. by
furious attack, but the Macedonians, animº" ageſ.
the behavior of Alexander, who passed with e
ness into the greatest dangers, advance !"; a
midst of a shower of arrows and darts, *...* º
very short time put the enemy to flight. T ºver,
tory was chiefly attributed to the personal l, 000
of Alexander and the Thessalian cavalry;..." ide
foot soldiers and 2500 horse were killed on *.
of the Persians, while of the Macedonian”
fell only 120 men. ched
After the conquest of Persia, Alexander º.
at the head of his army into Scythia, for th:
* * iſſants
pose of conquering that country. The in alſº of
assembled in immense multitudes on the bº.ns.
the River Jaxartes, to defend their posses; of
The Macedonians, encouraged by the prese. in
their monarch, wrought with such ardor, th.
three days, they made 12,000 rafts or floats, an th9
these passed the river, though very rapi º th9
face of the enemy, whom they repulsed wº er-
loss of 1000 men, although they themselves *...re
ed very considerably; 100 Macedonian foo"
slain, and 1000 wounded.
When Alexander penetrated into India. "
quer that country, Porus, one of the nativº
archs, assembled his forces on the banks ºx-
River Hydaspes, to defend his dominion...ne.
ander, after waiting some time in view of tºxté
my, resolved to attempt a passage about *.ity
miles above his camp, where there was "..."...iſ
large uninhabited island, almost overgrow" orted
trees. By favor of a stormy night he tra.ut
a great part of his army into the island..."...y.
being observed ; and the storm ceasing about por
break, he then boldly set forward to gain the "...o
site shore, in sight of the Indian out-guards, t of
instantly posted away to give Porus an accº. we0?
this attempt. As the river was greatly over.
the Macedonians were obliged to pass,” sts;
channel, where the water rose up to their "...in
but before the enemy appeared, they ha
reached the dry land. Porus resolved to *
Macedonians, and leaving part of his army ...tig
coſ."
0ſ."
thé
pose Craterus, who remained in the camp; . ...;
for an opportunity to pass, he marched...: ſoot,
Alexander, at the head of 4000 horse, 30.9 tl()
inſi
300 chariots, and 200 elephants. In the *.
which ensued, the Indians were defeat”
great slaughter.
Hannibal, the Carthaginian general, 0
venturous march towards Italy, was stopp sité
formidable enemy. The Gauls, on the ... to
bank of the Rhone, assembled all their . to
oppose his passage, and seeing it impract”. he
transport his troops in the face of the cºlºs
sent a large body of them about twenty- "...out
up the river, where they passed on floats, W
* d-
his 8
... by.”
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
329
&n - * * *
y ºilion. Two days after, he embarked the
ºleirº, * troops, and while the barbarians left
Alread "P to oppose him, the detachment, that had
º #: º suddenly attacked them, and
W.".m. to fly.
laun hen Julius &n. invaded Britain, Cassive-
bei., §e general of the British forces, after
Tools *feated in an engagement, stationed his
ſu." the banks of the Thames, to prevent the
pass. Pºgress of the Roman army. Casar
tion, . with his army in spite of all opposi-
In th "men wading up to their necks in water.
took pº reign of the Emperor Aurelius, a war
hanni * between the Romans and the Marco-
tic."..." nation in Germany, who inhabited the dis-
They...country which is now called Bavaria.
Staff *reencamped on the other side of the River
Panº, * the country of the Quadi, beyond the
by in i. and galled the Romans to such a degree
jº of their archers and slingers, that the
dijhought it advisable to pass the river and
§reat jºin, which was accordingly done, with
W º on both sides. *
People º Emperor Trajan invaded Persia, the
Q i that country assembled a large army on
nº."" ºf the Tigris, to oppose his further ad-
ºf . , he emperor crossed the river in the face
deſ. *emy, and inflicted upon them a severe
º of the numerous expeditions of Charle-
sº.” the country of the Saxons, that people
Preve "d an army on the banks of the Elbe, to
Šained the passage of his forces. , Charlemagne
Pºtent victory over them, and ravaged their
On; º
deſ. *IX., of France, on his crusade to the East,
Poste * a numerous army of Egyptians, who were
sº." ºn a branch of the Nile to oppose his pas-
ilt ºrd III., king of England, invaded France
Sount, *ad of a gallant army, and laid waste the
Wa . *round him; but at length provisions were
bled º for his forces, and the French had assem-
at th." army of 100,000 men. Edward's intention
b al "he was to secure his retreat into Flanders,
down the bridges on the Somme were broken
then . the opposite banks were lined with 12,000
their *nd the French army, with king Philip at
hust º , was in his rear. Edward and his army
ºu. been destroyed, had not a Norman
$ford. for the sake of a large reward, discovered
The i. * place called Oysmont, below Abbeville.
lt i. monarch marched thither, and found
ed 12 Alle ; but Godmar de Fay, who command-
$ºvered 9 French on the opposite bank, having dis-
him T is design, presented himself to oppose
..., "he affairs of Edward were now desperate,
"º of the French army under Philip was in
ºdward drew up his army in three divis-
G ºmanded by himself, the Earl of Warwick,
dispi °ºry de Harcourt. After a most animated
6 in which the French under De Fay show-
the . *ourage and intrepidity, Edward gained
his jºchiefly by the strength and dexterity of
ºtos. *h archers, who overmatched the Genoese
$pon a "ºnen, who, before that day, were looked
§glish º e best in the world. Even after the
Which h 99ps had passed the river, the dispositions
lent th ad been made by De Fay were so excel-
of § **othing but the most vigorous exertion
proj is Valor could have enabled Edward to
ceed ...ºt it last he forced the enemy to pro-
c. *ds Abbeville.
* Living Age.
%
lor
Il
WOL., XI, 21
The Duke of Lancaster headed a rebellion
against Edward II., of England; being pursued
before he had time to collect the whole of his ſorces,
he retired behind the Trent, and attempted to de-
fend the bridge at Burton, in Staffordshire. The
royal army passed at a ford five miles distant from
his position, and attacked him in his rear, and he
was defeated with great slaughter. ,
Some English lords assembled a small army and
invaded Scotland, in the year 1332. They landed
in the county of Fife, with Baliol at their head,
and marched northwards towards Dupplin, In ear
which the Earl of Mar lay encamped with a large
army on the banks of the river. Earn ; while an-
other army, under the Earl of March, was advanc-
ing from the southern counties of Scotland to
attack them in the flank and rear. It seemed as if
that small handful of men must have been inevita-
bly destroyed by the numbers collected to oppose
them. But Edward Baliol took the bold resolution
of attacking the regent's army by night, and in
their camp. With this purpose he crossed the
river which separated the two armies: the Earl of
Mar had neither placed sentinels nor taken any of
the usual precautions against surprise, and when
the English came upon his army, the men were
asleep and totally unprepared. #. made great
slaughter among the Scots, whose numbers only
served to increase the confusion. The regent was
himself slain, with several earls and many other
men of eminence. Some thousands of the Scots
were killed with the sword, smothered in the fight,
or drowned in the river. The English were them-
selves surprised at gaining, with such inferior num-
bers, so great and decided a victory; the success
of which placed Baliol on the throne of Scotland.
Early in the spring of 1547, the Emperor Charles
W. resolved to put an end to the war which then
raged in Germany, and marching at the head of his
army from Egra, he sent his Hungarian and Span-
ish horse before him to take possession of all the
passes, that the Elector of Saxony, who was en-
camped at Mulberg, behind the Elbe, might have
no intelligence of his approach. Iſis vigor and se-
crecy succeeded so well that the elector knew moth-
of his march till he saw his troops on the other side
of the river. At first he would not believe them to
..be imperialists, but the Spanish soldiers plunged
into the stream and swam across the river with their
swords in their mouths. This uncommon intrepid-
ity daunted the elector so much, that he gave or-
ders for a retreat. But the imperialists, having
passed the river in boats, part of which they brought
along with them in wagons, the emperor ordered
him to be pursued by his cavalry, which they did
and overtook him in a wood. The elector was then
in a miserable condition to fight such an army as
Charles had with him. He had sent part of his
troops to Wirtemberg, and part to Bohemia, so that
he had with him not more than 10,000 men. Find-
ing it impossible to escape, he prepared to fight on
the 24th of April, but his army was ºut in pieces by
that of the imperialists, who are said tº have lost
not more than forty men. . He himself behaved
bravely in his own person, but being wounded in
the cheek, and surrounded by his enemies, he sur-
rendered himself prisoner to a Misnian gentleman,
who carried him to the Duke of Alva.
During the Thirty Years' War in Germany,
Field-Marshal Tilly was stationed in Bavaria at the
head of an army, with which he endeavored to cov-
er Ingolstadt, when all of a sudden Gustavus Adol-
| phus, the celebrated King of Sweden, took Dona-
330
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
wert, and laid the greatest part of Suabia under
contribution. Tilly made such dispositions for pre-
venting the Swedes from passing the Lech, that
Horn, one of the bravest of the Swedish Generals,
thought it highly improper to attack, but Gustavus,
under favor of his artillery, made good his passage
after a most desperate engagement, in which Tilly
was mortally wounded, and died in a few days after
in the seventieth year of his age. This passing of
the Lech was considered one of the most glorious
exploits of Gustavus.
After the battle of Leipsic, Gustavus pursued his
victorious career, and opened his way towards the
Palatinate. He crossed the Rhine in sight of a large
body of Spanish troops, posted upon the bank to
dispute his passage.
In the reign of Lewis XIV., Marshal Villars
crossed the Rhine at the head of the French army,
and defeated the Imperialists who were stationed
there to oppose him.
During the revolutionary war, General Moreau
effected the passage of the Rhine on two occasions
in presence of the imperial army stationed there to
ſº him. The first took place on the 23d of
une, 1796. The points selected for this hazardous
operation were Gambsheim and Kehl. On the
12th, the men were collected at the first point, and
on the 16th at the second, both detachments being
under the command of Desaix, while the forces of
the Imperialists were so scattered that they could
not assemble above 17,000 men in forty-eight hours,
in any quarter that might be menaced. At mid-
night, the troops defiled, in different columns with
profound silence, towards the station for embarka-
tion, while false attacks, attended with much noise
and continued discharges of artillery, were made in
other places to distract the attention of the enemy.
At half-past one, General Desaix gave the signal
for departure; 2,500 men jº in silence, and
rowed across an arm of the Rhine to the Island of
Ehslar, which was occupied by the Imperialists.
They fell, without firing a shot, with so much impet-
uosity upon the videttes, that the Germans fled in
disorder to the right bank, without thinking of cut-
ting the bridge of boats which connected the island
with the shore. Thither they were speedily fol-
lowed by the Republicans, who, though unsupport-
cd by cavalry or artillery, ventured to advance into
the plain and approach the ramparts of Kehl.
With heroic resolution, but also the most prudence
under such circumstances, the commander sent back
the boats to the French side, to bring over reinforce-
ments, leaving the little band alone and unsupported
in the midst of the enemy's army. Their advanced
guard was speedily assailed by the Suabian contin-
gent, greatly superior in numbers, and which was
encamped in the neighborhood, but, they were re-
pulsed with much steadiness by the French infantry,
supported by two pieces of artillery which they had
captured on first landing on the shore. Before six
in the morning, a new detachment of equal strength
arrived at the flying bridge established between the
island and the left bank, and the Republicans
found themselves in such strength that they ad-
vanced to the attack of the intrenchments of Kehl,
which they carried at the point of the bayonet.
The troops of Suabia, intrusted with the defence,
fled with such precipitation that they lost 13 pieces
of cannon and 700 men. On the following day, a
bridge of boats was established between Strasburg
and Kehl, and the whole army passed over with
safety. Such was the passage of the Rhine at
6%”
Kehl, which, at the time, was celebrated as”
ploit of the most glorious character. in cross”
In the year 1757, General Moreau agº. C Auš.
the Rhine at Diersheim in the presence 9 tºº...of
trian army, and defeated them with the º
2,000 soldiers killed and wounded, 3,000 pris
and 20 pieces of artillery. andº
In the year 1800, General Moreau coºle
the French army in Germany, and after ...ibº.
of Hohenlinden the whole Imperial army.” itself
hind the Inn, and made a show of maintaiº. th9
behind that formidable line of defence. W. th9
boats of the Iser were publicl conducted ºu
utmost possible éclat to the }. Inn,
caused a bridge equipage to be secretly º urg;
in the night to Rosenheim, on the road to ºb
and having collected 35,000 men in the nº.
hood, he established a battery of twenty 6th,
pieces of cannon, during the night of Decem" W
at Neuperen, where the Inn flows in *
channel, and which is the only point in th”
where the right bank commanded the leſ: ...
o'clock on the following morning, whilst it.
pitch dark, the French cannon, whose arm.
wholly unknown to the Austrian videttes, "P. lists
furious fire, so well directed that the Impº º
were obliged to retire. The Republicans ". ng?
constructed a bridge, and threw across so *. The
body of troops as gave them a solid footing º
left bank, #. was one of the most for". the
military lines of Europe broken through." ing!”
space of a few hours, without the loss of **
IIlºill. deſe'
The Austrians afterwards attempted tº fºr
the passage of the Aiza and Saiza, but wit"
ilar success. # d Adº
In the campaign between the French * ſus.
trians, in the year 1809, General Hillcr; the
trian commander, being too weak to attempººth
fend the Inn, retreated to Ehersberg, a village
a castle, upon the river Traun, which wº.
places unfordable, and had elevated rocky "...m.
scarped by the hand of nature. One bridg". of
municating with the town, was the only mº rod',
approaching the position, which, viewed "... b
seemed almost impregnable, and was ocº.uk
General Hiller with 30,000 soldiers, and * ble tº
dable train of artillery. He trusted to bºº."un-
maintain himself in this strong line of deſe'. he
til he could renew his communication wº".
Archduke Charles, and obtain the prince': C0 ding
ation in the task of covering Vienna, by dºſeſ th9
the course of the Danube. On the 3d of Mººl
position of Ebersberg was attacked by º:
Massena, and stormed after a most despera! 31
sistance, which probably cost the victors º h6
men as the vanquished. The hardiness of "...it
tack has been censured by military critics: and
without cause, for Marshal Massena attempº sting
succeeded in the desperate resolution of diº”
the Austrian general by main force. ...locki"
In 1797, on the 16th of March, at 9 o clo ch
the morning, the three divisions of th9 ...son,
army, destined to act under Bonaparte iſ peº".
were drawn up in front of the Austrian Oſ ºm
the right bank of the Tagliamento. This...tº
after descending from the mountains, separaº and
several branches, all of which are for ºn
covers the ground to a great extent between roms,
with stones and gravel. The Imperial sº awſ:
numerous and magnificently appointed, "...ach
up on the opposite shore ready to fall on the
THE MILITARY DEFENCE OF RIVERS.
331
ºnly the mo
i. arra
Il
the g th
. *ange 0
º begin
i. ºlving
hdrewſh
en al
ºnch
y Colu
S
ment they crossed the stream, and
y of artillery already scattered their balls
° numerous branches.
to cook their victuals. The archduke,
fiver
thems...” precision, the beauty of the move-
level." ...sembled the exercises of a field-day, and
more ...", an army advance upon an enemy in a
ºdw ºliº or imposing manner. The troops
ºf th;"...ach other in the regularity and firmness
him." Vance. “Soldiers of the Rhine,” ex-
ln ºrnadotte, “the army of Italy is watch-
the s * conduct.” The rival divisions reached
lºg . at the same time, and fearlessly plung-
The "...º.water, soon gained the opposite shore.
that."...an cavalry, hastening to the spot,
Wate. the French infantry on the edge of the
§labi "...it was too late, for they were already
th..shed in battle-array on the left bank. Soon
but 8 8 became general along the whole line,
his flan *chduke, seeing the passage achieved and
: decisi "rned, and being unwilling to engage in
ſtom '*Action before the arrival of the divisions
light . ine, ordered a retreat, and the French
ºf..."ps pursued him fºur miles from the field
Pieces f In this action the Imperialists lost 6
r o Cannon, and 500 men, and what was of
Pºrtance, the prestige of a first success.
the archduke never recovered the confi-
"f the soldiers while contending with the
*For of Italy.
i. campaign of Poland, Bonaparte passed
*s Wkra and Vistula, in defiance of the
y. *nuous resistance offered by the Russian
º Italian campaign of 1799, the French
Adigº Cherer, having been deſeated on the
Feat. *"tirely lost his presence of mind, and re-
from hº the Adda, amidst cries of indignation
three ... soldiers. He separated his army into
went .*, which were dispersed on a line of
the § °ur leagues in extent, and then resigned
uw.and of the army to General Moreau,
the A. º: the Russian commander, approached
sian ..." at several points. When the first Rus:
§ment appeared in sight of the bridge of
"le French carbineers quitted their intrench-
*** ran to meet those soldiers who had been
dasi." as terrible and invincible giants. They
"Pon them with their bayonets, made a
arnage among them, and the Russians were
ps ºne repulsed. But Suwarrow had sent
belo. Across the Adda at two points, above and
*ut off i. Trurier's division; that division was thus
ſuio. the rest of the army. Moreau fought
Slans attle for the purpose of driving the Rus-
ack beyond the Adda; with 9000 men he
im. of above 20,000, and his soldiers,
Or y his presence, performed prodigies of
Was §. t could not drive back the enemy. He
ºjº . retire, and Serrurier's division, was
§hting will.” the whole hostile army. After
°ped o. all , the utmost obstinacy, it was envel-
sides, and compelled to lay down its
CC0 y
arms, to the number of 7000 men. Part of this
division, through the hardihood and presence of
Napoleon, seeing mind of an officer, escaped across the mountains to
ºy so well prepared, had recourse to a Piedmont. Such was the fatal battle of Cassano,
; he ordered the troops to retire out of which reduced the French Italian army to 20,000
the enemy's fire, establish a bivouac, men.
During the campaign of the same year in Swit-
all chance of attack over for the day, zerland, occurred the passage of the Limmat, and
is forces into their camp in the rear. the battle of Zurich, which were attended with the
was quiet, a signal was given by the most important results.
$ºneral, the soldiers ran to arms, and form- Korsakof, commanded 26,000 troops, which were
lm inconceivable rapidity, advanced quickly stationed at Zurich, and on the banks of the Lim-
est . in echelon, flanking, each other in the mat, and in that situation Massena determined to
#. and precipitated themselves into the attack him.
The Russian general,
Preparations for the passage of the
river had been made near the village of Dietrikon,
with extraordinary assiduity and secrecy, and boats
had been dragged to the spot by hand and conceal-
ed in the woods, Very early in the morning they
were afloat, and the troops were drawn up in si-
lence on the bank. General Foy commanded the
artillery in this ever-memorable battle, and placed
several batteries in such a manner as to protect the
passage. Six hundred inen boldly embarked,
reached the opposite bank, and rushed immediately
upon the enemy's riflemen and dispersed them.
orsakof had placed three battalions with cannon
on the platform of Kloster Fhar, but the French
artillery, more skilfully directed, soon silenced the
fire of the Russian artillery, and protected the suc-
cessive passage of the advanced guard. When
General Gazan had united a sufficient reinforce-
ment with the 600 men who had first crossed, he
marched upon the three Russian battalions, who
had posted themselves in a wood and made a most
gallant defence. Gazan was obliged to kill almost
the very last man before he could dislodge them.
The three battalions being destroyed, a bridge was
thrown across, and 15,000 French troops passed
the river, and proceeded to the rear of Zurich. In
the battle which ensued on the following day, the
Russians were overwhelmed with disasters, all
their troops left in Zurich were obliged to lay down
their arms, and 100 pieces of cannon, all the bag-
gage, the chest of the army, and 5000 prisoners
fell into the hands of the French. Iorsakof had,
besides, 8000 men put hors de combat in this obsti-
nate engagement. Lavater, the celebrated philos-
opher, while attempting to disarm the furious sol-
diers, was struck by a ball, and mortally wounded.
Meanwhile, Soult, who was directed to cross the
Linth above the lake of Zurich, executed his com-
mission with no less success than the commander-in-
chief. He had effected the passage between Billen
and Reichemberg. One hundred and fifty soldiers,
holding their muskets above their heads, had swam
across the river, reached the opposite bank, cleared
it of the riflemen, and protected the landing of the
advanced guard. Hotze, who had hastened imme-
diately to the point of danger, was killed, on the
spot by a ball, and his death threw the Austrian
ranks into confusion. They were obliged to fall
back, and retired with precipitation upon the
Rhine, leaving 3000 prisoners, and some cannon.
Thus nearly 60,000 men were driven from the line
of the Liminat, beyond that of the Rhine, after suf.
fering immense losses. Suwarrow, who expected
to debouch in Switzerland, on the flank of an one-
my attacked on all sides, and to decide the defeat
of that enemy by his arrival, was destined to find
on the contrary all his lieutenants dispersed, and
himself in the midst of an army victorious in all
quarters.
The campaign of Switzerland, is 1799, is pecu-
332
LE verrier's PLANET.
liarly interesting as elucidating the important fact,
that rivers do not afford a strong military post.
The French, at the commencement of the cam-
paign, were in possession of the whole territory,
and General Massena, who commanded their forces,
expected to be attacked by a superior Austrian
army, and his orders were to defend the country to
the utmost extent of his ability.
Switzerland presents several lines of water,
which, commencing at the high Alps, run through
the whole of it, and throw themselves into the
Rhine. The largest and longest is that of the
Rhine, which, rising not far from the St. Gothard,
first runs northward, then spreads out into a spa-
cious lake, called the Lake of Constance, issues
from it near Stein, proceeds westward to Basle,
and then begins again to run northward to form the
boundary of Alsace. This line is the most exten-
sive, and it embraces all Switzerland. There is a
second, that of Zurich, comprised within the pre-
ceding ; this is that of the Linth, which, having its
course in the little cantons, pauses to form the
Lake of Zurich, issues from it by the name of the
Limmat, and falls into the Aar, not far from the
inflax of the latter into the Rhine. This line,
which envelops only part of Switzerland, is much
less extensive than the former. There is a third,
that of the Reuss, inscribed again in the second ; it
asses from the bed of the Reuss to the Lake of
}. issues from it at Lucerne, and joins the
Aar near the point where the Limmat falls into the
latter. These lines, commencing on the right
against prodigious mountains, terminating on the
left in great rivers, consisting sometimes of rivers,
at others of lakes, present numerous advantages
for the defensive. , Massena could not hope to re-
tain the longest, that of the Rhine, and to extend
his army from the St. Gothard to the mouth of the
Aar. He was obliged to fall back on that of the
Limmat, where he established himself in the most
solid manner. But it is to be observed that the
French general took a position, not on the Limmat
itself, but on a series of heights in advance of that
river, and covering at once the Limmat and the
Lake of Zurich. He entrenched those heights in
the most formidable manner, and rendered them
almost inaccessible. The Archduke Charles ad-
vanced to the attack on the 16th of June, along the
whole extent of the lines, and was everywhere vic-
toriously repulsed, notwithstanding the obstinate
perseverance of the Austrians. . The next day the
archduke renewed the attack with the same obsti-
nacy as before. Massena, considering that he
might be forced, and that then his retreat might be
difficult, resolved to retire voluntarily. By this re-
treat he would lose nothing but the city of Zurich,
which he considered as of little impºrtance coin-
pared with the safety of his army. The chain of
the Albis mountains, running along the Lake of Zu-
rich, and the Limmat to the Aar, presenting a con-
tinuous declivity, was almost unassailable. B
occupying it, he sustained only a slight loss of
ground, for he fell back no further than the width
of the lake and the river, which he considered in-
defensible. In consequence he retired across the
river Limmat to the chain of the Albis of his own
accord, and established himself there in such a
manner as took from the archduke all inclination to
attack him. And it should be noticed that he did
not fire a single cannot-shot, nor peril the life of a
single soldier, to contest the passage of the river by
the Austrian army. Later in the season, when, by
the arrival of reinforcements, Massena found him-
º US”
self superior in numbers to the Austianº
sian armies, by whom he was then opposº their
vanced and drove them with much loss fºre
position on the Limmat, and at Zurich, as Y. 0C’
before described, and which position they... an
cupied on his retreat. This series of biºlº. ſ
of manoeuvres should be studied with the ..and
attention by every one who wishes to un.,
this part of the strategy of war, as it inconte ange”
proves that heights of ground and mountal" . also
are defensible, and that rivers are not; an igº
proves that Massena was superior in his knº" ºd
of the strategy of war to his adversarieºr
when that general, at the head of the jºin
army, invaded Portugal, and arrived almo;" .#
view of Lisbon, the sight of the intrenched h (hē
of Torres Vedras may have reminded hiſ % ſhe
heights of Albis, and he must have admi. 45
skill of his opponent, the British general, " f Por.
employing the same means for the defence" sfully
tugal as those which he had himself succº
employed for the defence of Switzerland.
It may be useful to give a summary view'
various modes by which rivers have been P.
when armies or bodies of troops have, º' they
tioned to defend them, and we shall find that
admit of the following classification:— ssing
1. By main force; the attacking army º my's
the stream or river in presence of the en”he
army, and driving them from their position, i.ers
following are instances —Alexander, at the 3ſº
Granicus and Jaxartes; Caesar; Aurelius.”:
lemagne: Trajan; , Edward III.; Charle, the
Louis XIV. ; Marshal Villars; Gustavus, º
Rhine and Lech ; the Boyne; Moreau, in º
Napoleon at the Saale, in 1805; the Wkº ack
Vistula, in 1806; the Traun, by Massena ;
on the Danube; defeated at Güntzberg; P*
of the Douro, f the
2. By surprise, at night. The battle..." ºr
Earn; Quebec; Trenton; Moreau, in 179%
rich.
3. By flank attacks, or passage of the
sag”
river a!
- - * mer
places distant from the principal mass of the *
my's forces. Alexander, at the passage ja'
1. º
Hydaspes; the Brandywine; Imola; Hanº †
the Rhone; Napoleon, at the passage of thº () •
Mincio; Adige; Piave ; Lisonzo ; and Tes. t()
4. By stratagem. Napoleon at the Taglia”
and Beresina. s of
This series of battles, in which the defendº. ntly
rivers have always been unfortunate, suff" ther
proves that an empire must be defended by "
means and on other fields.
* ct.
From the Athenæum, 30
Le Verrier's PLANET. rø
WE have received, at the last moment tºº.
making up for press, the following letter '..cº.
John Herschel, in reference to the matter rº,
to in the communication from Mr. Hind giº"
low:—
Collingwood, 0°. ! Iſle
In my address to the British Associatio. “
bled at Southampton, on the occasion o
signing the chair to Sir R. Murchison, th9
among the remarkable astronomical even's lanet
last twelvemonth, that it had added a new #. has
to our list—adding, “It has done "...yo
given us the probable prospect of the discº erica
another. We see it as §. S3W have
from the shores of Spain. Its movemen”
I stateſ,
be THE BABOON, º 333
en fel º * tº . . . .
jºlling along the far-reaching line of announcing this grand discovery,” he says, “I
ºf ocul º, with a certainty hardly inferior to that think it better to copy Dr. Brünnow's letter.”
not re...ºnonstration.”—These expressions are
º ſº ſº Berlin. Sept. 25.
§ive Ported in any of the papers which profess to f = ºrºpºlº.
*ount of the proceedings, but I'appeal to My DEAR SIR,--M. Le Verrier's planet was dis-
§ent whether they were not used. covered here the 23d of September, by M. Galle.
We º is of the eighth magnitude º i-
end."ºleave to state my reasons for this confi- It is a star g g , but with a di
# * 3. wo or three seconds. #
ficts wº in So doing, to call attention to some ** tWO Here are its
* descrve to be put on record in the his- * ... tº
ºiºsº.º.º. ºff, Mr. º.º. º.
ºted...tº illustrious astronomer, Bessel, hon- sº. 3. ‘gº ºff. §so is iſ 3" —iáo gº 23%
the eve With a visit at my present residence. On T º de, it ti
Woº'."g of that day, conversing on the great he planet is now retrograde, its motion amount-
the ... the planetary reductions undertaken by "8 daily to four seconds of . B
ºbjme: royal—then in progress, and since Yours respectfully, RUNN OW.
Tanu --M. Bessel remarked that the motions £ 6 This discovery,” Mr. Hind says, “may be just-
§ami. as he had satisfied himself by careful Iy considered one of the greatest triumphs of theo-
be "ceou ºn of the recorded observations, could not retical astronomy;” and he adds, in a postscript,
Plan."ºd for by the perturbations of the known that the planet was observed at Mr. Bishop's ºb-
ºij. that the deviations far exceeded any servatory, in the Regent's Park, on Wednesday
the i.” of error of observation. In reply to night, notwithstanding the moonlight and hazy
"light li °h, Whether the deviations in question sky. “It appears bright,” he says, “and with a
Planº"; be due to the action of an unknown power of 320 I can see the disc. The following
Rºbāţi, "...stated that he considered it highly position is the result of instrumental comparisons
that such was the case—being syste- with 33 Aquarii:—
te net º i. might be prºduced by an exte- se t. 30, at 8h. 16m. 21s. Greenwich mean time-
"pted. . t en inquired whether he had at- tight ascension of planet, . . 21h. 52mº,47.15s.
º rom the indications afforded by these South declination, . . . . . 13° 27' 20" “
Now.º. to discover the position of the un- *
be rai ºdy—in order that “a hue and cry” might| THE BARoos-Many are the extraordinary
Whic *d for it. From his reply, the words of anecdotes related of the baboon; One was told me
hotti, do not call to mind, I collected that he had |by Mr. Moffat, of a Koranna who possessed a tame
º, ha gone into that inquiry; but proposed to do baboon, which, in common with all the monkey
ºccº."g now completed certain works which had race, entertained an intense dread of snakes: its
in a Pled too much of his time. And, accordingly, master, from mere wantonness, forcibly entwined a
turn t § which I received from him after his re- dead snake round the baboon's neck, when the ani-
hy." Önigsberg, dated November 14, 1842, he mal sat motionless for upwards of an hour, stupe-
is...n, reference to our conversation at Col-|fied. With fear, and, on the snake being removed,
Uğ * I announce to you (melde ich Ihnen) that stole timidly into the hut of the Koranna. After a
i. is not forgotten.” Doubtless, therefore, short lapse of time, the baboon was, according to
th. his paper, iiii, found some researches on ºustom, called on by its master to scratch his head,
Šubject. but, although summoned several times in an angry
whijemarkable calculations of M. Le Verrier—| Voice; it refused tº move. The Koranna rose and
true ..."? pointed out, as now appears, nearly the struck it with a stick, and immediately the enraged
invº. lation of the new planet, by resolving the and aggrieved animal sprung upon him; the neigh-
Wated. Problem of the perturbations—if uncorrobo- bors hearing the scuffle ran to see what was the
anoth. ºpetition of the numerical calculations by matter, but could distinguish nothing through the
Anot. "ºnd, or by independent investigation from dust raised in the interior of the hut, except hot
*sū. Tuarter, would hardly justify so strong an cinders, which were kicked about in all directiºns
show... as that conveyed by my expressions from a fire-place in the centre of the abode. The
time |luded to. But it was known to me, at that screams of the man and the baboon were intº
her'. Will take the liberty to cite the astrono-|mingled, till at length the latter dashed out through
Šation . as my authority,) that a similar investi- the bystanders, and escaped to some º:
'ºnclusi * been independently entered into, and a The Koranna had been seriously bitten in the en:
very.90 as to the 'situation of the new planet | counter, and was some weeks in recoyº but
at, 6". y coincident with M. Le Verrier's arrived ultimately regained his strength, and, º *
you... ºtire ignorance of his conclusions,) by a revenge, scoured the mountains "... º
'ho wil ambridge mathematician, Mr. Adams;–|antagonist. He at last descried his º' Yºu"
(the mail hope, pardon this mention of his name, he could discern from any other; peºplºg ºr a
Sin." ºr being one of great historical moment,) crag, and levelled a gun at him; º' the . 1I]-
$nd m Who will, doubtless, in his own good time stantly withdrew his head, and held forward one of
lić "ner, placjatiºns before the pub. his companions as a target instead of himself, chat-
J. F. W. Henschel. |tering loudly as in defiance, so that the man was
compelled to return foiled and disappointed. One
ºx of LE VERRIER's PLANET. # the most respectable of* ...'. 1Il ‘.
*. Hind own told me of a case, Wher Dapoons from
Rece announces to the Times that he has * • rain;
i. * letter from Dr. Brünnow, of the Royal Table Mountain entered an orchard in the vicinity
* tor * * * s of the town, many years back, and finding there an
§º giving º ..". t infant, which the nurse had laid down for a few
Ga °, on the ni i..'s p . 23d. “ }. minutes whilst she went on Some errand, carried it
+ T ght of September 23d. away to the foot of the mountain. They were
* º º * sued, and seen seated in a circle round
#;" of this magnificent work was defrayed quickly pursued,
h A gº."...'...'...] the child, which was, recovered free from any in-
SSociati
on, in 1833. jury.—Methuen's Wilderness.
334 A BOAR. HUNT
IN BRITTANY.
From Fraser's Magazine.
A BOAR HUNT IN BRITTANY. — BY A RESIDENT.
CHAPTER I.
A sustained frost for any number of days does
not occur in Basse Bretagne once in six years on
an average—“a chance not to be neglected by the
sportsman,” we said, as we turned over the contents
of our pocket-book, which consisted of pen-and-ink
maps of choice points of the country, our port
d'armes, a few salmon-flies, and such permissions
to chasser over different signories and manors as we
had been fortunate enough to collect. Amongst
others was a letter of introduction, with which we
had been favored from the deputy, to one Monsieur
Pierre Perron, an advocate in high repute at Paris,
but what was infinitely more satisfactory to us, in
far higher repute as a chasseur in Brittany, and
possessed of vast estates in the wildest parts of the
Côté du Nord. I had forwarded my letter of intro-
duction to him some time previous, but had not been
favored with a reply; however, having heard so
much of the sport to be had on his property, I
determined to take advantage of the weather, and
to make a day or two in that direction to reconnoitre.
The nearest route lay across the country, and as
there was no means of travelling in a char-à-banc
through narrow lanes and over goat-paths, I deter-
mined to put my stout pony, which was character-
ized by the name of “ Hercule,” into requisition.
I had long found the necessity of some arrangement
to carry my dogs, the best shooting ground usually
lying at so great a distance that they were knocked
up on reaching it, to say nothing of returning; I
therefore hit upon the following expedient. I had
two narrow and moderately deep panniers made of
wicker-work, and lined with sheepskins, wadded
with flock, and covered with a net; in each of these
I put one of my setters, and slung them tight across
the pony at the crupper of the saddle, sitting my-
self as forward as possible, and riding Arab fashion.
The only difficulty I had now was to get my pony
to accommodate himself to a swinging trot ; this
accomplished, the arrangement answered com-
pletely, rendering me independent of the most dif.
ficult country; and thus packed, we made twenty
miles over-night, and slept at a Bourg hostelry.
On the following morning we were all three on our
legs at the streak of day, fresh as Jarks, and bent
on a regular day's cock-shooting. I say we. This
classification of the human, and canine may seem
derogatory to the dignity of the rational species to
any but a roving hill sportsman, who is his own
keeper, knows what it is to share his wallet with
his dogs, the partners of his foils and pleasures, and
has felt the genial warmth of their bodies as they lay
across his feet, while the stars, shone clear above
his head through the roofless ruins of some ancient
château—a circumstance that has happened to us
more than once. The sun was tawny and dim as
it struggled through the early mist, which was
swept away by the keen east wind, and left the air
as clear as a bell and the heavens as blue. It had
taken us three hours to reach our ground; it now
lay before us, and was a long, continuous valley of
several miles in extent, through the sinuosities
of which ran a clear stream, the sides garnished
with tufts of gigantic rushes, and interspersed with
clumps of alders. Here the ground was protected,
and the water flowed fresh and pearly, while the
swampy, open parts aſſorded sound footing after a
three days' smart frost. We calculated that the
birds, driven from the woods, would be found landed birds slung to my beſt for the greater conv"
on the warm springs, (in which case the
upon their feeding ground till the weather
and we were not disappointed. Spaniel verru"
have spoilt the sport, as they would havº º
the ground and driven everything away; ... the
the setters, cast on either side the stream; b
ground steadily and clean, being traine
the cocks, after a short pause. Few ºl.pe
shot and when they did, as they had only . were
country to take to, they dropped ahead "...us
recovered. As the sun began to pale, an cks,
warning to return, we had bagged ninetee" or the
and yet our shooting was far from first-rº.º. in
sun, till it reached the meridian, shone diº.in
our face. It must be confessed this was ; iſ]
ground, and a gun had rarely, if ever, been best of
this solitary valley before. We made the "...ven
our way to gain the highroad, as we lºº, ished
good miles before us, and had hardly diº.
our distance a mile, when we were met by * tion:
elling-carriage, of a somewhat cumbrous dº ited
drawn by two powerful Norman greys, with % ove!
harness, and sheepskins dyed blue, stretch'.
their loins, while from the apex of the collar º
a clump of large hawks’ bells. The ye.
and silver band and tassel, as well as the Pºº"...co.
of silver braid with which the postilion wº...me
rated, showed the inmates to be persons 9 ewhº
pretension. On the panel was painted, son" sked
elaborately, the coat-of-arms, being twº 9
arms placed crosswise, the hand attached tº led
one open, as if frankly offered, and the other "...to,
up in a threatening attitude, with the laconiº "... an
“Choose !” or, as it ran in Breton, “Komº”.lti-
hani a-blyo ganoch;” emblems which wil ch?!'
mately be found to accord accurately with thº.
acter of the owner. But my attention was
vated by what followed. On a stout roads".
mounted a stalwart fellow, with black mou” 31 his
and a shaggy beard reaching to his chest.
hand he carried a heavy hunting-whip, an ...is
side of his demipique saddle hung a bunch of ho le3,
bells, balanced on the other by a knot of *
He wore a casquet de chasse, and his lºng,ºct.
velvet frock was secured by a broad leathe"..ed
in which was coutcau de chasse, in a silver. with
scabbard, and fastened by a buckle embº; ench
a shield of a large silver boar's head. A jet
horn hung over his left shoulder and passe ºr
the opposite arm, crossed by a leather thoº!
ing a short, stout javelin or spear, which wº.
across his buck-leather pantaloons, fitting tig mé
his athletic person, and Hessian boots of tºº.cd
untanned material formed the costume of a " mag”
garde de chasse. Behind this formidable peº. worſ)
trooped some thirty couple of hounds, W*.cs,
and weary, as was betrayed by their lolling ºr
and behind them followed a wild, half-naked, ºt.
looking fellow, with bare arms, head, *, his
He kept up with the dogs at a measure! ... it
hair streaming in the wind, features black.” abil-
sun, and teeth gleaming like ivory. The few loose
iments he was decked in consisted of shº dis’
trousers, and a blue chemise, secured by a ; t
playing the same grinning head in brass wºn
garde had in silver. In his hand he carriº”. ng "
whip, his implement of office—his duty... the
keep the hounds from straying or dropping º of
rear. “Come,” said we, “this smells sºng
wild boars ''” and I doubt not I cast a scº O
glance at the equipage as I drew up on on".
let it pass, with my gun on my shoulder...nce
w
f A BOAR-HUNT
Of u-v" .
IN BRITTANY.
335
º Suddenly the carriage stopped, and
excee i , of enormous dimensions, with features
“En .# gliness, was thrust from the window.
I j sh!” cried the owner, abruptly.
*****d my hat in assent.
from i...ºnan, too !” he added, as he descended
º *riage and approached me.
t e.t.covered that my interlocutor was as
Renº. ºcharacter as appearance, Though ex-
CŞs of ; ressed, no costume could hide the ugli-
was." figure, which was nearly as broad as it
{{ e
in . ! Do you call this a chasse?” said he,
Sºme # ish, with a slight French accent, at the
iny tºº running his hands through the birds at
*factor. I had flattered myself I had made a sat-
tº day of it, and replied—
tº sir, what may you call a good chasse?”
blin . hit a stag between the antlers at speed, or
Of t; . a boar at a hundred paces in the alley
his Col 9test ' That is what I call a chasse 7 º and
her.", grey eye seemed upon such terms with his
boss * as would enable him to make good his
º took a long and scrutinizing look at me, and
tº suisſed with his survey, for he said, ab-
{{
We i. * word, will you go with me, and see how
, I 0. . manage these things!”
ing ſº. full as prompt as he, I answered by mov-
hé." Ward to the carriage, for it is a rule with me
to".9 cross an eccentric person, and also never
ke. *e an adventure; the first repays in the
the h ge of the character, the second chequers
he jºlony of life. I drove my dogs back, but
tº out, with some contempt—
to th "t your cats in the rumble, and give your gun
§ guard; we will find you a rifle.”
lad Il *htering the carriage, he introduced me to a
his wº Om he designated as the Countess of Croan,
i. The lady was a perfect contrast to her
jº. She might have reached her thirty-fifth
trary ut was still eminently handsome, and con-
e; "...the custom of her countrywomen, who
Yout age half-way with ugliness, the freshness of
depa. still hung about her, though its season had
led. In person she was extremely graceful,
Sº the stamp de la haute société—that charm
fails . of simplicity and refinement, which never
Path 9 create while it limits the boundary of sym-
circlés, ". mind had been formed in Parisian
*nd su. to Shine in which requires great knowledge
to i.ior intellect, a belle being there expected
enjºlress of the arts and sciences, and of lit,
Prepa º * casuist, a logician, and a politician i .
"ficity to support her opinions with judgment an
hu. particular in describing this lady and her
tº." ecause it will render subsequent charac-
wer. ºrd intelligible. Monsieur sº maſſ all;
in his °xactly to the idea of a “pocket Hercules;
Hill ºn was packed as much strength as could
Hew.compressed without absolute deformity.
loft.*.*rned forty years of age; his forehead was
ºr. compact, the only redeeming feature;
Sense leless, a strong expression of energy. and
me ..ºd through his broad and heavy linea-
ligenº Which, when blended with a keen and intel-
voi. 'yº, and aided by a mellow and eloquent
while i. eclipsed his personal appearance;
$y, re . superior intellect and peculiar idiosyncra-
* ered every subject that he touched interest-
"the domestic intercourse of this singular
couple one thing was perfectly unintelligible, and
in complete contrast with the custom and etiquette
of France matrimonial, and that was, the tone of
tenderness and watchful affection (which belongs
alone to souls who love), bestowed by the countess
on her husband. The fable of “Vulcan and Ve-
nus,” with the tender sentiment of Endymion com-
bined, was here realized. I felt the strongest
curiosity to know the history of my compagnons
de voyage; this was subsequently gratified, and by
an explanation surpassing in interest my highest
anticipations.
I was soon surprised to find my name known to
my singular companion, and no less to discover
in him the M. Perron whose acquaintance I had so
eagerly desired. My friend the deputy, it appeared,
had given such a description of me as served for
instant identification, and M. Perron gave me the
reception of an expected visitor, it having been his
intention to forward me an invite to join a sporting
party that he expected at his château; of course,
our accidental rencontre superseded this. During
our ride, M. Perron freely communicated to me the
following remarkable particulars of his early
Career
CHAPTER II.
The parents of Monsieur Perron were small
farmers, which means in Brittany that they lived in
a rude stone hut, thatched with rushes, containing
only one room, the extreme end of which is occu-
pied by the cattle parted of from the habitable por-
tion by wooden railings. In such a place was
Monsieur Perron born, and his early occupation
was to watch and feed the miserable stock, consist-
ing of a cow, a few pigs, and a couple of goats.
His summers were passed in the sun, his only lux-
ury; and his winters in wooden sabots, nakedness
and want. The seed, however, is not always ap-
portioned to the soil; beneath his rags he possessed
a mind which was one day to work out his earthly
redemption. His only natural accomplishment was
a fine voice, which he was proud of exercising in
the responses of the chapel of St. Philibert; this
brought him into frequent contact with the priest,
a mild and amiable man, who lent him a Breton and
French grammar, with which and infinite labor he
taught himself the rudiments of these languages.
The priest was struck with his perseverance, became
attached to him, and gave him lessons, by which he
profited so rapidly that, in his benevolence, he sent
him to a minor college. Thence he worked his
way to the college at Rennes, where he tried for
the highest honors and obtained them. Finally,
quitting the university with the degree of doctor,
Monsieur Perron chose the profession of the law,
in which he rose to rapid and eminent employment,
and was at this day in possession of an ample for-
tune and an annual practice of great profit. How-
ever eminent he might be for ability, he was more
esteemed for the sterling worth of his character and
his incorruptible honesty. I was not long without
a trait of this, for he suddenly broke off his dis-
course by desiring the carriage to be stopped, and
leaping out, ran towards a man who stood in the
road, and who, with his hat in his hand, was mut-
tering a “Pater,” as he extended It towards the
carriage, soliciting charity. Monsieur Perron seized
him in his arms, and, after embracing him, brought
him into the carriage, overwhelming him with ques-
tions and gratulations. In spite of the sound sense
manifested by Monsieur Perron, I began to fear
that his eccentricities were in the habit of being too
336
IN BRITTANY.
A BOAR-HUNT
strong for his reason, nor was this opinion weak-
ened by the circumstance that a young man pre-
sented himself at the window, requesting to be
taken in, as his groom had not arrived with his
horses; when Monsieur Perron replied, “We are
full ; nothing for it, mon cher baron, but the run-
ble!” It was something quite new to see a baron
postponed for a beggar, and it remained for Mon-
sieur Perron to explain, which he did in the ſol-
lowing manner:—
“This poor fellow,” said he, “was my neigh-
bor and play-fellow when I was a miserable, half-
starved urchin, and we ate the bread of poverty and
bitterness together. I have lost sight of him for
many years, and find him as you see. The baron
is a man of ancient lineage, and pertains to my
golden days. Heaven forbid that I should displace
this tattered unfortunate at the moment I have
found him, and shame my sentiments' Do you
understand me! With the permission of Provi-
dence, I will settle on him 500 francs a year before
I sleep, that the partner of my low may partake of
my high fortune. You see the arms I bear on the
panel of the carriage—an open hand, from which
should flow benefits to others! Wealth should be
employed to this end, thus we taste its full essence
in double enjoyment, and are not ungrateful to for-
tune. But we must part here, for the night at
least. I must attend madame to a friend's château,
where she will reinain during the week that I ex-
pect my friends to join me at the chasse au sanglier,
at my own château, ‘Funn tout €nn Douar’—the
Hole in the Ground; our friend here will conduct
ou. You will pass the night there, and I will
join you in the morning.”
I forthwith shouldered my gun, took my leave,
and, preceded by the mendicant, struck across a
woody country. Two or three miles at a smart pace
brought us to a Breton farm, where my guide halted.
These establishments being as like as peas through-
out the country, in describing this I shall describe
all. The approach to a Breton farm, or métairie, is
execrable; a hundred or two yards either way the
lane is worn with deep ruts and holes, into which
is cast the refuse of the yard, where it is left to rot
and be poached by the cattle, and eventually col-
lected for manure. While the process is in pro-
gress you are one moment on a dry ridge or elevat-
cd stone, and another sunk up to the hips in mire,
and if you are fortunate enough to scCure a firm foot.
ing it is probable that you are surrounded for a
couple of yards with a complete bog. Usually,
close to the hedge, which grows upon a bank six
Or eight feet high, to prevent the possibility of es-
cape that way, large stones are placed at unequal
distances, not inaptly called trottoirs de chèvre, for
nothing less nimble than a goat could secure a foot-
ing upon them. When the peasant returns home
blind with eau do vie, which he makes it a point of
honor to do every market-day, it is rare fun to see
his balancings and contrivances, in wºoden shoes, to
reach his own door, and he generally finishes his
day & quatre pattes. This is a sad drawback on the
rural charms of Brittany, by comparison with the
shady lane, the neat yard, and compact arrange-
ments of an English farm! The frosty weather,
however, on this occasion helped us, and we
gained the interior dry shod. There we found an
old withered couple smoking themselves over a
handful of fire, which was burning upon a raised
stone; while, on either side, were two stone
benches, over which yawned a chimney, extending
the whole breadth ; a long oaken table, which was
h;
a fixture, and a bench running the whole lº.
while the opposite side was divided intº. §e
en partitions at equal distances, raised ºne
from the ground, in which were cots attahºº!
bare walls, containing beds, and enclosed "
by sliding panels, so that the tenant is sh"... at
in a box, except that the panels have opº"...imit
the top for air. A hole in the wall serves . ding.
light, a glazed sash being unknown in such bul sºck
A few sacks of blé noir and potatoes formed the 0005:
in trade; these, with a few bowls and woodºº.gi
a rude crucifix, and a statue of the Virgin;"
the whole contents of the apartments; wºg
usual, were shared with swine and cattle, " ction
requisite to house them nightly as a P.us
from the wolves, which are sufficiently ...'. his
in woody districts, and make a farmer sufie"
negligence. to thº
The light began to thicken, and I turned h the
guide, impatient to be on the move, to re."
château before dark.
“IIere is the château,” he replied, dryly. dering
“What!” replied I, with amazement, bº.
on despair, “are we to sup and sleep herº ... the
“Why,” said my guide, “as to suppº th9
less we anticipate the better; but this "Hole
château. “Eunn tout €nn Douar,” or, “Thº...
in the Ground,’ as the farm is called; and hº
must assuredly sleep, or fare worse.”
I must confess my chagrin was poignant: 38
- - h:1
who has drawn a blank, my spirits sunk. I
raging appetite, not having broken my lºg,
twelve hours; for it is my practice while sport re-
be the day long or short, never to indulge º,
freshment. This is the true way to bear ſº.
and carry home a sound appetite and a keen ing
I must say I had some time indulged in floº.
dreams of a good fire, an hospitable hall, anº”.ck
smoking with roast and boiled, and sundry ſold-
bottles. I knew what these miserable holes . Aſ8
ed, and felt my fate. Nevertheless, my spº. set
naturally elastic; I had been worse off, *: uld
about making the best of it. The utmost f skiſ,
ransack was some, black brºad, a bowl...and
milk, a little lard or hog's fat, (tolerably ranº".
which the natives use instead of butter.) an: . sew"
position for the cholera, in Scotland callel...ny,
ins;” in Wales, “eusigython;” in. Bril M.
“pāt;” and in England, “ oatmeal porridge...wd
Perron and his château had served me 0 °.
turn; this was a bitter test, but still I liked "...ca
found the old woman was busy putting ºl. w83
into a rabbit-hutch, which I hence concluº. p.
designed for my dormitory. This was º iſ,
proach towards comfort, and my guide was bu cifi-
making up a blazing fire; this was another
cation; so, after a grimace or two, and cu C
my folly that I had not brought with me. **
the produce of my day's sport, I prepared"
my humble meal, but was stopped by my
who by this time had accomplished a genial
and he, with anarch look, produced from one .
half-a-dozen woodcocks, while he drew *"...p.
other a dish carefully enveloped in a dam"...' is:
kin, which contained a pasty; and his wallet of
gorged three bottles, two of wine and ‘... an
brandy, with a paper containing limes, bit"; he
various et ceteras, the sight of which in"
€.
shr6
rsing
of
be: in
uide,
blaze:
heart leap and the mouth water. fearfu
I had forgiven Monsieur Perron in th9 ºw
moment of disappointment, now I cried, “ h; ked
I love the man ſ” The birds were strippe d º the
in a twinkling, and my guide, now advanº
A BOAR-HUNT
337
IN BRITTANY.
dion;
§ % butler, gave me instant proof of his pro-
Whiº, in hedge practice by the neatness with
t sº showed them the fire. A. huge slice of
.." the bottom, of the dish, ſo look out
of fº. and the birds being rubbed with a bit
"intern utter, nothing less delicate being allowed
or.º. with their natural flavor, gave forth an
8 da *h none but a famished sportsman, since
The . of Sancho's supper, could appreciate.
the jºy proved to be a Périgord pie, and suffered
jences of delay as a first course. By
bird... had satisfied myself of its excellence the
and "...done, roasted, selon la régle, at a smart
$º the afar off. My skilful attendant placed them
Sistan *noking board, and removed to a respectful
less, *; but Monsieur Perron had taught me a
the, a. *d I made him take his place opposite to
entl !p with me in the dish, which was pres-
hai,” clean as my hand, for the débris were
bo. Worth throwing to the dogs. The first
“St §ººd to be “ St. Emelion,” and the second
The °orges,” two saints after my own heart.
left. Sugar, and especial eau de vie, made d
Migj "ºwl of punch, a nectar fit for Orion, the
ai. hunter. According to national custom, all
Sir W. ºrew from the chamber, into the open
{ci °, the stranger undressed and retired to rest.
ben. . to my roost and tumbled in ; a mud floor
Smoky rafters above my couch, a stone
º §y right, and a wooden one to my left, in
$ºund f ºrmony of gastronomic complacency and
*got ...tigue—“the world forgetting, by the world
...The grunting of my neighbors, the pigs,
hiº. to my dreams, and the snorting of my
f...the Bretons, not worth the listening to.
and . stirring by times, and after a crust of bread
§unt *ght of milk, sallied out with my dogs and
§§. ke a survey of the locality. , I found that
tified rm, being literally buried in the hill-side, jus-
Was l title; but it did not stand alone, for there
a "g cruciform building adjoining it, with a
full º y º doors of which, however, were care-
* re
left jºing to the farm, I found the scene I had
Were º "ged indeed. Upwards of seventy hounds
tum.”ying about in couples; four or five carts or
§orgin * such as are used in the country, were dis:
tº. & their contents in the shape of hampers and
rifles. Aly friend with the beard was loaded with
tunn. "922n valets and picqueurs de chasse were
awi. ºn different directions, and the mendicant;
pon ... inding himself in new clothes, waited
º *urdy individual in Breton costume, who
to find the whole, and what was my astonishment
He his no less a person than Monsieur Perron.
Jºcket idopted a large-brimmed hat, sky-blue
Kºsil *"dwest braided with scarlet, sail-cloth inex-
*ggin * gathered into a hundred folds, leather
he jº, and wooden shoes. If he was as broad as
°ng before, he was now broader. He per-
ce. surprise, and an ill-suppressed smile at
the ..icity which appeared to partake more of
ºulous than the sublime, and observed; “All
el.”. turn upon us; exiles yearn to die and
these i. the country where they were born. In
dağ.”hes I toiled from sloth and ignorance as
jºrity; *idnight, and in this costume I fed m
bit. With hopes, with perseverance, and with am-
isºd... clad, and in this spot, I hungered and
$nd how *nd wore out the tedious night in thought;
lt an r With more pride and pleasure do I resume
and i. this ground than when clothed in satin
* at the nobles and wealthies, boards in
Slate
Paris; and rather would I lay my bones in the na-
ked earth of the burial-ground of the little chapel
of St. Philibert than be entombed in the stately fab-
ric of St. Denis with the crowned kings! So weak
or strong is human nature!, But come, you have
not seen the real château,” added he, laughing at
the ruse of the preceding night, and leading the way
into the building I had noticed in the morning.
We entered an apartment of noble dimensions, fifty
feet in length, by thirty in breadth, with two wings
at the extremity, one of which was a kitchen, and
beneath it a capacious cellar, choicely stocked with
wine; the other was fitted up as a boudoir, appro-
priated to the use of Madame Perron when she ac-
companied her husband on his excursions. The
salon was wainscoted with walnut-tree wood, high-
ly polished, the grain extremely handsome ; and
within the mouldings of the panels were squares of
tapestry, representing hunting scenes. The black
oak floor mirrored the branching antlers of noble deer
and tusks of mighty boars, which garnished the
lower cornice, and gave rich promise to the sports-
man of the savage breed which inhabited the adja-
cent forests. On either side the room ran what ap-
peared to be six small tents, but which were recesses
containing beds and other furniture for dormitories;
so that when the crimson damask curtains were
drawn, the inmate was secluded in a chamber, small,
but furnished with every convenience. Two large
fire-places occupied nearly centrical positions oppo-
site to each other, and log-fires were blazing in
them. Before each stood tables of a horse-shoe
shape, capable of accommodating twenty persons.
On one of these was arranged a breakfast, and my
host and myself did ample justice to it. I could not
help observing that M. Perron confined himself to
the woodcocks which he discussed with great
gusto.
“I am happy,” said I, “that your indifference
does not extend to the eating as well as to the bring-
ing down these birds.”
But he was incorrigible, and replied dryly,–
“They would eat quite as well taken in horse-
hair springes.”
It was clear he was a disciple of Nimrod rather
than of Ramrod, and held the fowling-piece in dis-
dain; nor was I sorry to find it so, as it gave prom-
ise of nervous sport of a more stirring character, in
which I was not doomed to be disappointed. Mon-
sieur Perron's father, one of my ancient companions
of the previous night, stood by the fire, in all the
dirt and ugliness for which Breton peasants, when
old, are national candidates. He was eating his
usual mess of bouilli with a wooden spoon, and
staring at what passed with the half-consciousness
of a permitted domestic animal.
“I observed your thoughts,” said my host; “they
are natural enough. You wonder why I-wealthy,
with enough to spare—should leave my parents in
comparative want and a primitive state of barbarism.
Never disturb old habits; it is to kill with kindness,
to make miserable where you would make happy.
You yourselves have an example of this. I re-
member to have read of an Englishman named Parr
—Old Parr; he lived to the great age, I think, of
a hundred and twenty years, after the manner of
his own habits, and in obscurity. His vast age
being known, he attracted attention, and became a
fashion; for to be notorious from dancing on a rope
down to, or up to a murder, is to become popular;
and the world gapes for a wonder as a parrot for an
almond—they must be identified. Well! the hale
and venerable man was had up to your capital, and
338 A BOAR-HUNT
IN BRITTANY.
feasted, and toasted, and prescribed high living, to
give him strength and prolong his life, as if his
having lived so long was not proof sufficient that he
was in the right road: in a few months of course, he
died. I might as well bury my parents as take
them out of their habits and their sphere. You see
how he relishes that black bread and sour oat-meal
mess. He throve upon it for thirty years before I
was born; nature has vegetated upon it for four-
Score years. These dishes would poison him,
cleanliness would but produce a raw and uneasy
Sensation; and if I gave him money he would kill
himself with brandy. I have studied hard to make
them partakers of my fortune, but there is no way
for it but to leave nature alone, and let them live it
out.”
The rest of the day was spent in organizing the
camp. The more I saw of my host the more I
liked and respected him. Sympathy naturally be-
gets sympathy, and we were at once imperceptibly
established on terms of friendly familiarity. }. I
cannot say that I slept more happily in my silken
pavilion, (except that the antlers and huge tusks
which were above my head blended with my
dreams of slaughtered boars and stricken deer,) than
I had done the night before, amidst the odor of a
stable and shielded by bare walls; and I suspect
Shakspeare knew the reason when he described
“the tired ship-boy on the mast finding his thrice-
driven bed of down.”
CHAPTER III,
On the following day our host proposed that we
should take our rifles and try to mark down a stag.
Nothing loth, I was soon in trim. They gave me
the choice of a rifle by Charles Moore or one by
Beal le Page, the most celebrated fabricateur in
Paris; I chose the former, of course.
“A few years ago,” observed M. Perron, “the
prejudice in favor of the arms of your country
would have been justified, but now we can rival
you in quality, and at less than half the cost, which
is a desideratum.” *
We were not long in gaining the forest.
“The scent is stone cold,” observed M. Perron.
“So much the better; we shall move without driv-
ing it into the open country. Under the trees it
will lie a trifle, and as this alley leads to the upper
wood, you will be sure to get a shot or two. But
you must tree to be above the wind, which is strong,
and dead towards the beat for game; and if it be a
stag it will wheel round upon the hounds rather
than approach you.” .
This was an experiment altogether new to me;
but I was for mounting incontinently.
“That will hardly be fair,” said he, catching me
by the belt; “we must seek an ºpening some thirty
paces from the alley, and which looks clear upon it.
Give the beast a chance; here he would be under
your muzzle A clear case of ‘Stand and deliv-
er 1' Besides, boars don't climb trees!”
Having found a fit spot, M. Perron drew an axe,
which he carried in his belt, and so trimmed the
branches of a tree that I could stand or sit with
great convenience, and was firm on my feet to take
aim. I at length took my station according to the
mysteries of woodcraft, while he proceeded with
picqueurs and hounds to start the game. For more
than an hour was I on this inglorious and monot-
onous watch, the keen east wind drove through me
like a scarecrow, and my zeal began to freeze, for
I was equipped for active exercise—for walking,
not sitting in the air—and the chairman to the Soci-
. ...coul!
ety for the Suppression of Cruelty to Ajº. 1
not have wished me a more uncomfortable. *.me,
sighed for the use of my legs, the springing g gº
and my despised Purdey. "At last the hºck
notice that the game was afoot. The sh and 18.
of my rifle sounded like music in my car. ...ious
freshed my spirits. There was a dead an
silence; I commanded an opening on to thºall co",
ten good yards, and thought it enough in
science; but, unacquainted with rifle
found it none too much. Presently ki
game approach ; it came thundering along, . th90
the hollow and turfy ground more like a
a deer, which I expected. It proved in." Ill
a boar of enormous size, with an eye off. in
ing at the tusks, with mane erect, an º such
unwieldly gate. He dashed snorting by . isly
was my surprise at this first introduction to the frce.
beast that I did not fire, and he escaped º: ing,
I now knew what my host meant by...ºne
“Boars don’t climb trees.” I confess with intº
that I had no desire to dispute the pas with at thº
tated monster. Great was my mortificatiº... the
chance I had lost, and in my self-abaseme" me’
word “Cockney” escaped me; when I wº undé,
what restored by hearing him, headed by thº' took
turn on his path., Benton retrieving myśigh
deliberate aim behind the shoulder, and fift mth;
barrels simultaneously. He dropped slightly fro ck!
effects, but whether from surprise or being sººn
cºuld not tell, for he kept on and I saw no moºd be
(I little thought how near this same beast wou had
to taking a fatal revenge on a future day): befº
scarcely time to load one of my two barrels P.
a hart came bounding by. I fired, and mº i. re-
the second At the same moment I hear ; thé
port of M. Perron's rifle, and the horn soº". A
mort. “Come,” said I, “his boast W. ind,
vain one.” I no longer felt the cold and thº bowº
but was flushed with excitement, and the .cy,
named chairman would, had I been at his *.sh.
have put a heavy fine upon me. Again thºug
ing of the leaves gave notice, and a nº. 82°
dished past at the utmost speed. I had,"...ºg
isfaction of taking a chip off his antler and jid !
him continue on like the wind—or fear emb ifle;
Again the mort was sounded to my friend.
I had had the advantage of him by one ...;
nothing to show for it, and I was bound 19.
that a habit of shooting at feather and fur wº f, ſ
gether different. Discontented with nº . bee!
descended from the tree to see if the boar!” * ſ
wounded and had left any trail from its effcc t the
found slight traces of blood in the alley, a; at tº
same time heard the approach of game. ...haſ
friend's sagacity had not misled him, for no sº. had
a stag approached within a hundred yards 9 he ai';
he stopped, threw up his head, and sniffe! . ſ
and, turning short round, dashed into the for form”
therefore retraced my steps, and took my
position, determined to do º; to P.cveſ,
better terms with myself. A weary hour,”
elapsed, before a stag appeared. The insºnto
was visible I fired at his heart; he made abº but!
the air, which carried him past the openiº; oon
heard him fall heavily on his side. . . .hthº
with him. He had fallen dead, struck throug uard
heart! At the same moment my host anºjih,
came up, and Isaved my credit by a hair".
I saw the sanguinary rites performed in '. llen by
approved style on the first stag that had "
my hand, and a noble beast he was. hé dinne'
On our return to the château, a recher”
foll º A BOAR-HUNT
O
IN BRITTANY., 339
§. * M. Perron, though he lived simply
With jº. his guests en prince, and had brought
Šâme at bi is Parisian cook, a cordon bleu. After a
*latin illiards, the night was closed by our host's
had et *ºne of the dramatic adventures which he
urin "ith in Paris, after his own “racy style.”
% the º the following day the guests dropped in
'ºbles \mber of ten. They were chiefly Breton
the R. the Wreck of whose fortunes had survived
While.tion. The utmost hilarity soon pre-
ºlent tº: ich received no diminution from a suffi-
tiºn.ºyment of the choice wines that loaded the
inne.
jº. Billiards, chess, écarté, (where a few
did th...ºnes changed hands,) passed this, as it
butt *cceeding evenings in gayety and spirit;
the º º ...; .*. by far was
'ay: *ple chances of the hunt for the following
ºld all * length the damask tents were occupied,
Şas $. "as silence and repose—a repose which
Šawn º by the huntsman's loud reveillé at the
lar musi day, to which the hounds, whose particu-
All . * was, answered by baying loud and deep.
Sotio Të Speedily on the alert and in impatient
§ttoº *nd a breakfast beneath the lamp, albeit it
*Čess 9f the solids, was soon despatched as a
tum but inconvenient thing, and when all
ºf th: "... into the open space forming the gorge
Šaj Vºlley, to the amount of fifty persons, the
tiri. In their somewhat fantastic costume,
hi § Velvet coats of green or blue, with silver
§rd’s.” antique powder-horns slung by a silver
ifies Il richly chased, with the stocks of their
$ºn. a$ºrding to ancient practice, elaborately
lm th. the shape of a boar's head; the retainers
*med *...turesque attire; the guards and picqueurs
gº. Short staves tipped with javelin heads;
Of hou * With the j. pack of thirty couple
bº , the scene was animating and full of
big . Before us lay the lake reflecting the ris-
§e. fringed with the forest hedge, which
bla. “d up and away, mount above mount, in
ğ.heavy masses, till it mingled with the
bij ... clouds. The hounds were of a peculiar
Sºthº. much larger than our fox-hounds, and alto-
§: ºlike them; powerful in bone, and for the
ºng A. of a brindle color, shaggy in coat, with
that th. Weeping ears. If they have a fault, it is
ºft, ... ºfather too long upon their legs for the
and ..."t with a sagacious head and strong instinct,
ºne."ge shown in the expression of the eye;
$ºuncil.ºsts, and capable and willing to do. A
Šined º destruction was held, and it was deter-
the South Proceed to the great forest which lay to
'ee: wer. ºld occupy the alleys, where boars and
§lin. alike to filí a sacrifice. I felt a strong
law. th Il to be placed near my host, that I might
§nn." °hasse in perfection; and I suppose, m
kº some indication to that effect, whic
he to i.ehension understood, for he beckoned
boat. ºbserving, “We will cross the lake in
Wh. *nd take the upper alley of the forest.”
ad not * entered the boats, two hounds, which I
ºr jºticed before, followed him; they were not
§ºn."g; but for dealing with the boar at close
efore.” ad never seen such a breed as this
*ge.” *ggy-haired, and of a grey color, much
§ and h "the mastiff, and with his ensanguined
ad º; jowl, the most powerful beasts I
§y ar beheld, and very fierce. The breed is
. º and peculiar to Brittany; it is said to
§hirt. ºrought from Spain by fu Guesclin in
with iron *.century. The hounds were furnished
°llars with sharp steel spikes, and were
formidable as the betes fauves they were intended to
contend with. For once there was a truce to imper-
tinence in the names they bore . The sounding
titles of Hector and Achille were not bestowed upon
a kitten or a poodle. ſº
We were soon sweeping our way across the
lake, where the patches of wild duck and teal lay
eyeing us, and moved to a wary distance as the
boat approached them. We landed and gained the
upper ridge of the mountain, where a splendid and
boundless view broke upon our sight. Immense
wastes of genét and wild broom, which retains a
bright green color in the depth of winter, relieved
the grey and umber masses of the forest. Dark
clusters of holly clothed the gorges, and unless
where the cold and silver springs were here and
there visible in their fall to the lake, filled them
with a shade of double darkness. Deep belts of
pine crowned the summits of the heights, stretch-
ing like a sombre cloud, while the distant châteaux
glistened in the pale rays of a winter's sun. The
echo of the horn, the baying of the dogs, and the
far-off crack of the rifle, gave us notice that the
game was afoot. A similar spot was selected to
that which I had occupied the previous day, and
my host gave me the chance of first fire. We
were a long way from the scene of action, but we
had the best place, as the hunt would be continu-
ally advancing towards us ; whilst the sounds of
distant strife and the wailing note of the mort
sounded like a dirge across the lake and sorely
tried my patience. At length the hounds by our
ºve notice that there was something in the
WII)0.
“It is a boar!” said my host. “Look to the
hounds; see how their eyes kindle, and their hair
bristles up !. A token that it is no trifling enemy.
They would not so honor a stag ’’
Presently the monster appeared, having out-
stripped his pursuers. He came along at a leisure
trot ; the hounds crouched close to the earth ; he
stopped some sixty paces from us; we were con-
cealed from his view, but he seemed conscious of
danger, and as if speculating from which quarter it
might come.
“Now you may murder him at discretion,” said
my host : “he is all your own.” I took what I
thought a deadly aim, and missed. The boar
advanced half-a-dozen paces, stopped again, and
stood sniffing the air. “That fellow takes us for
Jews,” said my host, “and imagines we should
turn pale at the sight of his blood He is bent on
his fate. Quick, your other barrel ! Now to-
gether, and at the eyes!”
We fired simultaneously, and the brute rolled
over, rending the earth and tearing the branches in
wild and ungovernable fury. The hounds launched
upon him like lightning, and, pinning him by the
throat and muzzle, they rolled over and over together
in the death-struggle. It would have done Sney-
ders' heart good to see it, and have made Landseer
Fº up his ears. So savage was the affair, that
found myself breathing hard with excitement.
The boar was soon throttled, and lay upon his
back with his muzzle covered with foam, and his
eye still scintillating, like a half-extinguished
coal.
“Don’t sleep over him,” cried my host; “have
him out of the way, and reload. We shall have
the rest of the family presently.”
But this was not so easily done as said; for so
heavy was the beast, that it was with the greatest
labor we could drag him to our standing, even with
340
IN BRITTANY., d
A BOAR-HUNT
the assistance of the hounds, who, covered with
blood, pulled at him like demons. “Where did
you aim!'” said my host.
“At the eye,” I replied.
. “True,” he said; “the ball has entered the
right eye, and traversed the brain. He is un-
touched by me. Courage this will put you in
nerve.”
“Well,” thought I, “with so little practice, I
have not done amiss. After all, others can miss
as well as I; but I have nailed you at any rate,
and a frightful brute you are l’” That very evan-
escent thing called cat's ice and vanity are of about
equal foundation, and will assuredly betray every
thing above a feather's weight that trusts to them.
Gentle reader, I am a votary to truth; and I will
here confess, that when the beast was broken up,
I went out of presumed curiosity to see him, but,
in fact, prompted by that sort of vanity which we
feel towards the captive of our proper bow and
spear ! The ball was found buried in his brain,
and I took possession of it as a cabinet curiosity;
but what was my mortification to find, that the
bore to which it belonged was two sizes smaller
than that of my rifle, and that this ball was of iron,
whereas mine had been of lead ' I had made a
miss of it, after all. Human afflictions are all
mutable ; I could no longer endure the sight of
the brute; and, taking “the ball to M. Perron, I
said—
“I believe this belongs to you.” He laughed,
and replied—
“You won’t be made happy at any price You
fired over.” However, while in the field, I was in
blissful ignorance and full of confidence. “There
is a stag coming 8° whispered my host, whose
practises ear had detected him long before mine.
“The wind is with us, and he will continue on.”
IIe came up at such a pace that there was no time
for deliberation, and we both fired. He gave a
spring, wheeled forward, struggled to gain the
opening where we stood; and fell at our feet. Both
balls had taken eſſect. While M. Perron was bus
with his wood-knife, he stopped suddenly, and
heard the pattering of many feet over the leaves.
The noise was too light for a stag, much less for a
boar; but the hounds gave the warlike indications
that announced a beast of prey. “Wolves 1" said
my host, “ and several of them. They will keep
together like sheep. Kneel down, get on a level
with the troop, and sweep both barrels into
them ‘’’ -
I knew the forest abounded in wolvés, and had
before wondered we had not seen one ; but these
sagacious beasts, at the first sºund of the horn,
make a clean flight of it, usually threading cover
till they gain the open country. In a few seconds
seven came on at a measured gallop, and allen bloc,
three fell at our fire, and the hounds, dashing after
in pursuit, pulled down and despatched a fourth,
which was wounded. -
“Well,” said I, looking with complacency on so
many carcasses so recently quenched of subtle and
savage instinct—so much solid meat-“this does
beat cock-shooting, after all !”
The hunt was approaching fast, and the hampers
which we had carried in the boat were now
brought up by the attendants, and a cold collation
spread out upon the grass. We were soon col-
lected together, and the hounds, being called off by
the horn, came dropping in by twos and threes,
except some half-dozen, who still followed a stray
scent. Now began the “full and particular”
3ſ,
account of individual adventures, the º
incidents, these affording almost as much." cutio";
to a sportsman in the discussion as the *.pted
In the midst of the relation we were i.e.
with a loud cry of “Gare gare!” and ** i coſ!"
occurred which might have been attended wº
siderable danger, but which happily ende C6
ridiculous and absurd. A dead silence * strº
the warning cry, and the near baying of the heir
gling hounds showed that they had drive. ". thé
game in our direction ; shortly after we º
pattering of many feet like a flock of scºrºid
and then appeared “a guez gouéz'
sow,” a perfect monster, and in a perfect.
at her heels trooped thirteen of her Pººja'
“squeakers,” “porchellicq-gouëz,” (as lº. sing
cials are pleased to call them,) which wº... her
out for their tusks, and which, by slacº eſ’
pace and thereby risking no small dangº
self, she had ... managed to keep"; Ul
now, however, driven on by the hounds in...ºpen
they had nothing for it but to rush intº ! it ſuſ,
space where we sat, which they did witho" ind
ther ceremony, overturning all before the 'hug'
drawing forth a screaming and clatter like thei;
dred mad Satyrs. The attendants, being *
feet, ran for their lives, not a few having 3. will
by experience that a rent from the tusk of a and
boar is not to be stopped with sticking plaste. wer;
in the helter-skelter of the scene the i. ſ
magnified into a herd of full-grown mons!”.and
must confess the panic was universal : t . th9
réunion of hounds and swine took place ºnes,
table-cloth ! Sportsmen, dogs, bottles...}|{t,
pigs, were floundering about in an ingloriº ction*
and tumbling and scrambling in all dº."jay.
“Sauve qui peut!” was the order of the d for
Fortunately for us, the rifles had been st”.nces
safety, or we might have suffered the consº usioſ:
of this confusion; instead of a tragic ºn;
however, the ridiculous affair ended by the S and
breaking off in pursuit in different direct”. by
the young family's being reduced in nº lºs
four, which lay stretched among the brokeſ, ‘The
and crockery, where they had been throttle ... had
Baron de B (the same individual... maſ;
solicited a seat in M. Perron's carriage) h" jº
row escape; his leathern buskins had be?” € ºoth
up from the calf of the leg to the | by *. shº
of the enraged sow, a slight complime." damº.
routed past him. His escape with so little lect ouſ
was no’smaīmiracle, when we could cº h aſ
scattered limbs and senses, and afford tº . thé
our fears, we got once more en route and º ſm
opposite direction home, with varied succes had
all, at the close of the day's sport, . ſout
slaughtered five deer, three full-grown bººns:
}. ones, and eleven wolves, from twelv each
he night was passed as the preceding, "...r for
successive day repeated our sport, the wº dious t()
tunately continuing clear. It would be “... the
describe the various similar events; bu'... wº
signory belonged to M. Perron, and * g. him!"
never fired within the domain except whº"...r, the
self visited the château, twice or thrice a 7”
game was proportionably abundant.
When the party broke up, and the gº d to
about to take their departure, I approach” {{
leave of my host, but M. Perron observe”
are neighbors; I shall see them aga" ...wis
return of the season, but with you it is 9. SS each
probably when we part, we may never . italiſ)
other's path again, and I would not have * p
... were
Csts W (8
tak
e;
HISTORY OF A NATIONAL MISTAKE.
341
*ew
here *Way. I have still another week to pass
shall º ºf business or inclination do not interfere,
Reed jºiced if you will spend it with me.” I
Sºnial ! Say, that this proposition was too con-
$ºj ºy wishes to be refused; and during my
"g thº’ "he particulars of his early life, explain-
ºn.".ºry of his gaining the heart of labelle
intere. "Gre detailed. The narrative was of so
forth."g a character that I will venture to set it
* ensuing paper. -
Press . $oncluding, I have two remarks to im-
"the mind of my reader. First, that this
“Boar-Hunt” must not be taken as a general
sample of the chasse in Brittany; but as a particu
lar instance, partaking of all the arrangements and
energy belonging to M. Perron's character, this
being his favorite sport. Cock-shooting in the
province is, perhaps the finest, in the world, but
there the glory of the chasse ends. In the second
place I would observe, that a Breton chasseur is as
infinitely behind an English sportsman for eye,
hand, management of the dogs, tact, and dashing
spirit, as a Birmingham is to a Purdey.
H From Chambers’ Journal.
*ORY of A NATIONAL MISTAKE.
Yºss, like individuals, are subject to parox-
§los.ºsion and delusion, in which all judgment
the wi. t of. We accordingly find that nearly
º mass of a people may view a particular
º 8 with reprobation, expecting from it little
that t. Atiºnal ruin, and yet the event will show
§e. mill minority of disregarded voices was in
§ It is instructive to keep this in view, and
...Which prove it are valuable.
Sºse, |. of England and Scotland is such a
With h °garded at the time in the latter country
%un ºr and indignation—for fifty years after,
*pular as to be the leading cause of Sanguin-
ºnjºirections—this measure has, nevertheless,
Šate. * in the highest degree beneficial to both
§§ "d it would now be impossible in Scotland
"no jºgle voice against it. The public opin-
§ 97 is therefore entirely in mistake: speeches,
en . poems, votes, rebellions, prove to have
}ºl. lolly in the wrong. How strange—a whole
§§ Jºging erroneously for half a century, and
T. "ild deeds under the influence of the error!
Whi. $ºnerations pass away in a delusion, out of
*i.ºy a third awakes? Let us make a hasty
Th. ... these singular circumstances.
§. "corporation of Scotland with England was
§se. °y the whig party, for the immediate pur-
jºing the Hanover succession. “It was
that pa *ghly dangerous,” says Swift, “to leave
ºil. of the island, inhabited by a poor, fierce,
diff. Peºple, at liberty to put themselves under
§ * king;”* the different king particularly
Il àt this time being the Romish son of James
ºśy, Scotland had made herself somewhat
She to her neighbor; for, stung by ill usage,
etermined, by an act of her own parlia-
to accept the same sovereign with
§ O
§ ". unless certain equalities were ceded to
Čr ow."...and, again, had resented this by an act of
º as' §eclaring that the Scots should be held by
SU SS; aliens, unless they agreed to the Hanover
the i. within a year. It was in the midst of
Shijial wrath thus expressed, while actually
\g jºins each other—indeed, to save impend-
Wis Ca ...that the union was entered upon. . It
the . through—there is no need to mince
jºy means of corruption, amidst the
groans of an enraged people. Tumults
$º.º.º.º.º...".
§ ro of Edinburgh with outcries against it.
ºria :* commissioner was pelted. . Private
kni, *ssassination were sent to him.f Riots
* in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Dumfries.
#; #.º.
efoe's History of the tion, p. 366.
Armed risings were concerted. In short, there was
everything short of an entire insurrection of the peo:
ple presented in opposition to this alliance. . A
woman forced into marriage with her hands and feet
bound, and a pistol held to her head, would have
been a type of the affair. *
The Jacobite party had an obvious interest in
withstanding the union, as it was designed for the
better excluding of their idol, the chevalier. But
parties of an entirely different kind were equally
opposed to the measure. The feeling was indeed a
national one ; though, when we have dome our best
to analyze it, we can see little besides certain whims
respecting the independence of Scotland, the pos-
session of a distinct capital and parliament, and so
forth. There was no thought about better or worse
government, but a great deal about the preservation
of the ancient regalia of the country. Few consid-
ered whether their industry would have freer play
and better rewards under the new system ; but all
felt it as a dreadful thing to put an end to the idéal
individuality of a thousand years, though it had only
been productive of incessant wars. In fact, the
opposition to the union was mainly of a childish
nature—somewhat like the feelings which animate
the Young England party amongst us. It was a
thing most appropriately to be expressed in poetry,
which was the form that much of it actually took.
Yet these feelings were enough to give the parlia-
ment house the appearance of a Polish diet—the
discussion resembling less the strife of tongues than
the clash of swords. Nor did the spirit of that
period subside for many a day. .
Not one public demonstration of satisfaction fol-
lowed in Scotland. On the contrary, there was a
general celebration of the pretender's birthday
instead of the queen's. It had been agreed that a
large sum should be sent to Scotland, to be devoted
to certain public purposes, by way of an equivalent
for the increase of taxation which the country was
to submit to. The stipulated time having passed, a
number of gentlemen came to the cross of Edin-
burgh, and took occasion from this circumstance to
protest against the conclusiveness of the treaty.”
When the equivalent did come, the people pelted
the guard, and even the horses which drew it. It
was held as the price of the national honor. Unfor-
tunately, the English government did mything but
soothe the offended feelings of the Scotch. It
almost appeared, from their acts during the next
ew years, as if they considered Scotland in the
light of a purchased slave whom they were entitled
to use or abuse as they pleased. The consequence
was, that the antipathy to the union became even a
more decided feeling than it had been before, and
several of those who formerly supported it were
now joined to its enemies. The year after it had
t Defoe's History of the Union, p. 587.
342
HISTORY OF A NATIONAL MISTAKE.
passed saw nearly the whole of Scotland ready to
receive the pretender with open arms; even the
more extreme Presbyterians joined in this feeling.
“God might convert him,” they said, “ or he may
have Protestant children; but the union can never
be good.” This crisis passed over; but the national
feeling remained unaltered. So high did it run in
1713, that a determined effort was then made to pro-
cure an abolition of the treaty. The leader in the
movement was a most appropriate person, the very
Earl of Seafield who, as chancellor of Scotland, had
been conspicuous in carrying through the measure,
and who said, as he directed the regalia to be taken
away at the last adjournment, “There's the end of
an auld sang;” which, by the way, Sir Walter
Scott interprets into a piece of brutal levity, though
it might equally imply a mournful feeling on the
earl's part at the termination of a political system
which he regarded with a lingering affection. It
was this earl's pleasure, six years after the union,
to move its dissolution in the house of lords, alleg-
ing as reasons certain practical grievances to which
Scotland had been subjected in consequence of the
treaty. The Duke of Argyle, who, as commis-
sioner to the Scottish parliament of 1705, had super-
intended the first steps towards the union, supported
this motion, and touched on its more real cause in
speaking of the insolence with which the Scottish
łople and their representatives were treated by the
É. If the Earls of Marr and Loudon had
remained true to their friends, this motion must
have been carried, whatever might be its subsequent
fate in the lower house. As it was, it was lost by
a majority of only four votes. So near were we to
forfeiting the benefit since derived from the union at
that crisis.
The Hanover dynasty commenced next year, and
the next again saw a rebellion break out in Scotland
in behalf of the Stuarts, an event which many think
would have never taken place but for the union.
“No UNIon : " was the conspicuous inscription on
the insurgents' banner. James told the people “he
came to relieve his subjects of Scotland from the
hardships they groaned under from the late unhappy
union, and to restore the kingdom to its ancient free
and happy state.” These words would not have
been used, if they had not been expected to find an
echo in many bosoms. The government put down
the rebellion, and punished it; but the popular feel-
ing remained the same. Swords made about this
eriod are found inscribed with “Prosperity to Scot-
F. and no union''', Allan Ramsay employed his
verse to bewail the desolation brought upon Edin-
burgh by the departure of the native parliament—a
point we believe to have been the theme of much
exaggeration. Years rolled on, and brought the
rebellion of 1745, which was also largely owing to
the detested union. The Stuart manifesto on this
occasion said, “We see a nation always famous for
its valor, and highly esteemed } the greatest of
foreign potentates, reduced to the condition of a
province, under the specious pretence of a union with
& 7710 pe powerful neighbor. In consequence of this
pretended union, grevious and unprecedented taxes
have been laid on, and levied with severity, in spite
of all the representations that could be made to the
contrary; and thus have not failed to produce that
poverty and decay of trade which were easily fore-
seen to be the necessary consequences of such
oppressive measures.”
t was now nearly forty years since the abhorred
alliance had been effected, yet the disgust of Scot-
land had experienced hardly any abatement. Of thel
illus’
strength of the feeling, we have a fº
tration, in Mr. Home's History of thº...ſing
He tells us that, as Prince Charles was i entlº,
Holyrood palace, a respectable looking ol ; º
man stepped out from the crowd, drew his?" 73. and
marshalled Charles Edward along the pº Her
so up stairs into his apartments. It wº...”impliº.
burn of Keith, a perfect model of ancient ;
ity, manliness, and honor, whose only reas” €
ing this rising against the government W.jø
ing sense he had of the "wrongs and de
inflicted upon his country by the union! r0
This rebellion was also quelled: we kº.ºr
the poet how hapless Caledonia mourne, was not
ished peace and laurelstorm.” It certainly heath
likely that the terrors inflicted on Cullºdº we tº
at Carlisle, and on Towerhill, should di.” Ne:
objections of Scotland to the treaty of 179 à ſued
ther had any such substantial benefits ye"., in
from the incorporation with England, tº is, -
reconciling the malcontent Scots. The ;j}
very hatred of the union tended to justify t re 10 bé
forbidding the natural benefits of the mea.
realized. Into so fiercely-disposed a *.m.
Scotland then was, English capital could nº.ittle
Absorbed in a sense of her wrong, she as
disposed to turn her thoughts either to agº.jſ!
or commerce. Partly from anger at her. intº
attitude, partly from the selfish and unenlig , thº
É. common to commercial men in that *jing
nglish did all they could to repress hº... were
energies. Even the concern which the Šº
under to make good their convictions as tº ant2%
wrong and ruin, would help to check all a. haº
from their new situation. They mig tion'
exclaimed, as in the well-known exemplifiº
their national grammar, “I will fall, an
shall help me.” Mr. Malcolm Laing, a vº ly
writer, admits that the nation was “cº.
less progressive for half a century than if . C
had ever been contracted”*—a result *.
only can attribute to an actual bad effect."...one
union itself in indisposing the two natio. ...ope:
or other of them, from seeking to realize lºsſ.
advantages. The present writer was on". ...e5!
ed with the temporary possession of a 370
which he regrets he did not copy, as it . col
strongly illustrated the jealousy which diº". lº
and #. so lately as º middle of raw"
century. It was a regularly formed bonºdiº
up and largely subscribed by the tradesm.ºrg.
burgh, agreeing, for sundry good and suffiº. tº
sons, to abstain from transacting busi. #:
smallest extent with the men called #. ſ such
that is, commercial travellers from Englan f yes.
were the feelings of our country nearly fifty §ed.
after its junction with England had beeg . as tº
We may here recall a story of Walter Fº ºyº.
his grandfather hearing an old Scotch cle upº
confess “he never could bring his sº. haſing
whatever subject, to a conclusion, withº"... th”
what he called a blaud, that is, a slap, f
union.”f his
This national mistake of fifty years- dow
in which a whole generation had gon*
death, not without itsmartyrs of sword.
—this delusion which had for so . wº eſl
own realization—was at last dispelled. M h 3b
ually ceased to distress themselves so º' gan
national honor and independence, an
*... as
10||

*History of Scotland, ii., 404.
s i.,192.
+Tales of a Grandfather, edition 1840, ii”
HISTORY OF A NATIONAL, MISTAKE. 343
i.e about the ordinary economics of life.
Was . of resistance to the British government
tºll. ºn by the sad consequences of the last
"med b milder and juster aspect being
land ... the government itself towards Scot-
it. T. Peºple at length became better affected to
§§ there really were natural powers and
it on..." sin our country and its inhabitants, which
$han 0. jºined fair circumstances to educe. A
lli aSc °ºomes visible about the time when George
tº led the throne. With a new monarch,
lºw fi * come oblivion for past grievances, and
!he e "Pºs for the future. This, accordingly, is
land.” that course of improvement which Scot-
ln i. Steadily pursued ever since, and which is
Wei...ºemarkable. The native historians, as
‘lose i. already had occasion to remark, usually
the ... narratives at 1707, saying that henceforth
Šinly "tºy has no separate history. There cer-
tº ºld not be a greater mistake. It might
tish i.ly be said that the only portion of Scot-
than jºy possessing any interest on other grounds
lººse of curiosity, is what commences about
§ ° history of it is no less than this—the
powe.'" of a nation under law and liberty from
i. and semi-barbarism into comparative
§g tº § and refinement. It is extremely interest-
the i.eh the rising symptoms of improvement;
liš º ºanufacture advancing from £445,321 in
ing "3634,411 in 1770—the colonial trade ris-
bikº importance at Glasgow—two note-issuing
lišninenced there in 1750, one at Dumfries in
§ °ith getting up whaling companies—the
j 9f sea-insurance commenced in 1749—an
Šaj ºtected for mathematics, natural history,
"rgh B. &c., at Perth—the new town of Edin-
tleſ...}ºmmenced—a society for the encourage-
and of arts and sciences set on foot in the '55,
}ºn. after distributing a hundred and twenty
§§ *—the Forth and Clyde Canal commenced
SC0te lºut this time nineteen hundred head of
}º. ººk cattle counted passing Berwick bridge
(lº. }*. penny-post set up in Edinburgh
§ nº. 9ne circumstance is especially worthy
in the . as it marks a decline of national prejudice
Socie y !gher circles: the establishment of a select
ºn. Edinburgh (1761) to cultivate English
Cotijºn, and to introduce English teachers into
head of The Blairs and Robertsons were at the
*lves". These men had already studied them-
idiº a pure English style of composition;
the °, Robertson, and Smith had distinguished
been yes by writings such as there could have
Şion,”, “ason to anticipate at the time of the
ºrd K ſeanwhile, under Cockburn of Ormiston,
the fijºnes, and some other enlightened persons,
ºments had been made towards that
Sºhº, illage which has since given Scotland
j ºn the eyes of all Europe. Manners, too,
§ecei *ning. The bitter polemical spirit of the
'ºts. Century was sinking into nooks and cor-
“j Political divisions had lost all their former
O
the §. §own to the present time, and contrast
ºch. º of our day with that of 1707, gives
§. * ºf change for the better, as it is hardly
the Pop . believe real." It is nothing to say that
*hjºion has advanced from one to two and
there "lions, for we know that the numbers may
Weal, and not the joy.” But in this time the
** all that the cºmfort of a people depends
*Scots Magazine, passim.
upon, have increased in a much higher proportion.
ake the circulating medium as a criterion. The
native coin called in at the union was under a mil-
lion, and there was no other money worth speaking
of; now, of native bank-issues alone there are up.
wards of three millions. Or look to the taxes.
Of these the government drew, after the union, a
hundred and sixty thousand pounds, which was
looked upon as atrociously oppressive ; now it takes
from us five millions without a murmur. The in-
crease of revenue from English taxation in the
interval (speaking roughly), has been as from 1 to
8; that from Scottish taxation has been as from 1
to 30 ! The Scottish customs were, in 1707, farm-
cd at thirty thousand pounds; now the single port
of Leith produces six hundred thousand ' . Of the
total value of real property in 1707 we have no
estimate; but it is sufficiently instructive to learn,
from one of Mr. Charles Maclaren's intelligent
abstracts of public papers in the Scotsman, that
real property increased between 1815 and 1843 to
the extent of fifty-one millions, or at the rate of about
£1,820,000 per annum. There was at the first
period but one banking-office, that of the Bank of
Scotland, in Edinburgh; branches had been tried
unsuccessfully in Glasgow and Aberdeen. Now
there are between three and four hundred banking-
offices throughout the country, scarcely a town of
fifteen hundred inhabitants being without one. In
the same period, Edinburgh has advanced from a
small, huddled, though picturesque town, to a city
of unexampled beauty, and Glasgow from twelve
thousand to three hundred thousand inhabitants.
In short, if any one desired to see an example of
what one people may be in two different sets of
circumstances—first under unfavorable, and sec-
ondly under favorable circumstances—he has only
to visit Scotland, and compare 1707 with 1846.
The general felicity of its position for many years
has been shown in the contentedness of its people,
and the little trouble they give to the central gov-
ernment. It is seldom there are more than a thou-
sand military in Scotland; sometimes not so many.
It has, within the last twenty years, seen its Board
of Excise withdrawn to London, and several other
public establishments centralized in like manner,
without any grumbling. Men do not seem to feel
as if their interests depended in any appreciable
degree on a few particular incomes being spent
amongst them. Such events hardly excite a re-
mark in the public journals. * +
A question may remain, as to how far all this is
owing to the act of 1707. Assuredly it would be
wrong to ascribe the whole to this cause. Scotland
was fortunate at the revolution in having the reli-
gion of the majority of the people made, the reli-
gion of the state. She was fortunate in her laws,
and many of the arrangements for their administra-
tion, particularly the provincial courts, undersheriffs
and their substitutes—men equivalent to a stipendi-
ary magistracy, but with a happy connexion with
the supreme courts of law The provisions for the
education of the people have also been of a superior
character to those existing contemporaneously in
most other countries. To all these causes much
of the blessings we now enjoy may no doubt be
ascribed. Yet when every deduction has been
made, a vast proportion of the beneficial change of
the last hundred years is to be ascribed negatively
and positively to the union. In consequence of
that act, the energies of the Scotch in manufac-
tures and commerce were admitted to equal rewards
with the English ; a free passage was at the same
344
PASILOGIA—MARGARET FULLER’s PAPERs.
time opened to the admission of a superior civiliza-
tion into these northern regions; all causes for dis-
pute and contention on political subjects were taken
away, and a unity of feeling on these points substi-
tuted. , England may be said to have benefited
Scotland in the way in which all nations ought to
benefit each other; namely, by being friends in-
stead of enemies to each other, by sharing instead
of appropriating advantages; and, with the natural
results of this policy, in a reflective benefit to itself.
It is only a larger following out of the maxim to do
to others as we would have them to do to us. The
very idea of bewailing the absence of the usual
marks of individuality as a nation seems now to be
extinguished in the Scottish mind. We look with
interest on Holyrood palace and the regalia as me-
morials of the past ; we feel a romantic glow over
the graceful pages of Mr. Tytler; but these are
holiday feelings. Rationality sanctions what our
living eyes behold, and in this we rest satisfied. In
our case, at least, centralization has had none of its
dreaded bad effects. It has rather done good, in
removing from us those courtly influences which
tend so much corruptionward. Perhaps, if there
were a committee of parliament seated in Edin-
burgh for private bill business, it would be an im-
provement; but beyond this, certainly nothing is
needed to complete the hº administration of
public affairs amongst us. How strange to reflect
that, a hundred years ago, men were frantically
execrating and even drawing their swords against
what has produced such remarkable benefits
How humiliating to human judgment that such
blessings should have flowed from what was then
looked on as a bane ! What would the clergyman
who never preached without a hit at the detested
union think if he were now to awake from the
grave and see the bonny leas and braes of Scotland
bearing such crops of grain, Edinburgh a city of
palaces, the very remotest Highlands penetrated by
good roads, every firth and sea whitened with the
broad sails of commerce, and the whole land occu-
pied by a free, industrious, and contented people?
There is surely a lesson of general utility to be
derived from this review of a great national mis-
judgment? Does it not show that a beneficial
measure may be for an age neutralized by the very
erroneous way in which it is judged of, and yet
realized after all! Does it not demand that passion-
ate national judgments of all kinds should give
way to sober and rational considerations? And
does it not give to the most hapless nations a hope
that, through wise laws, and the fruits of well-
directed energy, the greatest blessings may be
attained 4
PASILOGIA.
The number of ingenious persons who have specu-
lated on the idea of an universal language, arguing for
its desirableness, whilst they admitted the difficulty of
constructing oné, and almost allowed the impossi-
'bility of establishing it in practice, would seem to
imply some solid advantages attendant upon man-
kind being of one speech. This, however, may be
questioned. Strictly considered, language is not
a first or substantive thing, but a consequence. As
the individual mind colors the style, so does the
national character influence the language; if not in
gical
its origin, at least in its progress. .
formation, climate, manners, governmen” . $
institutions, arts, and still more the state of S living
scholarship, and civilization, all affect the end."
tongue; not only by their operation upo" f thing:
tional intellect, but by the multiplication 9 y
and images. The words absolutely nee.
the inhabitants of a British city would º ºricaſ
useless to an Australian, an African, an Am eam5.
Indian, and to many Asiatics or Eastern E. not
They could not apply them; nay, they "...tºd.
have an idea of the things the words reſ. ſ!!"
Among the more civilized nations in frequº" h m0!
munication, the same evil would be felt, thºd
to the same extent; and less among the * tl
classes than the mass. But it would pre"
where, till travel had made men acquai" . re
the respective originals the one word wº as eſ”,
resent; whilst the sentiment of the people. tood
bodied in the language would either not be uſ' º Isal
at all or be as foreign as ever. Were an . 3.
language miraculously established to-mº.ſess
few generations would suffice to render "...are
except as regards the commoner forms 9... arti.
and feelings of mankind, with the terms, *.i.am:
cles of reciprocal trade. To facilitate a “ m°.
tile correspondence” or enable a traveller º, laſ!”
on” abroad—that is, to save those who want about
guage the trouble of learning it—seems tº.
the extent of the utility of an universal lamé
unless countries and peoples were broug
dead level. trib'
Holding these opinions, we are inclined” : sub-
ute slight value to any speculation upon th wer”
ject of forming an universal language, evº.genu:
the scheme at all practicable or possible. º
ity may be shown in a plan ; and, as ...]
founded chemisty, useful hints or gram. th9
knowledge may be contained in an essay o and
universal tongue; but here, we think, ut”
merit must end.—Spectator.
agº
000
—-
ſ.
From the spect”
* JR
MARCARET FULLER's papers on LITER”
AND ART. iſ!
THESE two volumes, slender in bulk but º -
matter, are all we have yet seen of the wº 006
of the author. If this be a fault in us" lºgº
which we long to repair, for we have seen º, hold
to assure us that Margaret Fuller is worthy ic wº.
her place among the highest order of ſº
ters of our day. The volumes before . .ep.
of essays and reviews, reprinted, with one lectio'.
tion, from American periodicals. The *... re-
we are told, is a very limited one ; and on ... not?
ception it meets with will depend whethe. “. .
more complete selection from the author..."time:
lanies shall be given to the world in *ſy s of
The present volumes present to us the hº
a full and discerning mind, delicately s”. grou%
of all impressions of beauty; earnest, ºrieſ:
and serene ; expressing itself in language ... and
compass, for the most part singularly grº if not
appropriate. The criticism in these volº. and
always faultless, is at least always ele. s th9
genial. It is of that best kind which, e.ºrgiº
mind of the student and prompts him to * -
of thought. . . . +
- r -
* . LITTELL's LIVING AGE.-No. 132–21 November, isſ6.
From the Britannia.
The acknowledgment of the son of James II. as
king of England at the court of Louis XIV. cost
THE SPANISH SUCCESSION.
*: policy of Lord Palmerston is now declared.
... thº' ulwer has delivered an energetic protest to
will Panish government, declaring liat England
Duc º Recognize the issue of the Infanta with the
Alice € Montpensier as having any right of inherit-
info to the Spanish monarchy. We are not yet
tººd what course will be taken with respect to
3 dia "fanta herself; whether, should Queen Isabella
alſo Without issue, Luise Ferdinanda would be
ti Wed the enjoyment of the throne for her life-
ºr wº ºwing no right of succession to her children;
Well lether the penalty of deprivation, for herself as
thºſ. fºr her issue, shall be the consequence of
... i orbidden alliance.
‘. . hi. old ballads, to heighten the pathos of any ca-
unj it is commonly predicted that the babes
. Oft in shall rue its occurrence. The babes unborn
wº. Montpensier union are destined to feel the
. w. weight of Lord Palmerston's and Mr. Bul-
º j.h. The rights of their birth are to be
" ..."ºlated, and they are to be separated completely
of jºlly from the blood royal of Spain. All ties
$."...anguinity linking them to the throne are to
i.e.; they are to occupy a private station;
tº Jºwithout rank or inheritance. Legally and
, i.eally their existence is to be a blank. They are
st § regarded as illegitimate, because sprung from
...h º the great high priest of European relations
. . ºtisanctified. The pope of the political world
..forbidden the bans of matrimony, and issued
jathema and bull of excommunication against
"...º not yet conceived.
º º, declaration of policy gives to the whole
. .ºn a new and more fearful aspect than it has
. . i...ºned. Whatever considerations were urged
tº †: the marriage, whatever objections were op-
jºio it, become merged in theimportance of the
that monarch twelve years of war, and shook the
foundations of his empire. When protests were
received from personages nearer in blood to the
British crown than the elector of Hanover, they
were received with contemptuous disdain. Spain
may act in a similar manner, treat the protest of
the British cabinet as waste paper, and plainly
assert its right to choose its sovereign free from the
insolent interference of any power on earth.
Lord Palmerston stands upon the treaty of
Utrecht, concluded in 1713; that is, one hundred
and thirty-four years ago. The last protest of Mr.
Bulwer against the marriage refers to the treaty,
and to all the documents that accompanied it, to
show that descendants of this marriage must be
deprived of their inheritance. The Morning
Chronicle of Monday states:—
“The documents relied upon by Mr. Bulwer, in
his second protest to the Spanish government, prove,
not merely that the same individual is precluded
from succeeding to the two crowns, but that no
issue of the present marriage can succeed to the
throne of Spain, consistently either with the law of
Spain or with the public law of Europe. Such is,
no doubt, the view of the other powers, as well as
of England. ---
“It is of no use to say that the main object of
the treaty of Utrecht was to prevent the union of
the crowns of Spain and France on the same head.
We must look not only to the preamble of a treaty,
but to its positive stipulations; and, if a given
thing be forbidden by the positive stipulations of a
treaty, it is no answer to say that such thing diſſers
by some modification from the particular thing set
forth in the preamble.”
And in another article we read:— º
“We should be glad if we could here drop the
subject, and leave M. de Bresson to chuckle in
*
*
# *
dati
tion
Quest; + * - *
jion our foreign minister has now raised. That
jº is brought home to our own door, which,
turb *atter of speculation, we thought might dis-
- pº descendants some centuries hence. The
* , j will certainly be resisted both by France
*Pºin. They cannot yield to it without degra-
-- ū.ind an acknowledgment that they abandon
. . . . i.e. in, it will involve Europe in serious dis-
bºº; if withdrawn, it will be at the sacrifice
aid gland of dignity and character. This great
.* biº ud country will be exhibited as a defeated
, " A. seeks to extort by menace what he
- leng. claim by right, and is afraid to seize by vio-
prºjgnorant ºf the temperiº.”
W. been received by Spain. Nº regard, it
punt. seein, has been had to the disposition of that
3. the . ... Lord Palmerston undertakes tº regulate
º to the throne without reference to
, 9 so. of the people. Surely they have a right
Even ‘. Yoice in settling their own monarchy.
ºnder ..ºnight find it difficult to place a pre-
9m to § the throne and keep him there in opposi-
ſtions. “laims of a lineaſ heir. Generally na-
- cº. not been obedient to foreign dictation.
“* . Living AGE. vol. xi. 22
- . . . . . * …yº. . *
3,
ºndependence of action to foreign dictation...If
peace at the credulity of his dupes. He must, how-
ever, be awakened from his dream to the stern
realities of things, to find that his acts and his arts,
his whisperings and his boasts, are to be judged
before the tribunal of the nations of Europe, and
that not until their verdict has been pronounced
can it be said that he has been successful, or the
reverse. If the great powers of Europe, unite
together to inform King Louis Philippe that his son
might, indeed, marry the Infanta of Spain, but,
from the time of his doing so, she and her children
were expatriated and divested of all.claims on
the Spanish crown, we doubt much if M de Bres-
son will secure so hearty a welcome at the Tuiler-
ies as he at first had reason to expect. King Louis
Philippe loves no fairy money-glittering coin one
day, withered leaves the next
“The words upon which the protest of the great
powers of Europe would be founded would be
simply these—they would be sufficient for the pur-
Ose :- . . . . . . . . .
“ . We, Philip, grandson of France, Duke of
Orleans, &c., &c., have resolved to make this re-
linquishment, this abdication, and this renunciation
of all our rights, for ourselves, and in the name of
all our successors and descendants; and, for the
.#
346
accomplishing of this resolution, which we have
taken of our mere free and frank will, we declare
and hold ourselves from this present, us, our chil-
dren, and descendants, for excluded and disabled,
absolutely and forever, and without limitation or dis-
tinction of persons, of degrees and of sexes, from
every act, and from all right of succeeding to the
Spanish crown.” -
“Those are the words of “Philip, Duke of Or-
leans, written in his palace royal, at Paris, 1712,
the nineteenth day of November, before noon, in
the presence of, &c., &c.’
“Now, in the teeth of this declaration, it is sug-
gested that a grandson of King Louis Philippe,
Duke of Orleans, can succeed to the throne of
Spain. The idea seems a little strange. It ap-
pears to us that the only question to be asked is, }.
the Duc de Montpensier a son of King Houis Phil-
ippe? If so, he cannot succeed.”
These articles are important, as they certainly
embody Lord Palmerston's sentiments. . The
Times also publishes and expounds his lordship's
ideas, and insists that the Infanta, by her mar-
riage has deprived her issue of all rights of succes-
SIOIl.
This, then, is the question which Lord Palmer-
ston is actively employed in bringing before the
courts of Europe. We have more trust, in their
wisdom than in his lordship's moderation. They
will not, we believe, be willing to raise a casus belli,
which undoubtedly Lord Palmerston's construction
of the treaty does raise, to gratify the wounded
ride of Mr. Bulwer, or the domineering spirit of his
chief. On the treaty of Utrecht the question turns,
and by the light it gives must the argument be
studied.
First, however, it is to be remarked, that we are
not to construe too strictly a treaty of so old a date,
concluded with reference to special circumstances
then existing, and to the relations of Europe as
they stood at that particular time. It is a rule of
public, and should be of international, law, that dis-
abling statutes (and the treaties of nations must be
viewed in the light of statutes) shall not be extend-
cd beyond their express and obvious meaning. We
must not strain them to suit our own views. Their
disabling clauses must be strictly limited to their
plain sense, and to the objects and purposes they
are intended to subserve. It is on that principle
that we are to seek for a true interpretation of the
treaty of Utrecht. . ...
On the death of King Charles, II of Spain, in
1700, he constituted the Duke of Anjou, the second
son of the Dauphin of France, and the grandson of
Louis XIV., his “universal , hºir,” conferring
on him the crown of Spain, and all the rights and
privileges he, as monarch of Spain, possessed.
That will the court of France accepted, and gave
effect to. The Duke of Anjou became Philip V.
of Spain; and, on his accessiºn. letters patent
were issued by Louis XIV., declaring that, by his
acceptance of the Spanish monarchy, he forfeited
none of his rights as a prince of Francº, and that
he and his descendants should be entitled in regular
order of succession to the crown of France as
well as to the crown of Spain. The union of the
two crowns was in this memorable historic docu-
ment directly contemplated, and referred to as a
robable occurrence.
A dreadful lesson was read to the ambition of
this haughty monarch. The great war of succes-
sion shattered his armies, exhausted the resources
of his kingdom, and humbled his pride in the dust.
THE SPANISH
SUCCESSION,
His spirit yielded to adversity, and to the
circumstances, and the memorable treaty of U"
was framed. Eur
This treaty—the Magna Charta of model.
rope—had but one object, to keep forever separº.
the crowns of France and Spain. That purpºse ct
found distinctly stated in the treaty itself. It” ;
forth as a great principle of European policy: dits
invasion is alleged as the cause of the war.”.
solemn acknowledgment as the ground of P*.
In every document that accompanies the troº.
rech!
acé.
principle is expressly and solemnly acknowle º
All the parties to it, in unequº".
and enforced. 0
language, state that henceforth the crow?”.
France and Spain shall be independent ºf * nU
other; that their union shall be impossible; a -
that they shall be separate forever.
To give effect to this treaty, Philip €
for himself and his descendants forever, reno". ed
all rights to the crown of France, and º: r
they should be forever incapable of succeediº
to it. * .
In like manner the Duke of Berry and the
of Orleans, heirs to the French crown, reno".
with equal solemnity, for themselves and for their
descendants, all rights they possessed to the cow" -
of Spain. t,
The two dynasties, sprung from a parent r00!
were by this act disunited. Neither was them.
forth to be considered as having relationship tº d
other. ... They were to become strangers in bloº.
and all rights accruing to them by blood,
regarded the succession of the dynasty of Fº: • J
to the Spanish monarchy, or as regarded the .
cession of the dynasty of Spain to the French.
archy, were annulled as though they had nº. *
been. Philip V. of Spain, in his act of renº. :
tion, declared he intended it to separate, “by .
legal means of my renunciation, my branch ſº
the royal trunk of France, and all the branchº.
France from the kindred derivation of the ".
Spanish blood.” So the Duke of Orleans .
nounced all “foundation of representation” wh in
ever to the crown of Spain. The two lines, froſſ
their root, were-formally separated thenceſort"
ever, and had no consinguinity of blood to .
other.
force of .
for .
v. of Sº
dº
º: . . .
F
+
, 4 +
iouis XIV. secured the throne of Spaiº to
his grandson, but only by disinheriting him, ... .
making him a stranger to his race. He rºº
his letters patent; and, in all the negotiation.”
treaties that followed this great treaty, the fact th
and .
latº,
- º - m . . . .
no relationship whatever existed between the . ‘. . . .
ing houses of France and Spain was dis”
recognized. . . .
The Duke de Montpensier is confessedly.”
scendant of the Duke of Orleans who sign?
treaty. Will, therefore, his issue by the
be incapable of succeeding to the crown of
*
c-
Spal.
f
The Infanta is a daughter of the royal family."...
or
Spain. Will her issue be incapable of sºcceed”.
to the crown of France? -
If both these questions be answered in thº..."...so
ative, then the descendants of this allian?” mes.
equally their right of succession to both tº.
They will be born without inheritance of any.
and lose all the natural privileges of
Can such a case have been contemplated
treaty of Utrecht!
That treaty, it is remarkable, makes no
in any way of a marriage between the
However we may account for the omission, t mar
is so. It contains no prohibition of union.}} tº
ment!"
riage between the houses it separates. . .
- • -
f
CŞ. . .
rt, P
º od.
ct
his
it? . .
Infan t
affirm
on
There i* .
| THE SPANISH
. To
...” remºtest allusion to such a contingency—
from it." probable one—in any way. We derive
i. erefore, Ino assistance lin considering this
... guestion... We have to ascertain only
ºf the terms of the treaty affect the descend-
. " 'ſle marriage, as it offers no impediment to
- the *arriage itsel º m]
... " kº remark, that by no law known, or ever
ºre ºn any age or in any nation, can a man do
righ ºn dispossess himself and his descendants
the ºº existing. He cannot preclude them from
his i.ession of rights which had no existence in
Stanc º but which have by unſorseen circum-
* originated a century after his death. No
is..." settlement can deal with rights not in ex-
jº at the time that settlement was formed... If
i.ºinciple hold good in international as well as
anſ.” law, it follows that the Duke of Orleans
* * Qther subscribing parties to the treaty of
sess "ºld not convey away what they did not pos-
tou. ey renounced all rights existing, but they
to...", nº more. The treaty separated all rela-
... Provi º between the two dynasties, but it did not
is..." that the families of those dynasties should
Any ...der any circumstances become united in
tºº.” again. Either the contingency of a
nº.9 between members of the two families was
innot ought of, and therefore the disabling clauses
hou, *Pply to the issue of such marriage; or, if
(m." of, and regarded as a probable cvent,
§. more likely supposition,) then the terms
of ºng it were left to the discretion of the courts
pru ºpe, confidence being had in their wisdom,
tiple º and foresight, to see that the grand prin-
gº... the treaty of Utrecht was preserved and
s edin the conditions of any alliance contracted.
Inſ * issue of the Duke de Montpensier and the
§§ will not inherit any right of succession in
ū..by virtue of the blood of the father. In all
bel *lates to their Spanish birthright, they will
Of t. children of their mother alone. If the Duke
fio. §ans had power to preclude his descendants
the Spanish throne, how could he have power
Of § §ude the descendants of the reigning dynasty
the ; from their inheritance! It is as clear that
*istſ ºnta has certain rights to the succession, as
as º the Duke de Montpensier has none; and,
ight ..ldren will be possessed by their mother's
fjºle, how can they be disabled through their
nothi. who has no right? He conveys to them
Šàrds É. and can deprive them of nothing, as re-
8 *Way W. Spanish birthright. He cannot take
ºthe. at he has never invested them with. Their
x ºt. 1S the Infanta, and neither in the treaty of
for de tor in any other document is there provision
throu ºing her children of the rights they inherit
Out. *; her. If there be, let the clause be pointed
hy th ºrely it is no answer to this argument to
hºt."...the issue would also be descendants of the
but of Orleans. Physically that would be so ;
not. In the consideration of
§ion, they are the children of the Infanta
igits hrough fier, and her alone, they have their
long . succession, as clearly as through Victoria
Engi, ºve her children a right to the crown, of
an i; • In neither case is the father more than
...If... ºf existence.
it, ca. . said that, pursuing this line of argument,
woul. ... shown that the issue of this marriage
+ º, through the father, have rights to the
"lest ºt "rance, we admit the inference to the
Sess th **ºnt. The children will undoubtedly pos-
**ights of both parents; and should the
this º it would
. Onl
i
• ?
** $." +
*
. . . .
.*.
SUCCESSION, 347
chapter of accidents (any improbability, however
remote, may be assumed in an argument of this
nature) place the Duke de Montpensier on the
throne of France, and the Infanta on the throne of
Spain, the first offspring of their marriage would
undoubtedly be heir to both crowns. But at that
point, or before that point were reached, the
powers of Europe would settle the succession
anew, and provide for a contingency it was impos-
sible to foresee a century and a half ago.
How remote the probability is that this marriage
will unite in one person the heirship to both thrones
we have shown in a previous article. If it be nec-
essary to immediately provide against that distant
chance, it may be done by accepting a concession it
is stated France is willing to make. The Duke de
Montpensier does not, it is said, object to renounce
for himself and his successors all claims to the
throne of France. The sacrifice he offers is not
great, yet it should satisfy the most devoted adher-
ents to the treaty of Utrecht. Why is not his
renunciation demanded rather than the exclusion of
the Infanta? Why does the demand of the British
government come in a shape at once the most inju-
rious and insulting, and the least likely to be
acceded to 4
Of the policy of the marriage we have already
expressed an opinion, and to that opinion we
adhere. It was an event that true wisdom would
have avoided. It obtruded French interference
into the peninsula, and disagreeably dispelled the
illusion we had entertained of the moderation of
the present rulers of France. But we have to do
with things as they are. The marriage is con-
cluded ; that result was foreseen from its first
announcement. It was a necessary sequence of
the conversation between M. Guizot and Lord
Aberdeen at Eu. Whether one version or another
of that conference be true, whether the British
minister exacted a pledge that the marriage should
not take place until the queen of Spain had issue,
or merely intimated that such an arrangement
would be preferable, it is sure that the principle of
opposing any alliance between the two houses was
at that conference abandoned. If the treaty of
Utrecht will bear the construction Lord Palmerston
would put on it now, it would have borne that con-
struction when the meeting at Eu took place,
Principles of international law are not to be dropped
and taken up at convenience. Having once con-
sented to the marriage under certain conditious, we
cannot now turn round and say that treaties oppose
an unsuperable barrier to it.
. If the declaration of the British cabinet be per-
sisted in, it may agitate the system of Turope, and
lead to many discussions and intrigues, before it
breaks forth in an open convulsion. Nations recoil
at injustice. Spain and France, united in a com-
mon cause, may be sufficiently powerful to resist
any coalition that may be formed against them.
But let not our cabinet suppose that it will be
permitted to push its hostility to the extent it con-
templates. The British legislature will not sanc-
tion the construction Lord Palmerston puts on the
treaty of Utrecht. It will not suffer the relations
of Europe to be disturbed, and this country involved
in a difficult, perplexing, and perilous negotiation,
to gratify the pride of a minister who conceives suf-
ficient homage has not been paid to his opinion.
Recognizing the principle that the crowns of Spain
and France shall never be united; holding that set-
tlement in its strict integritv that has fixed the
limits of France, and has set the Pyrenées as a
348
MISCELLANY.,
frontier for her territory, as lasting and as irremov-
able as the mountains themselves; it will not per-
mit an improbable contingency to be accepted as an
immediate danger. It will not allow a harsh and
strained construction to be put on a treaty nearly a
century and a half old; and it will not sanction a
hostile and offensive attitude to be assumed by our
government towards France and Spain on account
of a possible event, which, should it ever happen,
may be settled by the generation that perceives its
approach or its occurrence.
MISCELLANY.
IRISH LANDLORDS AND THEIR RENTs.-No class of
inhabitants of Ireland is likely to escape the dreadful
effects of the failure of the potato crop. The landlord
as well as the merchant and the tradesman will be
inevitably victimized. Comfortable tenant-farmers,
who hold many acres of land, are heard in all direc-
tions openly avowing their determination “to pay no
rent whatever this winter.” Those of them who pos-
sess sufficient means, and are suspected for honest
inclinations to discharge their landlords' claims, are
menaced with vengeance and personal violence if
they attempt to deviate from the resolution adopted
by their poorer neighbors. The following extract
from a letter received by an extensive Dublin trader,
from a proprietor of land in Ireland, may be taken
as a specimen of the language now held, and the
course intended to be adopted by the Irish tenant-
farmers and cottiers during the ensuing year. The
writer is of the utmost respectability, and incapable
of exaggeration:—“I had a letter from a tenant of
mine who owed me two years' rent. I forgave him
one year, which was 50l., if he would pay me one
year. He said he would sell some corn to do so.
This day I had a letter from him saying he offered
his corn for sale, but was threatened, if he paid any
rent till the winter was over, that he would be shot
before Christmas-day; this is a sad prospect, and in
a county so near Dublin as the county Wicklow;
however, we must hope for the best.”
NoNE so BLIND As TIIOSE WHO CAN'T SEE.—A very
curious cause has just come before the Juge de Paix
of Neuilly. Some time ago Madame Pluyette, a
widow lady of fifty, but who still attaches much im-
portance to personal appearance, had the misfortune,
in playing with a lap-dog, to receive from it so severé
a wound in one of her eyes, that it came out of the
socket. Having heard much of artificial eyes, and
being recommended to apply to an expert manufac-
turer in this way, named Tamisier, she gave an order
for a glass eye, for which M. Tamisier charged her
100f. Refusing to pay this charge, the manufacturer
summoned her before the Juge de Paix. Madame
Pluyette having appeared, holding the glass eye in
her hand, the Juge de Paix asked her why she refused
to pay the bill which M. Tamisier had sent in. “For
a very good reason,” replied the defendant; “I can
see no more with it than I could before.” “What?”
said the Juge de Paix, “did you really imagine that
you would be able to see with a glass eye 3’ “Did
I think so?” retorted the angry dame, “Certainly
I did. Will you be so good as to tell, me what eyes
are for, but to see with? I ordered the eye for use,
and until M. Tamisier makes me one with which I
can see, I will not pay him a sous. , I wear a wig,
which is quite as useful as natural hair; I have three
false teeth, which answer as well as those which I
have lost, and why should I pay for an eye which is
of no use ** The Juge de Paix endeavored to con-
vince Madame Pluyette that glass eyes were for oth-
ers to look at, and not for the wearer to look from
them; but finding all appeals to her reason of no
avail, he condemned her to pay the plaintiff the
amount of his demand. When the defendant heard
and
the decision, she became furious with º
after dashing her glass eye on the floor, shº L(G4'
out of court amid the laughter of the crow”
lignani's Messenger.’
ABD-EL-KADER's I(or AN.—In addition to º:
horse and dog, the French have succeeded teſ 9
turing his library. M. de Salvandy, A. Al-
tale, 3
mir's
Public Instruction, has brought his trophy ſº
geria, and presented to the Bibliotheque 0
manuscript of the Koran, taken at the captuº f the
Smala, on the 16th of May, 1843, in the teſ'.”
emir, Abd-el-Kader. This manuscript, Whº ented
emir used constantly for his prayers, was F. re-
to M. de Salvandy by the Abbe Rendel. It 9.
mains now for the French to catch the emir "
THE CATIIolic Missions IN New Zººed º
“Moniteur,” amongst other despatches, has pub • --" "
a recital of the origin, progress, and present $.".
of the Catholic Missions in that island, an
archipelagoes of Tonga and Wallis. []
this document, the Catholic missions in thos?” num.
were very prosperous. In New Zealand, the ed tº
ber of Catholics in February, 1846, amº. and
about 5,000; at Tonga there were between 2. New
600; at Wallis, 2,500; at Futuna, 748; and "'The
Caledonia there were also many neophytº:
personnel of these missions consisted at New 4° iars; .
of two bishops, sixteen clergymen, and eigh' ;
at Tongataboo, of three clergymen and two fri and
at La Kemba, in the Viti islands, two clergymº rgy.
a friar; in the Wallis islands, a bishop, three cle ić
men, and three friars; at Futuna, two clergymº" and
a friar; in the Navigators' islands, a clergyma”
a friar; in New Caledonia, a bishop, a cler;
and two friars; in Western Melanasia, a
Seven clergymen, and six friars.
€16
AMERICAN RomfAnce.—A romantic cº,
married on the 2nd of September, by torch-l'É.
the summit of the Natural Bridge of Virginia. d minº
were nine groomsmen, all bearing torches, *
bridemaids clad in white.
ITALY.—Private letters from Rome of the º
state that the Pope had been asked by severalºg.
governments, if it was his intention to propo."
eration of Italy, on the plan suggested by the
Gioberti. The Pope was said to have repliº. as
he did not mean to raise any banner, but that ions,
determined to be master within his own do.
and to adopt whatever reforms he deemed nº
ducive to the welfare of his subjects.
FREE Trade in Belgium.—The association”
freedom of commerce will, meet on Sunºso
when M. de Brouckere will state the prinºji
the founders of the institution, and the cº. avor
they intend to pursue. Mr. Arrivabene willº -
to demonstrate that the laws which restriº.ºrld.
cial liberty, diminish the general wealth of th. esis’,
M. le Hardy de Beaulieu will support this,'...sen;
that the restrictive laws have produced the ºat
crisis of the linen manufacture. . There, 1% . this
Liege an association for free trade, which...ould
week. It expressed a wish that the legislatu". gº.
immediately proceed:—1. To the definitiyº.”hich
tion of the import duties on articles of foº à July;
are at present suspended by the law pa. ulty."
1845, leaving to the executive § the i. € ſha;
restrict or suppress exportation during the." £o tº
existing circumstances shall require it. the tć
reform of the post-office by the adoption of e the
of one decime for all single letters, whate. ... th:
distance of their origin and destination ; º Oſl ...haſ
conveyance of articles of silver at a raiº. diſ.
per cent. , 3. To the immediate suppre:...ndl.
ferential duties on the importation of ...ever
brought by sea or by the inland navigation," *
be their origin and under whatever flag.
elf,
jºise
. tiºs th
and i *extends to the unfortunate Don Francisco;
º º Suddenly discovered that he is everything
Fép
the
T Wºº. he called them a “ down-looking” set.
16
t
Police PortRAITURE. — “PUTTING Down” vice, ART, Etc.
Police PontRAITURE.
LAM, notes the tendency in the hu-
to ascribe personal ugliness where we .
grudge. Your runaway apprentice is
" ill-looking dog: if he was too sharp for
ºjº. quick with replies to awkwardly
&nd C. rebukes—the description, in the Hue
hone # gives him a squint; if he has taken
his ..."9m the till, he is sure to have a hitch in
Wit. This dispositionſ is as old as the hills.
othe...ºnam missed his noble Hector, and the
S could not reproduce the dead to comfort
§ways d.
r Son
nt I the Irish Moses” took offence at the excel-
n..."ters written by the Times commissioner, he
§. d up a tale how the writer was called “ugly
“M. º... the ill-favor being entirely the creation of
ºnnell's “own ugly mouth,” Vigorous
Mojº made to set the Spaniards against the
Set i. *Sier alliance, and to that end reports are
Bejº that the young prince is blind of one eye.
abell Don Francisco de Assiz is to marry Queen
ma. 9n the same day that the Infanta Louisa
e French prince, the dislike of the Anti-
° Ought not to be. An English newspaper
Q
... in Madrid differs in opinion with the Špin.
lsh
lia."sters on the subject of the Montpensier mar-
g ſhº.e
- º: Imoro
of ...]
and
Te
has f
sixt, 80
.ſvg
s
th; .*nd, according to the rule, when he recounts
i. tance into the Cortes to announce the mar-
they figure in the description as a most ill-
and sneaking set of rascals.
ed lº dainty examples of the rule are fur;
...two other Spanish personages. General
the ... eludes the French police, and gets out of
aud.try; whereupon, unable to do more, the
**ies fire after him this description- *
year.” at Tortosa (Catalonia;) age thirty-eight
eight one métre sixty-three centimétres
, Sti
lij
Cal,
lºbon; g
§: feet four inches and a half English ;)
his town eyes; middle-sized nose; mouth rather
ºvăl lack beard and rather thin ; round chin ;
ºr and eyebrows; ordinary forehead; grey-
ush..."; dark complexion. His eyebrows are
ontº, "4 come close to cach other; has a small scar
ºet, ºhead over the left eye; legs slightly bent;
him,”hs a person in the face when addressing
galling the offence, the worse the
Ilt white sketch of the fugitive. The Count
SC 9molin dines with the prefect of the Cher,
the p *Pºs from surveillance on the followin day:
ºf pursues him with a description which is
* its graphic power— *
twenty-eight years; height one, metre
rºo...ºntimétres; black hair and eyebrows;
lon,” and round forehead; brown eyes; large and
mou ºse, a little bent on one side; middle-sized
oval ..."lack beard, worn en collier; round chin;
ºld thi...ºnd dark complexion. The upper lip
then º teeth slightly project, which is more visible
§ stron § ; speaks French with facility, but with
§ º 9teign accent; the knees turned in, which
inj. particularly apparent when walking; holds
ing ... .ºy erect; a turn in the left eye-ball, show-
*clined ; the whole of the white; wears his hat
In bri .* right side, and over the eyes.”
Sailoš ; ºccording to this police Holbein, Don
Sha “to .# Short, ungainly, ugly, crook-nosed,
bish 3 y %hed, wallºyed. knock-kneed, and “snob-
*his the gentleman who asks the Span-
ºil
sº
349
ish people to rise in his favor, and to win for him
Queen Isabella, her hand and throne !—Spectator,
26 Sept.
“PUTTING Down” vice, ART, etc.
SoME years ago the satirist ventured to introduce
into a pantomime that august body the Society for
the Suppression of Vice ; which, with the aid of
clown, fitted a plaster-cast statue for being carried
about the streets, by supplying it with a pair of
breeches. That was no burlesque : on the con-
trary, it appears that the society has become slowly
indebted to the Jack Pudding's inventive suggestion,
and has even now entered into a crusade against the
nude in art at large. The society, as we learn from
the Athenaeum, has petitioned the Royal Academy
to abolish study from the life
One is apt to forget the existence of ancient asso-
ciation. There is so much vice abroad—so much
avarice, hardheartedness, and other kinds of unchar-
itableness—that the mind receives with difficulty the
idea that a society actually goes on suppressing vice.
Just so, ankle-deep in London mud, you think of
scavengers as imaginary, mythic personages that
visit the earth no more—“with hollow shriek the
steep Adelphi leaving” in ages long remote.
When, therefore, this Vice Society does show
itself tottering into the sunshine, one is disposed
to treat it with indulgence. It is very easy to pelt
it with reproaches for its pharisaical aspect—noth-
ing more obvious and natural ; but on reflection onc
cannot forget “how nature erring from itself,” may
fill well-meaning men with diseased notions. We
are gradually abandoning the cruel practice of run-
ning after idiots in the street: do not let us hunt
even the Vice Society to despair. Be assured, it
is not so black as it is painted in its own records.
We presume that the Royal Academy will not
grant the prayer of the petition; though really there
is no calculating what the academy may think proper
to do in matters of art. Perhaps they may agree
with the request. If not, then the poor petitioners
will suffer the horror of supposing that a chartered
body persists in supporting “vice.” Pitying the
“dreadful to relate” state of mind in which they
must be left, we cannot withhold a few words to
reassure them.
. For the benefit of the worthy gentlemen, then,
it may be explained, that really art and vice are not
identical; and that as the association is not one for
the suppression of art, it needs not enter upon that
unknown province. What the petitioners propose
would simply destroy all the vitality of art—would
retrograde to the state of pattern-drawing from
which the early Italians extricated it. Art could
as little survive without the study of the human
figure as physic or surgery could. * *
But perhaps the Vice Society may have petitioned
the college of surgeons to abolish the study of the
subject; since the first stage in the prºcess of anat-
omy is to dissect away the clothing. . If so, surgeons
and physicians should also be prohibited from exam-
ining any part of the living form without its woven
integuments; should especially be forbidden to feel
the pulse, as they consistently are in Eastern coun-
tries. In the Levant, all society is a society for the
suppression of vice in matters of that sort: they
shut their women up, and muffle them against
strange eyes in the streets; forbid the physician
to touch the skin; and there, too, they ſorbid
“study from the life” for; the purposes of art—.
wherefore they have no art. It is extraordinary;
350 A Poet's
BAZAAR,
that in the East there is rather a redundancy of
vice.
The society may boldly say, that it does not care
what becomes of art. How, then, will it suppress
yiee. If it were a society for the suppression of
intellectual enjoyments, of refinement—for the sup-
Pression, in short, of morals, we could understand
this indifference to the fine arts. But the history
of great nations shows that the decline of art has
always been attended by an enormous increase of
the grosser vices. And what is it that regulates
and refines society among our upper classes but that
taste which is the product of the liberal arts? The
great bulk of the rich, in all the most civilized coun-
tries, abstain from vices less because they are wicked,
than because they are offensive to good taste. Our
Vice Society proposes to undermine that powerful
engine against vice.—Spectator, 26 Sept.
A poet's BAZAAR.*
EveRYTHING in this book pleases us better than
the quaint and inappropriate title. The author, we
suppose, intended to signify that he has crected a
light, picturesque edifice, through which you may
saunter pleasantly and amuse yourself with inspect-
ing the odds and ends and parti-colored wares he
has there hung up to view—gatherings made in a
tour from Denmark overland to Italy, Greece, Con-
stantinople, and home again by way of the Danube.
But the image is not a happy one : it suggests an
assortment of showy gimcracks, ostentatiously dis-
played ; whereas the most remarkable characteris-
tic of the book is its freedom from anything that
reminds us of manufacturing processes, or the arti-
fices of the craftsman and salesman. It does not
seem to have been composed, but extemporized;
and probably could the author's thoughts have at
once projected themselves into print as they arose
at sundry points of his journey, the result would
have been much such a work as that now before us.
This is what constitutes its originality and its
charm, for every line bears the distinct impress of
the writer's individual nature. Thus we enjoy a
double pleasure as we read; scenes, objects, and
social traits, already known to us by personal ex-
perience or reiterated description, are beheld under
new aspects, and illustrated by fresh associations %
and in contemplating these, we trace out by their
reflected light the mental lineaments of the amiable
and gifted narrator. The genius of Andersen is
above all things cordial and kindly, winning on our
love rather than commanding our admiration. He
has many superiors in intellectual strength, in
depth, and range of thought , and he is often
amenable to the stern critic's censure ; but who
can refuse to sympathize with his warm, ingenuous
nature, his delicate but healthful sensibility, his
quiet, happy humor? Who that remembers his
own boyish days can resist the sway of Andersen's
creative fancy, as it ranges with childlike confidence
through the whole realm of real and visionary ex-
istence It is highly characteristic of the man,
that among his most successful efforts are his
“Tales and Stories,” written for children. Some
of them are exquisitely beautiful : one, in particu-
lar, “The Ugly Little Duck,” is not surpassed by
anything of its kind we have ever seen. It is a
most ingenious and delightful apologue, whispering
hope to callow and unrecognized genius and worth,
and typifying its author's own fortunes, his early
* From the Danish of Hans Christian Andersen.
e”
privations, and the renown of his riper yº, º
nius, penury, and childhood, are familiar * lume”
ite themes for Andersen : in the present WO
we have them all three in
THE BRONzE Hog ; A STORY.
aſſº
“In the city of Florence, not far from. º: 13
del Granduca, runs a little cross-street—lth".rt of
called Porta Rossa : in this street, before * S0 well-
bazaar where they sell vegetables, stands resh
wrought bronze figure of a hog. The cle”...al,
- * l
water bubbles out of the mouth of the º
which has become dark-green from age : "...it is
alone shines as if it were polished bright. " aroi
so, by the many hundred children and laz their
who take hold of it with their hands, and I" letº
mouths to the animal's to drink. It is a .
picture, to see that well-formed animal º swee'
by a pretty, half-naked boy, who puts his
little mouth to its snout.
:1., fiſ1
“Every one that visits Florence will easily * *
the place; you need only ask the first iſ ſell
you see about the Bronze Hog, and he " ".
you.
“It was a late winter evening ; the mº
were covered with snow; but it was mº";
and moonlight in Italy gives a light which
UIl
the north ; nay, it is better, for the sun shºe
air elevates, whilst in the north that co" gold,
leaden roof presses us down to the earth, tº
wet earth, which will hereafter press our ce. 3.
“Yonder, in the duke's palace-garden, wº
thousand roses bloom in the winter-time, * r the
ragged boy had sat the whole day long, unde thé
pine-tree's roof. He was a boy that migh. ... so
image of Italy—so pretty, so laughing, aſ }. 000
suffering ! He was hungry and thirsty; . caſu%
had given him a farthing ; and when "...fter
dark, and the garden was to be closed, º :Adré
chased him away. He stood long on tº. staſ;
taiſ;
light,
just
! º
iſ .
as good as the best light of a dark winter dº.
#
over the Arno, dreaming and looking at ., and
as they glistened in the water, between "
the noble marble bridge, Della Trinità. tne!
“He bent his steps towards the Bronze flºcci
half down, threw his arms around its negº ank j
his little mouth to its shining snout, an by lay
deep draught of the fresh water. Close
supper. There was not a human being : thé
street; he was quite alone. He sat dow. jº
swine's back, leaned forward, so that his lit! ; I
head rested on that of the animal, and, be o:
himself knew it, was asleep.
“It was midnight; the bronze figure
heard it say quite distinctly, ‘Hold fast, ſº
for now I run '' and away it run with him " "
a laughable ride. aza 4°
“The first place they came to was P i. thé
Granduca; and the bronze horse which bo
moved ;
je tº
d
të
statute of the Duke neighed aloud; the var. :
arms on the old Council-hall shone like trº. his
paintings; and Michael Angelo's David sº." The
sling. It was a strange life that movº of the
bronze groups, with Perseus, and the I. roſſ
Sabines, were but too living : a death-shº" olitary
them passed over that magnificent but * .
place. - O degli
“The Bronze Hog stopped by the Palº emblº
Uffizi, in the arcade, where the nobility QSS
during the pleasures of the Carnival. fast! for
* Hold fast, said the animal, ‘hºboſ
we are now going up the stairs.' G ll
his
"Cſ
salad-leaves and a few chesnuts; these *... the
c 18
; , * ,
it wº
A PoET's BAZAAR. 351
. }º
Shi
tº: * Word: he half trembled, he was half
{ % fºr *
for º º intered a long gallery; he knew it well,
ere .. been there before. The walls were cov-
º A paintings; here stood statues and busts;
Were º was in the brightest light, just as if it
to one . ; but it was most splendid when the door
in. the side-rooms opened. The little fellow
Veryt ºred the splendor here; yet this night
ºng was in its most beauteous lustre.”
gali. glorious statues and painted figures in the
de M Y are filled with the breath of life—the Venus
Ven ledici, the Gladiators, the Grinder, Titian's
º º
$g Fro
US
In Saloon to saloon what splendor, what
0 and the little boy saw it all. The Bronze
an º Went step by step through all this magnificence
jºy. But one sight superseded the rest—
Càu "lage alone fixed itself in his thoughts ; it was
§ed by the glad, happy children who were there
th Walls; the little boy had once nodded to
in by daylight.
list ºny, certainly, have wandered carelessly
êS is picture ; and yet it encloses a treasure of
-. wº ; it is Christ who descends into the nether
§olo #
ºld; but it is not the tortured we see around
Iº9, they tell of hope and immortality. An-
e ronzini, the Florentine, painted this picture.
a. *pression of the children's certainty that they
i. to heaven is excellent : two little ones em-
- anoth ºach other; one child stretches its hand out to
3
%r below, and points to himself as if he said, ‘I
-, *m -
ho ºng to heaven.” All the elders stand uncertain,
i.g , or bending in humble prayer to the Lord
*ny oth
Šentle
lm
{ { * 4.
The boy looked longer at this picture than at
er; the Bronze Hog stood still before it; a
Sigh was heard; did it come from the paint-
t tº; from the animal's breast ! The boy ex-
- ani y
w G º +
"ºtairs with him.”
ºy stand before the church of Santa Croce.
th * his hands towards the smiling children :
th º e animal started off with him, away, through
... ºn front hall.
hanks and blessings on thee, thou sweet
*!”, said the little boy, and patted the Bronze
who, with an amiable grunt, sprang down
Strange ray of light streamed forth from a
sº "Rent in the left aisle; a thousand moving
Ac
W.
b as th
tº ºmed, as it were, a glory around it. . A
o.gisplayed itself on the tomb; a red ladder
ue ground—it appeared to glow like fire. It
ut th 9 grave, of Galileo ; it is a simple monument;
Sant . red ladder on the blue ground is a signifi-
°vice; it is as if it belonged to art alone, for
I'm 6 -
i; the way goes always upwards, on a glowing
go j ut to heaven. All the prophets of genius
eaven, like the prophet Elias.”
.* *. morning, the boy wakes, and finds him-
tsu ill seated on the Bronze Hog, which stood in
*al place. He returns to his wretched home,
l
Cneo lº: -
be Ince his abandoned mother had sent him out to
beate tlving no money to give her, he is cruelly
two . a neighbor interposes to protect him; the
an Jºn fight; the boy escapes in the confusion,
he . ºrs to the church of Santa Croce, where
a. *, himself to sleep by Michael Angelo's
little f n elderly citizen takes pity on the forlorn
which’. ow, and receives him into his family;
White $9Bsists of himself, his wife, and a little
Could olognese dog, clipped so close that one
Sec its rosy red skin. His mother readily
consents to part with him; and he at once becomes
a favorite with the old woman and the pet dog.
“‘He is a sweet child,” said she. “What a
fine glover we can make of him—just as you were;
and he has such fine pliant fingers. Madonna has
destined him to be a glover.’
“And so the boy remained there in the house;
and the woman herself taught him to sew. He
lived well, he slept well, he became lively, and he
began to teaze Bellissima—so the little dog was
called; the woman threatened him with her finger,
and chid him, and was angry; and it went to the
boy's heart, as he sat thoughtfully in his little
chamber. It looked out to the street ; and they
dried skins there; thick iron bars were before the
windows. He could not sleep, the Bronze Hog
was in his thoughts; and he suddenly heard some-
thing outside—“Plask, plask ' Yes, it was cer-
tainly the Hog. He sprang to the window ; but
there was nothing to be seen, it was past.”
In the morning, he is ordered to carry the color-
box of a young painter, the glover's neighbor; and
he enters the well-known gallery. A passionate
longing to become a painter takes hold on him; the
glove-making goes on but badly, and he steals
away one starlight night to confabulate with his
friend the Bronze Hog. His reverie is interrupted
by Bellissima, who, shocking to relate, had fol-
lowed him without being dressed, as the old mother
called it ! The dog was never allowed to go out
in the winter-time without being clad in a little
jacket of sheep-shin, tied with red ribands and hung
with bells. And now Bellissima was naked in the
night-air; what would be the consequence 1 Ter-
rified at the thought, the boy kissed the Bronze
Hog, snatched up the shivering dog, and ran off
with it in his bosom. But before he could reach
home, he was stopped by gendarmes ; who, think-
ing he had stolen the animal, carried it away to the
guard-house.
“Here was sorrow and trouble ! He knew not
whether he should spring into the Arno, or go
home and confess all. They would certainly kill
him, he thought. “But I would willingly be kill-
ed I will die, and then I shall go to Jesus and
Madonna ;’ and he went home with the thought of .
being killed.
“The door was locked ; he could not reach the
knocker; there was no one in the street, but there
was a loose stone; he took it up and hammered
away at the door. “Who is that 1' cried a voice
from within.
“‘It is me !” said he. “Bellissima is lost!-let
me in, and kill me!’ *
“They were so frightened, particularly Signora,
for poor Bellissima. She looked directly to the
wall where the dog's vestment always hung, and
the little sheep-skin was there. * -
“‘Bellissima in the guard-house.' she cried,
quite aloud; “you wicked child! How did...you
get him out? He will be frozen to death. That
delicate animal among the coarse soldiers.”
“The old man was obliged to be off directly.
The wife wailed, and the boy cried. , All the peo-
ple in the house mustered together, the painter too;
he took the boy between his knees, questioned him,
and by bits and scraps, he gºt the whole story about
the Bronze Hog and the gallery—it was not easy
to understand. The painter, however, consoled
the little fellow, and spoke kindly to the old woman;
but she was not satisfied before “father came with
Bellissima, who had been amongst the soldiers.
352
THE MUSIC BOOK.
There was such joy ; and the painter patted the
poor boy, and gave him a handful of pictures.
“Oh, they were splendid pieces, comic heads !
but, above all, there was the Bronze Hog itself to
tº life... Oh, nothing could be more glorious !
* ith a few strokes, it stood there on paper, and
even the house behind it was shown.
“‘Oh, how I wish I could draw and paint
t!” I could obtain the whole world for myself.”
* The first leisure moment that the little fellow
'ºd itext day, he seized the pencil, and on the
white side of one of the pictures he attempted to
copy the drawing of the Bronze Hog ; and he suc-
c. cºed. A little crooked, a little up and down, one
! g thick and another thin ; but yet it was not to
he misunderstood ; he himself exulted over it.
The pencil would not go just as straight as it
should do, he could perceive ; but next day there
s:ood another Bronze Hog by the side of the first,
and it was a hundred times better ; the third was
so ſtood that every one might know it.
“But the glove-making went badly on, the town
crrands went on slowly; for the Bronze Hog had
taught him that all pictures could be drawn on
paper, and the city of Florence is a whole picture-
book, if one will but turn the leaves over. On the
Piazza della Trinità, there stands a slender pillar,
and on the top of this stands the Goddess of Jus-
tice, with her eyes bound and the scales in her
hand.
“She soon stood on the paper, and it was the
glover's little boy who had placed her there. The
collection of pictures increased ; but everything in
it was as yet but still-life; when one day Bellissi-
ima hopped about before him. “Stand still,” said
he ‘you shall be beautiful, and be amongst my
pictures' but Bellissima would not stand still, so
he must be bound; his head and tail were fastened;
he barked and jumped : the string must be tight-
ened—when in came Signora !
“‘You wicked boy—the poor animal!' was all
that she could say ; and she pushed the boy aside,
kicked him with her foot, and turned him out of
her house ; he, the most ungrateful rascal ; the
naughtiest child; and, crying, she kissed her little
half-strangled Bellissima.
“Just then the painter came up the stairs, and
here is the point on which the story turns.
“In the year 1834, there was an exhibition in
the Academia della Arte in Florence ; two paint-
ings placed by the side of each other drew a num-
ber of spectators to them. , The smallest painting
represented a merry little boy, who sat drawing:
he had for his model a little, white, nicely-clipped
pug-dog, but the animal would not stand still, and
was therefore bound fast with packthread, and that
both by the head and tail; there was life and truth
in it that must appeal to every.9ne. The painter
was, as they said, a young. Florentine who had
been found in the streets when a little boy. He
had been brought up by an old glover, and had
taught himself drawing. A painter, now famous,
had discovered this talent; the boy having been
chased away because he had bound his mistress'
favorite, the little pug-dog, and made it his
model.
“The glover's boy had become a great painter.
This picture proved it; but it was particularly
shown in the larger one by its side. Here was but
a single figure, a ragged but beautiful boy, who sat
and slept in the street; he leaned up agº; º:
Bronze Hog in the street Porta Rossa. A St0
spectators knew the place. The child's arm re
on the swine's head; the little boy slept sº
and the lamp by the image of the Madonna ºf
strong effective light on the child's sweet face. €ſl”
was a magnificent picture; a large gilt frº..."a
circled it, and on the corner of the frame hull
laurel wreath; but between the green le. (r
black riband entwined itself, from which * *
crape veil hung down. * }
“The young artist was just then dead!
—-
The Music Book. Published every sº
Printed from engraved plates, on paper the "...”
music size. (No. I. Sing, Maiden,
Words by Barry Cornwall; Music by 25
No. II. The False Friend. Words by Thomº
Hood; Music by Vincent Wallace.) Office, .
Bride's avenue, Fleet street. - ,
This seems to us one of the most novel º
pleasing extensions of the now prevailing syº er&
of cheapness. Excellent original music, i.
proposed to be presented to us, with no abatº.
even in the elegance of its setting forth, at 0
fifth of its usual cost. Both songs in the num".
before us are pretty and likely to be popular; º
the names actually announced as contributors tot n-
work carry with them the best promise. The (r
ticipation of the conductors of such an underº.
seems, therefore, reasonable enough; and 1% ak
pressed with a modesty and brevity which wº º º
to be of good omen. “The high price,” it".
marked, “at which original music is usually .
places it out of the reach of many who .
otherwise gladly purchase it; and it is theº.
thought that an attempt to bring the works "...is
most eminent composers within a more reasº.
cost, will be favorably received by the pub’”
We do not doubt it.
:..., like
We shall see the success of an undertaking likº
º
this with peculiar satisfaction. It is the wide. y,
fusion of an elegant and humanizing Ju.
hitherto for mere trade purposes most a hey
limited. If the public second such an effort, t 30°.
will gain by it much more than its immedia” hole
vantages. It must tend to throw open the "*"
system of musical publication. Music
Mr. Doyle's design for the wrapper of the tile "
Book suggests, with its whimsical an .."; on
fancy, the universal acceptableness of musº to
the days of Apollo and Orion. To look at ...
imagine countless purchasers. We have the ". . . . .
man's horn, and the harp of the bard of chi". tć;
we have the English family party, with... . .
double-bass, and piano, and the party of 9. be
students roaring over their beer; we have "...iian -
periwigged maestro at his organ, and the |
boy with his monkey at his ; we have the P j
and cloaked gallant serenading under his . aſ
window, and the shepherd piping to his sweet
in the meadow ; we have the drums and tº.
of battle, and the German brass band in the sº.
—in short we have all the wonders of m. 16
accompany the attendant wonder (by no nº. º
least now-a-days) of a cheap music book."
2776.7°.
ice, St.
isurd. . .
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
353
From the Athenaeum.
Sl
ºth MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCI-
*ON FOR THE ADVANCEMENT of science.
[Continued from page 316 of the Living Age.]
wednesday, sept. 16.
sº deputation of the Geological and Me-
*al sections, headed by the president, pro-
*d, at 1 o'clock, to the boring on Southamp-
...non; After hearing the report of the
§ neer, and examining the evidence of the strata,
jºident observed that there was every proba-
the y hon their reaching the upper greensand below
wi alk strata, that a sufficient supply of water
t be obtained. Whether or not it would rise
the juired level would depend, however, upon
e ºvel at which the upper greensand entered.
I * vised, however, the continuance of the work.
of ºrs the well already gives 15,000 cubic feet
...ºr the supply required for the town being
“... 30,000 to 35,060.
... Mr. Tº * ,
tić. read the following account of the
0n
ssued at the Southampton meeting:—
No. of Tickets.
fe Subscribers, . . . . 241 . .
Old"A*, *... . . . . . . . . .
N, Annual Subscribers, . . 67 . .
A." ditto, . . . . . . . . . 39 . .
*ciates, . . . . . . . . . 268 . .
#9 signers 19
i. * º * . . . . º. º. º. is 198 *
- º Albert's contribution, . . . .
° of books, . .
Payment.
:6110
78
268
Old Li
New l
198
100
8 4s. 8d.
tº # ºf ſº º ſº, º ſº tº
Total, . . . . . . -É762 4s. 8d.
The following is an abstract of Mr. Lyell's dis-
Jºe, delivered, as we stated, on Monday the 14th:
sissi." the Delta and Alluvial Deposits of the Mis-
A. and other points in the Geology of Nºrth
i. observed in the years 1845–6.”—The
of * of the Mississippi may be defined as that part
e great alluvial plain which lies below, or to
i...ºuth of the branching off of the highest aim ºf
abo ºver, called the Atchafalaya. This delta is
from , 13,600 square miles in area, and elevated
. ." "few inches to ten feet above the level of the
Guif The greater part of it protrudes into the
The of Mexico beyond the general coast line.
deau evel plain to the north, as far as Cape Girar-
of j." ſissouri above the junction of the Ohio, is
For . same character, including, according to Mr.
is . °y, an area of about 16,000 square miles, and
i. erefore, larger than the delta. It is very va-
no. in width from east to west, being , near its
floºn extremity, or at the mouth of the Ohio,
" . . ; tº." ºs wide; at Memphis 30 ; at the mouth of
South ite River 80, and contracting again farther
alluvi. at Grand Gulf, to 33 miles.
...] plain rise by so gradual a slope from the
ta º to attain, at the junction of the Ohio, (a dis-
Onl ° of 800 miles by the river,) an elevation of
§§ *wo hundred feet above the Gulf of Mexico.
ered Yell first described the low mud banks cov-
a. With reeds at the mouths of the Mississippi,
tºº pilot-station called the Balize; then passed
0.ºntity of drift-wood choking up the ba-
ºr channels, intersecting the banks; and, last-
łºślarged on the long narrow promontory formed
lean ° great river and its banks between New Or-
**nd the Balize. The advance of lºgº.
º
The delta and N
lar tongue of land has been generally supposed to
have been very rapid, but Mr. Lyell and Dr. Car-
penter, who accompanied him, arrived at an oppo-
site conclusion. After comparing the present state
of this region with the map published by Charlevoix,
120 years ago, they doubt whether the land has, on
the whole, gained more than a mile in the course
of a century. A large excavation, eighteen feet
deep, made for the gas works at New Orleans, and
still in progress, March, 1846, shows that much of
the soil there consists of fine clay or mud, contain-
ing innumerable stools of trees, buried at various
levels in an erect position, with their roots attached,
implying the former existence there of fresh-water
swamps covered with trees, over which the sedi-
ment of the Mississippi was spread during inunda-
tions, so as slowly to raise the level of the ground.
As the site of the excavation is now about nine feet
above the sea, the lowest of these upright trees im-
ply that the region where they grew has sunk down
about nine feet below the sea level. The exposure,
also, in the vertical banks of the Mississippi at
low water for hundreds of miles above the head of
the delta, of the stumps of trees buried with their
roots in their natural position, three tiers being oc-
casionally seen one above the other, shows that the
river in its wanderings has opened a channel
through ancient morasses, where trees once grew,
and where alluvial matter gradually accumulated.
The old deserted beds, also, of the river, with
banks raised fifteen feet above the adjoining low
grounds, bear testimony to the frequent shifting of
the place of the main stream; and the like infer-
ence may be drawn from the occurrence, here and
there, of crescent-shaped lakes, each many miles
in length and half a mile or more in breadth, which
have once constituted great curves or bends of the
river, but are now often far distant from it. The Mis-
sissippi, by the constant undermining of its banks,
checks the rise of large commercial towns on its
borders, and causes a singular contrast between
the wealth and splendor of eight hundred or more
fine steamers, some of which may truly be called
floating palaces, and the flat monotonous wilderness
of uncleared land which extends for hundreds of
miles on both sides of the great navigable stream.
Mr. Lyell visited, in March, 1846, the region sha-
ken for three months, in 1811–12, by the earth-
quake of New Madrid. One portion of it, situated
in the states of Missouri and Arkansas is now called
“the sunk country.” It extends about seventy
miles north and south, and thirty east and west,
and is for the most part submerged. Many dead
trees are still standing erect in the swamps; a far
greater number lie prostrate. Even on the dry
ground in the vicinity, all the forest trees, which
are of a prior date to 1811 are leafless: they are
supposed to have been killed by the loºsening of
their roots by the repeated shocks, of 1811-12.
umerous rents are also observable in the ground
where it opened in 1811; and many “sink-holes,”
or cavities, from 10 to 30 yards wide and 20 feet or
more in depth, now interrupt the general level of
the plain, which were formed by the spouting out
of large quantities of sand and mud during the
earthquake. In attempting to compute the mini-
mum of time required for the accumulation of the
alluvial matter in the delta and valley of the Missis-
sippi, Mr. Lyell referred to a series of experiments,
made by Dr. Riddell, at New Orleans, showing that
the mean annual proportion of sediment in the river
was, to the water Tºrs in weight, or about tºrm
354
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
in volume. From the observations of the same
gentleman, and those of Dr. Carpenter, and of Mr.
Forshey, (an eminent engineer of Louisiana,) the
average width, depth, and velocity of the Missis-
sippi, and thence the mean annual discharge of
water, are deduced. In assuming 528 feet (or the
tenth of a mile) as the probable thickness of the
deposit of mud and sand in the delta, Mr. Lyell
founds his conjecture on the depth of the Gulf of
Mexico, between the southern point of Florida and
the Balize, which equals on an average 100 fath-
oms. The area of the delta being about 13,600
square statute miles, and the quantity of solid mat-
ter annually brought down by the river 3,702,758,-
400 cubic feet, it must have taken 67,000 years for
the formation of the whole ; and if the alluvial
matter of the plain above be 264 feet deep, or half
that of the delta, it has required 33,500 more years
for its accumulation—even if its area be estimated
as only equal to that of the delta, whereas it is, in
fact, larger. If some deduction be made from the
time here stated, in consequence of the effect of
drift-wood, which must have aided in filling up
more rapidly the space above alluded to, a far more
important allowance must be made, on the other
hand, for the loss of matter, owing to the finer par-
ticles of mud not settling at the mouth of the river,
but being swept out far to sea, and even conveyed
into the Atlantic by the Gulf stream. Yet the
whole period during which the Mississippi has
transported its earthy burthen to the ocean, though
perhaps far exceeding 100,000 years, must be in-
significant, in a geological point of view, since the
bluffs, or cliffs bounding the great valley, (and
therefore older in date,) and which are from 50 to
250 feet in perpendicular height, consist in great
part of loam, containing land, fluviatile, and lacus-
trine shells of species still inhabiting the same
country. These fossil shells, occurring in a de-
posit resembling the loéss of the Rhine, are asso-
ciated with the bones of the mastodon, elephant,
tapir, mylodon, and other megatheroid animals;
also a species of horse, ox, and other mammalia,
most of them of extinct species. The loam rests
at Wicksburg and other places on eocene, or lower
tertiary strata, which, in their turn, repose on cre-
taceous rocks. . A section from Vicksburg to Da-
rien, through the states of Mississippi, Alabama,
and Georgia, exhibit this superposition, as well as
that of the cretaceous strata on carboniferous rocks
at Tuscaloosa. Mr. Lyell ascertained that the
huge fossil cretacean, named Zeuglodon, by Owen,
is confined to the eocene deposits. In the creta-
ceous strata, the remains of the mosasaurus, and
other reptiles, occur without any cetacea. The
coal-fields of Alabama were next alluded to ; from
which fossil plants have been procured, by Prof.
Brumby and Mr. Lyell of the genera sphenopteris,
neuropteris, calamites, lepidodendron, sigillaria,
stigmaria, and others, most of them identical in
spºries, as determined by Mr. C. Bunbury, with
fossils of Northumberland. This fact is the more
worthy of notice, because the coal of Tuscaloosa—
situated in lat. 33° 10' N.—is farther south than
any region in which this ancient fossil Flora had
lº been studied, whether in Europe or
Worth America; and it affords, therefore, a new
proof of the wide extension of a uniform Flora in
the carboniferous epoch. Mr. Lyell—adverting to
the opinion recently adopted by several able bota-
nists, that the climate of the coal period was re-
markable for its moisture, equability, and freedom
from cold, rather than the intensity of its tropical
heat—stated that this conclusion, as well ºf º
oscillations of temperature implied by the gº.
period, are confirmatory of the theory first adſ". al
by him, in 1830, to explain the ancient e.
changes of climate, by geographical revolutiº S
the position of land and sea. The lapse of #.
implied by the distinctness of the fossils of º
eocene, cretaceous, carboniferous, and other s” .
is such, that, were we to endeavor to give an S
of it, we must estimate its duration, not by yº.
as in the case of the delta, but by such uniº
would be constituted by the interval betwee' is
beginning of the delta and our own times...“ f
now fifty years,” said Mr. Lyell, “since Playºff -
after studying the rocks in the neighborhoº Sir
Edinburgh, in company with Dr. Hutton and hey
James Hall, was so struck with the evidence' §
afforded of the immensity of past time, thº' 0,
observed, “How much farther reason mº gº
than imagination can venture to follow !’ sº ..
views were common to the most illustrious of n
contemporaries ; and since that time have º
adopted by all geologists, whether their minds h3 r.
been formed by the literature of France, or of Ge 1
many, or of Italy, or Scandinavia, or England i. º
have arrived at the same conclusion respecting tº
great antiquity of the globe, and that, too, in "P.
sition to their earlier prepossessions and to the pop".
ular belief of their age. It must be confessed th
while this unanimity is satisfactory as a remar.
test of truth, it is somewhat melancholy to reflecº
that, at the end of half a century, when so nº.
millions have passed through our schools and cº -
leges since Playfair wrote that eloquent passag. º
there is still so great a discordance between the
opinions of scientific men and the great mass of S
community. Had there been annual gather..
such as this, were they who are entitled to sº. uS
with authority address themselves to a º.
assembly, drawn from the higher classes of soº:
who, by their cultivation and influence, must º
the education and form the opinions of the nº.
humbler station, it is impossible that so unde.
and unsound a state of things should have nºw! hi-
vailed as that where there is one creed for thº'
… ré
losopher and another for the multitude. Had º: * ,
been meetings like this, even for a quarter ºf * 4'
* 6 :
tury, we should already have gained for geolºg: º ſ
same victory that has been so triumphantly *. .
the astronomer. The earth's antiquity, toge! e.
with the history of successive races of orgº. -
ings, would have been ere this as cheerfully * 0ſ
universally acknowledged as the earth's motº
the number, magnitude, and relative distance”; ouş
heavenly bodies. I am sure it would be superſ" J
if I were to declare, in an assembly like thº, at
deep conviction, which you—all of you—shºr” on
the further we extend our researches into thº,...e :
ders of creation in time and space, the more... the
exalt, refine, and elevate our conceptions coſ,”
Divine Artificer of the Universe.”—Mr. Lyell ord"
cluded this discourse by announcing his º; ſign
tion of the discovery, recently made by Dr. #.
at Greensburg, thirty miles from Pittsburg, ...fa
sylvania, of the occurrence of fossil footpriº. oãl-
large reptilian, in the middle of the anciº lowe,
measures. They project, in relief, from the nd
surfaces of slabs of sandstone; and are alsº uou?
impressed on the subjacent layers of fine "...of
clay. This is the first well-established exº" an
a vertebrated animal, more highly organ. high
fishes, being met with in a stratum of su"
antiquity.
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH Association. 355
ºnents
Sec
TION A-MATHEMAtical AND Pirysical Sciesce.
{{ SATURDAY.
{{ On Atmospheric Waves,” by W. R. Birt.
Ellis. * the Recent Progress of Analysis,” by Mr.
{
s. the Attempts to explain the Projection of a
ɺle Moon, during an Occultation,” by Prof.
{ {
h 9a the Elastic Force of Vapor,” by Capt.
..". The author adopts the experiments of
tho *ench Academy at high temperatures, and
j of Magnus at low temperatures, as being the
Of St Carefully performed, and the most extensive
* yet available. In the Academy's experi-
th , the indications of the smaller thermometer
* Steam are preferred to those of the larger
jºmºter in the water; because the tempera-
In
. of the water increases with its depth, and
. exceeds that of steam formed at its surface,
*ś the heat which may be necessary to over-
* the cohesion of water in passing into vapor.
lS Probable, also, that the temperature of the
- iO
i.
{
- Which
$
t
d
º in the manometer was, from exposure to
i. less than that of the steam in the boiler;
*t the small thermometer may be expected
ºve the temperature too high, rather than too
{{
On the Principle of Continuity, in reference to
*In Results of Analysis,” by Prof. Young.
MONDAY.
On the Anemometer,” by Prof. Phillips—in
*ppli he noticed a new principle as likely to be
jº for the production of instruments free
th defects to be found in those now in use. In
*hemometer thus suggested, it was proposed
...sure the velocity of air by the rapidity of
th Pºration and the cold produced thereby. When
ulb of the thermometer, covered with cot-
º Wool, is immersed in water and exposed to the
amo he evaporation is known to produce a given
i.". of diminution of temperature; and when
t ºrmometer is moved through the air, the
ºd “y of evaporation is increased. In the trials
an. by Prof. Phillips, he first ascertained the
... of diminution by simple exposure—and
raised the temperature by the heat of the hand
*t of the air, and marked, by a second-watch,
{
§. Pidity of cooling when the hand was with-
": By repeating this process in tranquil air,
an º -
- d when the thermometer was in motion, he was
r ern
ºbled to ascertain the increased rates of cooling
Šiº degrees of speed, and on the other hand
in °ll the amount of speed by the rapidity of cool-
§. He tested this instrument on the South-west-
Wel Railway, and when the carriages were at the
ocity of thirty-six miles an hour, his new, ane-
"it was held at the distance of two feet from
- 0 * * * r
jºr indicated correctly the amount of velocity
t
sjäge. He did not profess to have con-
Call ted a perfect instrument, but his object was to
*ttention to the principle on which he thought
jºurate instrument for measuring the velocity
% Wind might be constructed.
whi i Whewell said that the other avocations
* engrossed his attention had for some time
efect ted his endeavoring to correct the few slight
ter . which the practical working of the anemom-
i... to which Prof. Phillips had alluded, detected;
jºlai, the accurate determination of the
*t which connected its indications with the
Preven
Ctua - º: *
now ...ity of the wind at every instant. He
* less regretted this, as his friend, Dr. Rob-
inson had constructed, and worked for some montns,
an anemometer, the connection of the motion of
which with the velocity of the wind was less sub-
ject to vary, and was of easy determination. A
model of this he had exhibited to the mechanical
section. It consisted of two or three arms, attached
to a spindle, carrying at their extremities hollow
hemispheres of tin or copper, with the hollows of
the hemispheres all turned in the same direction
The force of the wind exerted on the concave sur-
faces being four times as great as that on the con-
vex, the spindle was made to turn in the same
direction, whatever way the wind blew. Attached
to the spindle were the count wheels of a gasome-
ter; and the velocity thus determined was exactly
the one third of that of the wind. With respect to
the elevation of the clouds, he had long practised a
very simple mode of determining it.
“Method of Measuring the Height of Clouds,”
by Dr. Whewell.—I do not know whether it has
been observed how easily the height of clouds may
be measured when the reflection of them can be
seen in a lake from a station above it. In that case
the angle of elevation above the horizontal plane for
any selected point of a cloud is not equal to the
angle of depression of the image ; for the latter
angle is the angle of elevation of the cloud at the
point of the lake where reflection takes place, and
is, therefore, greater than the former. The diſſer-
ence of these two angles gives us the means of
proving the height of the cloud.
Professor Stevelley stated that Dr. Robinson's
anemometer had been at work since last Novem-
ber ; and that so trivial was the friction, when com-
pared with the power of the engine, that its motion
was quite perceptible in breezes which were too
gentle to disturb the leaves on neighboring poplar
trees. This removed the only defect which H.
Whewell complained of, as creating a difficulty in
determining the relation of the velocity in his anc-
mometer to that of the wind. Dr. Stevelley re-
gretted that the absence of Dr. Robinson in another
section prevented him from detailing on this occa-
Sion the very satisfactory experiments by which he
had determined the relation between the velocity of
the wind and that of the instrument. This had
been accomplished by comparative observations with
Lind's anemometer, and other modes of determin-
ing the rapidity of the current, and then comparing
them with his own. The experimental determina-
tion had been in almost absolute accordance with
the determination of theory. - --
“Fall of Rain on the Coast of Travancore, and
Table-Land of Uttray,” from observations of Major
General Cullen, resident in Travancore, by Colonel
ykes. +.
“On the Construction of a self-registered. Bº-
rometer, Thermometer, and Psychrometer,” hy
Mr. C. Brooke. * - tº º
“On the Fall of Rain in the Lake Districts of
Cumberland and Westmoreland, &c., in the year
1845,” by J. F. Miller. iº
“An Áccount of an Atmospheric Recorder,” by
G. Dollond.—It having appeared to be desirable,
at the last meeting of the British Association, that a
correct self-regulating apparatus should be con-
structed, by which the variºus changes of the
atmosphere should be recorded upon paper in such
manner that they might be referred to at a future
period, and having invented an instrument which
records the following eight variations, viz.—the
barometer, the thermometer, the hygrometer, the
electrometer, the pluviometer, the evaporator, the
3.56
SIXTE!!NTH M EI.TING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
force board, the agenometer, and the time—I now
mºve the pleasure of oſtering to the present meeting
a few remarks upon the subject, in order that,
should the instrument merit their attention, I may
enter into an explanation of its various qualities. I
have found it answer the purpose for which it was
intended, in every way, satisfactorily. 1st. The
barometer is registered at cvery change which
takes place in the weight of the atmosphere at
every half-hour, and may be traced from one point
to the next without any difficulty.—2d. The ther-
inometer registers the various changes from cold in
the night or morning, to the greatest heat in the
afternoon, continuously.—3d. The hygrometer has
the power of showing the changes from dryness to
cxtreme saturation of moisture, to every hundredth
of the scale, and is extremely steady in action.—
4th. The electrometer is acted upon -by a con-
ductor, and registers each flash of lightning which
comes within the range of the conductor.—5th.
The pluviometer registers each drop of rain which
falls upon the surface of the receiver, and shows
the continuation of the falling quantity for every
inch in superficies until the inch is discharged;
when it again commences for another inch, which
repeats the same course.—6th. The evaporator is
so constructed as to retain a quantity of water with
the surface exposed, and so guarded that rain can-
not enter into the vessel. The surface gradually
cvaporates, forming a diagonal line upon the paper
until an inch is evaporated, when a discharge takes
place, and another commences.—7th. The force or
power of the wind acts upon a board, 1 foot square,
which is registered in pounds and ounces avoirdu-
pois, from 1 ounce to thirty pounds.—8th. The
direction of the wind is shown in circles; which,
immediately upon inspection, shows the direction
of the course or change which has taken place :
for instance, if it has passed through the south or
the north, from east to west; and the point from
which it started and that to which it returned.—
All these cight varieties have their scales about
half an inch from the marking points, and can be
very easily read or referred to. There are mark-
ers on cach edge of the paper for time, which paper
is carried forward by a clock.
Mr. Dollond gave an account of the storm as
shown by this instrument at Camberwell, on the
1st of August, 1846, during his absence. The
baromoter changed from 30'03 to 29-82 in. ; the
thermometer from 69° to 98° during the day, or 24
hours. The hygrometer ranged from 39° to 80°
of moisture. At 2 o'clock the electrometer was
affected by the lightning, and registered 15 dis-
charges or flashes in one hour. At 3h. 23m. the
rain commenced falling; and in 2 minutes the plu-
viometer discharged an inch—which had previously
stood at 11.90 in. for several days. At 4h. 3m.
another inch was registered, and at 5h. 25m. a
third inch was marked upon the registering paper;
and so tremendous was the fall of rain and hail,
that at 5h. 35m. a fourth inch was marked upon
the paper, making, on the whole, 312 inches in
2h. I'7m. The force of the wind was equal to 11b.
497., and the direction changed from, east to west,
through the south, at 3h. 20m.—The secretary
asked the probable cost of one of these instruments.
—Mr. Dollond replied, about 150l.
“On the Meteorology of Jersey,” by W. W.
Childers.
TUESDAY.
A joint meeting of the Mathematical and Physi-
cal section (A.) and of the Physiological sº.
(E.) took place to receive the two following *
munications : — 6 of his
Professor Matteucci submitted a résumé." th9
latest researches in Electro-Physiology.-- Wii
first place he described the experiments . ing
prove that the development of electricity in liv mic
animals is a phenomenon peculiar to all "#.
tissues, and principally to muscular fibres, .
it is a necessary consequence of the cheme.
cesses of nutrition. Professor Matteucci º:
larly wished to prove that the development of cle:
tricity in the muscles can never produce 9
currents which circulate either in the mu;.
mass, or in the nerves. It is only by a parº. in
arrangement of the experiment that we succº eri .
obtaining a muscular current. Further, all º
ments contradict the opinion of an electrical º: -
existing in the nerves. M. Matteucci prºvºo
the current said to be proper to the frog is, 9.
contrary, a general phenomenon which exists."
the muscles that have tendonous extremitiº
equally distributed, and that this current supp
to be peculiar to the frog, is only a part”
instance of muscular current.
OS
ular
& -
In the second place, the professor laid befºº. .
section his last researches “On Electrical Fish”.
—He showed that the laws of the electrical ºf
of these animals, are a necessary conseque. in
the development of electricity which is produce
each cell of the electrical organ under the influ"
of the nervous power. ed
In the third place, Professor Matteucci shºw r-
the relation which exists between the electric? ir
rent and nervous power. He proved that muscu
contraction is always produced by a phenº.
analogous to the electrical spark, and that th9%.
trical current does but modify the nervous “.
bility. On these facts, Professor Matteucci º
lishes a simple theory of electro-physiological p
Il OIIlêI]:l. ro-
In the last part of his communication, the %.
fessor treated of Inducted Contraction ;-and- . 0
having demonstrated that these phenomen? .
be explained in supposing an electrical diº
of any kind indiscriminately, he concluded: -
inducted contraction is an elementary phenº.
of the nervous power, which acts in musculº tion
traction, and is analogous to all actions of indº” .
of physical powers.
P On .." Identity of certain Vital and º: -
Magnetic Laws,” by Dr. Bullar.—The objº'ſ.
this paper was to show that the direction * u!!!"
mation of blood-vessels, and the capillary * (hē
tion through them, which is independent ºnce
propulsive power of the heart, are in accº. Il
with laws identical in their direction and rela!.
each other with those of the electro-magnetiº e
The formation of blood and blood-vessels º
germinal membrane, which surrounds the ‘. 5
during the incubation of a hen's egg, was.” jtish
a simple type of this process. The small." spot
disk, on the yolk-bag, (the cicatricula,) is ºr
where the vital changes begin. The emº"...re
pies the centre of this spot, and becomes the j.
of the vital force exerted by the mother's wº. thé
From this centre the force is communicatº". is cir'
yolk-bag. The disk enlarges, still keeping more
cular form, and marked by concentric tº. coll"
or less perfect. The disk is produced º ... is a
version of the yolk into cells, which a !. disk
thin circular layer. The circular form of th
thi €
* c cel”
and the general concentric arrangement of th -
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
357
*. considered to indicate that the lines of vital
...hich arranged and preserved that form were
.." º, The next step is the conversion of a por:
and 9f these cells which form the disk into blood
tio lood-vessels. The trunks pass in the direc-
n of radii of the original disk and central germ.
is . ºnain trunks unite at. the central heart, which
T first only a bent portion of the common trunk.
i. Capillaries inosculate at the circumference.
cº the vessels form a complete circle. This cir-
i. ºrrangement of the vessels as radii indicates a
he ld circular force at right angles to the plane of
9rmer one. The next step is the formation of
i., vessels. Those called by Harvey “vasa
are d’’ are coarse, and the stages in their formation
Sub more easily watched. They are formed in the
& Ҽne: of the disk, and out of the same material
a. * cells of the yolk. These cells continuing to
. ."mulate, some are arranged as cylinders—then,
*ccession, as half-circles, circles, net-work, and
S converging to the central embryo. At this
§ each vessel is a coarse yellowish cylinder,
Com * red streak down its axis. Externally it is
e Rºsed of cells of various sizes, which can easily
... the rushed off from the transparent tube which
- j. cover; and which is composed of smaller
ward and contains the red blood itself flowing to-
this S the centre. The inference drawn was, that
... tube, formed of cells around the current, is the
.* of a circumferential force around the cur-
tº." ºranging the cells as a tube. Such being
relation and direction of the vital force in
a.g their forms, it was shown that it was in
eti rdance with the direction of the electro-mag-
b * force. The law of this double force, which
º on the present inquiry, is, that, in order to
m both currents must circulate—that is, each
* return into itself. That the galvanic force
* circulate, is evident from the construction of
Simple galvanic cell. The magnetic force
§ºmpanying the galvanic obeys the same law. It
i. *irculates, but in a plane at right angles to the
. Dr. Wollaston called it, in consequence,
i ...nºus magnetism. These two currents are
... ble. They are directive forces or carrying,
the rding to the condition of the matter on which
i. What is true of the magnetic current
*ppli a single wire conveying the galvanic current,
i. to two or more wires if put together as a
bº, or to a slip of metal—the only difference
If ºf the increase of force in the latter instances,
wi. galvanic wire be bent in a circle, or several
tric § are arranged so as to form a series of concen:
Of wi "gs, or, which is the same thing, 3. spiral coil
Sam re be made, the magnetic force still retains the
3. direction as in the first instance; but as the
i. ºf the wire acts upon the circle ºf fºe, it
c. *; move through the centre of the ling or
the f such a spiral coil be placed on iron filings,
t y *trange themselves in lines, passing through
On §ºtre parallel to its axis, and then folding up
*her side as radii round the edge, where they
º hese experiments were quoted º Dr.
Vanic }. Such a spiral coil, through which gal-
th."ºrce circulates, was considered to represent
ºr. S. around the embryo : the iron filings,
ar.ºnting the direction of the capillary vessels,
the i. ºluly in a plane, at right angles to
Şālvani. Mºhº magnetic force .# the
Was dra ... rom comparing the two, the Conclusion
Ob Wn that, in both cases, the forces at work
lar fi * same laws; that the formation of a circu-
"g disk, by a central force constantly acting,
proves the existence of a circular force around that
centre, and is analagous to a flat spiral or disk,
through which the galvanic force is circulating :
and that this vital force in the disk is necessarily
attended by a second circulating force in the direc-
tion of radii to it, such as is indicated by the arrange-
ment of vessels to and from the centre. The actual
movements of the molecules in this living process
are invisible, as it is one of growth; but the form
produced is explicable on the hypothesis that the
living force acts in accordance with the laws of a
force the direction and selection of which have been
ascertained. The truth of this analogy is rendered
still more probable by the relation between heat
and galvanism, discovered by Seubeck. If a cur-
rent of heat, instead of a current of galvanism, be
made to circulate through the spiral coil of wire, it
will, like galvanism, develope magnetic currents in
the direction of radii to the centre. Now, the
mother's heat is the source which supplies power
to the embryo. In both these instances—in the
metal coil of wire and in the living disk—the force
is in the form of heat. In both there is a primary
concentric arrangement of matter for the trans-
mission of this force ; and in both there is the evi-
dence of a second circular force at right angles to
the first. If, instead of the arrangement of the gal-
vanic wire as a flat spiral coin, the rings are
arranged side by side, as a spiral tube or helia, then
the second or magnetic force would be through its
axis. It would be a tube which, if placed in
water, would carry one pole of a magnetic needle,
floated on cork, through it; and iron filings would
arrange themselves in a circular line going through
the helix, round on the outside, returning into itself
-(Faraday.) The spiral galvanic force here pro-
duces the current through the tube. The converse
would be true. It was then shown how these laws
were applicable to the formation of vessels. Blood
is first formed ; and when it circulates a tube is
formed around it. The current of blood indicates a
force through the axis of the tube ; the tube itself
indicates a circumferential force around the current
to arrange its materials as a tube. The tubes are
arranged circularly, meeting at the heart in the
ºntre, and at the capillaries in the circumference.
The living tube, if it followed electro-magnetic
laws, would have (like the spiral coil of wire
through which the galvanic force was circulating) a
circular force through its axis; and, conversely,
this current would tend to form a tube around itself
—supposing always appropriate materials. . .The
vital force has evidently appropriate materials, in
the form of cells. Those cells, which exposed to
oxygen become converted into red globules, are
moved in a current; thus showing that they are fit
matter for the influence of vital force in one direc-
tion, and that such a force is moving them —
whereas the smaller and transparent cells are
arranged round the current as a tube; thus show-
ing a second force at work around the first. There
is a current in one direction, and a tube around it;
neither tube nor current can be explained without
the assumption of a moving power: , both are
readily explained by two circular forces having the
same relation to each other as the electro-magnetic.
The cells out of which the disk and vessels are
built have been regarded so far as under the influ-
ence of forces external to them. But each cell has
a life and force of its own, similar in kind to the
central force, but less in degree. The central force
subordinates all lesser forces, and makes the disk.
one. Entomologists have shown that the earliest
35S
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
appearance of organization in the ovules of plants and
ová of animals is a cell, and that such cell has a
nucleus, and each nucleus a nucleolus, or central
spot—which is the essential part of each cell—and,
though, destitute of matter, has the power of form-
ing cells, and arranging them round it. Dr. Barry
has shown that each secondary cell becomes, in its
turn, the centre of a similar action; smaller ones,
being generated and arranged round the larger
ones. Professor Goodsir finds that the inner mem-
brane of the tubes of glands is formed of cells, and
that nucleated cells are found among them, which
he calls centres of nutrition, as if these nucleated
cells were the parents of successive broods of
young cells passing off from them. These centres
of nutrition are here called centres of force ; and,
according to the law of this force, there would be a
common centre, bringing all these isolated centres
into one comprehensive whole. The vascular disc
of the yolk-bag had been taken as a central fact,
the right comprehension of which would explain
other facts of the same kind, but more complex.
Its application to some few facts in physiology was
then shown :-such as the formation of new blood-
vessels; the tubular form of vessels and of ducts
among cells; of circulation through capillaries, in-
dependently of the contraction of their coats, or of
the propulsive power of the heart; and of that uni-
versal fact that, wherever there is a central heart,
there are powers at work, which neither its propul-
sive power nor capilliary action can explain, of
forming new vessels in connection with the old
ones. Such a universal fact becomes a law, when
the cause is shown. This cause or law, now pro-
posed as the solution of these living processes, is,
that the vital force circulating in two directions,
one circle being in a plane at right angles to the
other—thus identical in direction with the electro-
magnetic force—will explain the phenomena. Or,
in other words, that wherever there is a central
moving force there is a power at work around and
to and from that centre, capable of arranging fit
matter as tubes, and of circulating fluid to a certain
extent through them, and that the tubular formation
is owing to a vital power identical in its direction
with the galvanic ; and the radiated arrangement
of these vessels, and the circulation (to a cer-
tain extent) of fluid through them, are dependent
on a power accompanying the former, and identical
in its direction with the magnetic force. The
conclusion was not drawn that the vital and elec-
tro-magnetic forces were the same, but that the
direction and relation of both forces were identical.
Sir J. Herschel said, as the authors had placed
before the sections their opinions of the origin of
muscular contractions and motions, he would also
mention an opinion of his own, merely in the form
of a guess for future consideration. There were
three things to be noted in the entire phenomenon;
—the first was mental, viz., the determination of
the will; the second was an effort, the existence
of which became manifest by the consequent weari-
ness; the third was the force which resulted and
manifested itself in the effect produced. . Now,
here it appeared that a link was wanting between
the second and third; and to supply that link was
the object of the present inquiries. . The idea he
wished to throw out was, that the individual por-
tions of muscular fibre might consist of somethin
like spheroids inclosed in outer coverings; an
that, in the quiescent state of the muscle, these
... spheroids might all lie with their major axes or
longer dimensions along the length of the muscle,
and then by an excitation of electric cur.
around them, caused by the will and conse.
effort either circulating through the surroundi.
sues or suitable nerves, a reversal of polarity"; d
cause these spheroids to reverse their maj9* *.
minor axes, and thus cause the entire muscle"
swell out at right angles to its previous leng" ful
Dr. Carpenter stated that by the aid of powº, e-
; microscopes it was easy to see, in a properly p: 6
pared muscle, that its several distinct fibres .
divided into oblong cells. In the act of musº €ſ
|ºntraction these cells contracted in their off.
dimensions, and were thus forced to swell out
their shorter.
“Account of some new Experiments in Ele.
Magnetism,” by Prof. Wartmann.—Since the di
covery made last year by Dr. Faraday of the *
of magnets upon polarized light passing thrº.
idifferent media, it became interesting to ascer".
whether this influence is limited to the rotation "
the plane of polarization of the ray. Nume.
experiments have shown that no change whateve
is undergone by the fixed lines of the spect.
either in position, or in quantity, or visibility, Y. le
they are produced by rays of natural or artiñº.
light, common or polarized, which have been mº
to go through different substances—such as air
nitrous acid gas, water, alcohol, oil of turpentinº.
syrup of sugar, a solution of ferruginous alum, f
a long prism of flint glass—put in the spher? "
action of powerful electro-magnets. As far as t *
researches have been brought, they lead to the coſ)
clusion that neither light nor the medium suſ. f
any constitutional derangement which could alte
the property of the ray to be partially alsº
when it is refracted through a prism. The *
generally entertained by foreign philosophers * h6
the real action of the magnet being one upo." .
material substance which gives way to the º 8
nous ray, it became necessary to test whether t Iſl
new magnetical state of molecular equilib.
would not be concordant with some new propºſ | Il
of chemical affinity. Indeed, it has long ago º
asserted by Ritter, Fresnel, Hansteen, Murch. y
Lodecke, Murray, and others, and more rº.
by Mr. Hunt, that the magnets have a *.
influence upon chemical phenomena. I have *.
advantage of powerful electro-magnets, which.”
put in action by sixty pairs of Bansen's battery.
make some fresh trials upon the subject, convº.
that such means would afford me an opportunº aſl
witnessing, if any, far more decisive actions," y
those which have been described. But all "
attempts have proved unsuccessful to produce 3.
difference in the electrolysis of acidulated watº:
ferruginous dissolutions, or in the electro-che”. at6
decomposition of sulphate of copper, or of acet eſ!
of lead by soft iron. All the results have be •
carefully and repeatedly tested by accurate wº.
ings; and in the case of the electrolysis o wa
I employed electrodes of soft iron, gilt by cle".
process and supported by the very poles ... is
magnets, with the interposition of a film of "...i
thin as possible. The apparatus has been P *II1;
in all directions relative to terrestrial magn". &
and the poles of artificial magnets have been ".
to act both separately and together, with9"
different result whatever. But in expressing
my opinion I must add, that I mean not to sº.
magnetism is not able to interfere with .
disposition, which is a quite different view i. dis-
subject, that has not, perhaps, been sufficiº 'i. Yê
tinguished by the former one. Indeed, W*
i0ſ.
sixteenth MEETING OF THE BRITISH, Association. 359
*mple ov
§§umstances. These experimental inquiries have
Q Ine to ascertain two facts, which it may, per-
j not be improper to state here. If a chemical
() . is produced by the immersion of two pieces
hº t iron into a liquid which is able to corrode
poles' ºf to be decomposed by the metal, and if the
Q * ºf a magnet be applied upon these cores, an
W. gºeic rotation takes place all round each,
! is in the sense of the hypothetic current of
"Père-Prof. Grove has just pointed out to me that
i.ºn action had been stated by Dr. Christie,
*gh, as far as I know, it has been referred to by
Se ºatise on electro-magnetism, and that he him-
The *d witnessed the phenomenon many times.
sing ºther fact seems to be of a higher interest,
be i. discloses, as it were, to the eye what may
º led the lines of chemical affinities. I shall
i...ºntent myself by merely describing what I
sº. been able to witness, and to show to many
3. men—reserving for a future occasion to
the º: this communication, and to dwell upon
phat eºretical part of the subject. Common sul-
r tº. copper is to be dissolved in water, and a
$0On ºr of soft iron shall be deposited in it. . As
it is as the first deposit of copper has taken place,
fi...y to perceive all round the cylinder light
Selve ºf a blue matter, which are extending them-
ci. as diverging rays from the very centre of the
Cent er, which may be thought to represent the
i. of the chemical action. I suppose this sub-
QS § to be a subsulphate of copper, and Prof. K.
...s of the same opinion; but from want of time
sjºity of matter I have not yet been able to
Proc º, it to analysis. During its manifestations
War £eding, the nature of the liquid is always
CO .g. sulphate of iron taking the room of a
sponding quantity of sulphate of copper.
jº this change has reached a certain extent, he
to a ºnon ceases to widen more. It is then like
mi.;; passion-ſlower, with slender stamina, ter-
of i. by a continuous circular and opaque edge
§eth º antherae. Its description, which is alto:
i.". Independent of the nature and the form of
Wessel, is very geometrical. After half, an
by i. more or less, this extraordinary design fades,
trou . depºsition of the matter at the bottom of the
ato * When two cylinders are used in the same
ºther two of the rays meet, perpendicularly, each
tres * On the line of shortest distance of the cen-
%iºn thers join in direction more and mºre
ºf ch º, and, being totally deprived of the faculty
the .ng their relative dominions, they inguiſe
j Yes in hyperbolic arches. Thusa perfectly
- the i * line is formed, which cuts into two halves
$ºry º of shortest interval. It is scarcely neces-
Othe 9 add, that the rays which are not to meet
thre * extend as in the first case described. With
ejºntres situated at the summit of an equilat-
ot.' Angle, the lines of separation intersect each
* a point, which is at equal distance from the
side...and thence run perpendicular to three
in ..." the triangle. The diverging ray; opposite
of t º irections, are much inflected. The whole
not. Bure is perfectly regular. These rays are
tion.*ted in their development by the magnetiza-
the cylinders;—at least, if one observation
If i. .* this point suffices for pronouncing upon it.
liſt. are, but two cylinders, and if they are
hº in the liquid by means of an appropriate
slow."ºmagnet, it is possible to move them very
of t; Without any disturbance of the whole
figure—and particularly without the least
idence that this is the case under favorable incurvature of the line of separation, which fol.
lows the cylinders backwards and forwards, as
if firmly tied together. But a shock loosens all
those particles geometrically adherent: they fall
down and all design vanishes. º
“On the Deviation of Falling Bodies from the
Perpendicular,” by Prof. Oersted.—I shall give a
short history of these experiments, as far as this
can be done by memory without any assistance of
books. The first experiments of merit were made,
I think, in 1793, by Prof. Guglielmini. He made
bodies fall from a height of 231 feet. As the earth
rotates from west to east, each point in or upon her
describes an arc proportioned to its distance from
the axis; and, therefore, the falling body has, from
the beginning of the fall, a greater tendency to-
wards east than the point of the surface which lies
perpendicularly below it. Thus, it must strike a
point lying somewhat easterly to the perpendicular.
Still, the difference is so small, that great heights
are necessary for giving only a deviation of some
tenth parts of an inch. The experiments of Gug-
lielmini gave indeed such a deviation ; but at the
same time they gave a deviation to the south,
which was not in concordance with the mathemati-
cal calculations. Laplace objected to these exper-
iments, that the author had not immediately verified
his perpendicular, but only some months afterwards.
In the beginning of this century, Dr. Benzenberg
undertook new experiments, from a height of about
240 feet. The book in which he describes his ex-
periments contains, in an appendix, researches and
illustrations upon the subject from Gauss and Ol-
bers; to which several abstracts of older researches
are added. The paper of Gauss is ill printed, and
therefore difficult to read ; but the result is, that
the experiments of Benzenberg should give a devia-
tion of 395 French lines. The mean of his exper-
iments gave 399; but they gave a still greater
deviation to the south. Though the experiments
here quoted seem to be highly satisfactory in point
of the eastern deviation, I cannot consider them to
be so in truth; for it is but right to state that these
experiments have considerable discrepancies among
themselves, and that their mean, therefore, cannot
be of great value. In some other experiments
made afterwards in a deep pit, Dr. Benzenberg ob-
tained only the easterly deviation; but they seem
not to deserve more confidence. Greater faith is
to be placed in the experiments tried by Prof.
Reich in a pit of 504 feet, at Freiberg. Here the
easterly deviation was also found in good agree-
ment with the calculated result; but a considerable
southern deviation was observed. I am not sure
that I remember the numbers obtained ; but I must
state that they, though not in the same degree as
those of Dr. Benzenberg, were means of experi-
ments which differed much among themselves. Prof.
Reich has published his researches. An ºbstract
is to be found in Poggendorff's Annalen de Physie.
After all this, there can be no doubt that Qur knowl-
edge upon this subject is imperfect, and that new
experiments are to be desired; but these are so ex-
pensive, that it is not probable that they would be
performed with all means necessary to their perfec-
tion without the concurrence of the British Associ-
ation. I will here state the reasons which seem to
recommend such an undertaking. 1. The art of
measurement has made great progress in later
times, and is here exercised in groat perfection. 2.
All kinds of workmanship can be obtained here in
the highest perfection. I think it would not be ,
impossible to have an air-tight cylinder, of some
360 SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH Association.
hundred feet, high, made for the purpose. This
would, indeed, be expensive, but it would present
this advantage—that the experiments could be
made in a vacuum and in different gases. 3. With
these experiments, others could be connected upon
the celerity of the fall, and the resistance opposed
to it by the air, and by gases. Prof. Wheatstone's
method for measuring the time would here be of
great use. 4. If the southern deviation should be
confirmed, experiments could be undertaken, in
order to discover in how far this could be effected
by magnetism in motion. For this purpose bulbs
of different metals might be tried. Very mov-
able magnetical needles, well sheltered, but
placed sufficiently near to the path of the falling
bodies, would indicate magnetical effects induced
in them.
Sir J. Herschel said, that from a conversation
with M. Oersted he had been inclined to think that
the deviation of falling bodies towards the south in
these northern latitudes—which was an observed
tfact, although hitherto unaccounted for—might
tieceive an explanation from the circumstance that
selectrical currents were known to be in circulation
tround the earth in the direction of parallels of lati-
tude; and as a current is always excited in a body
tnoving across such a current, these would give
rise to a mutual repulsion, causing the deflection
towards the south. But inasmuch as their action
would be but momentary were the velocity con-
stant, and is developed in proportion to the variation
of the velocity, hence, since the velocity increases
uniformly with the time, a uniformly-acting force
is the result ; and the total deviation, therefore, to-
wards the south would be in the proportion of the
height from which the body descended, since it is
easy to see that its entire course would be rectilin-
ear. This fact, therefore, which could readily be
determined by well conducted observations, would
be a decisive test of the soundness of the opinion ;
and this was the chief object which M. Oersted had
in view. From a conversation, however, which he
since had with Mr. Grove, he was inclined to be
more doubtful of this explanation. Mr. Grove
said, that inasmuch as a falling body was moving
between electrical currents, placed both north and
south of its line of fall, in his opinion the effect of
the one would counterbalance that of the other, so
ns together to produce no effect.—M. Oersted said
that his present object was merely to induce com-
petent persons to undertake well-directed experi-
ments for ascertaining whether there truly was a
southerly deviation of falling bodies or not.
“On the Results of an extensive series of Mag-
netic Investigation, including most ºf the known
varieties of Šteel,” by W. Petrie-The following
is an abstract :—
Process of manufacture to produce permanent
magnets, having the greatest . firity, and capacity
conjointly sccured.—1. The original iron should be
the purcst soft iron, charcoal made, (not coke;) the
Swedish, from the Dunnamore mine, is better than
any other. 2. Converted—with pure charcoal; it
should be carbonized lightly, and the Process to be
stopped when the bars, of the usual thickness, are
“scarcely steel through,” yet so that it will harden
with certainty, without an undue heat. 3. Sorted
—with attention to homogeneous conversion; &c.,
according to the ordinary rules. . 4. Melted—the
pot kept covered, and not longer than necessary in
fusion. 5. Cast—into a large ingot, so as to allow
* of its being well rolled out singly, before it becomes
* reduccd to the requisite thinness. 6. Rolled-
while hot from casting, to save a second herº.
it should not be doubled over, nor sheared an .
oted; the rolling should be conducted at tº º
a temperature as convenient, as it thereby acº" Il
a harder, closer texture, and finer grain. of
cutting into shape, the substance (if large,9. g
varied form) should not be strained, as by º
with “rymers,” or straitening (oftener than * ll
avoidable) with the hammer, as it is then "P kS
warp, and to have unseen commencements of *.
on becoming subsequently hardened. Morº .
bonization than that previously described as best
of little injury to the magnetic goodness 9
steel, provided it be so prepared as to preser.
homogeneous and white appearance of frº
when hardened, which is not so casily manage
with that of lower carbonization ; but if it be aga
carbonized more than usual, (as razor steel, or * O
that,) it rather improves; and again an in.
deteriorates it as in cast iron, and a further increa.
again improves it. In short, in the scale of " º
ization there is a succession of continually decre”
marima of advantage. ic Coſì"
“On the Mode of Developing the Magnetic
dition,” by Dr. Scoresby. 3.
“On a New Portable Equatoreal Stand for
Telescope,” by Dr. Green. * by
“On a New Portable Azimuth Compass, t
Mr. Dent.—Mr. Dent exhibited this instrum.
The magnetic needle was suspended in an i.
case, and that again fitted in an outer case in sº
a manner as to admit of having either its *.
reversed so as to eliminate errors of centering
its faces reversed so as to eliminate the errº”
culmination. ſode
“On a New Dark Eye-piece, and a new, M º
of Contracting the Aperture of the Object Glas 0ſ.
of Telescopes,” by Mr. Lawson.—Mr. Lº.
described the several failures which he had esſ.
enced while endeavoring to protect the eye **t
the violent action of the sun's light and heat. ...he
length he succeeded, by prolonging the eye f the
beyond the glasses, and placing in the side 9 re
prolongation a slit capable of iº. the colº.
plate glasses to be introduced or withdrawſ” that
this position being assigned to them, he found hile
they answered the end required effectually herº
they were themselves placed in a position " hé
the concentration of the heat and light upon .
could not, in the slightest degree, injure...ed
He described several spots which he had gº.
on the sun's disk last spring. His method ‘iding
tracting the aperture was by an outer tube * *
on the eye-piece tube, something like the i.
tube of a common telescope. This, by
drawn out into the tube, more or less, will sº Oſſ!
more or less of the cone of rays proceeding
the object glass to the eye-piece. A. F.
“On a new Multiplying Condenser,” by *
Svanberg. Rew ;
“On the Meteorological Observations a egis’
with an Account of the Photographic Self-r
tering Apparatus,” by Mr. F. Ronalds.
in
*
Section B.-Chemistny And Misera”
MONDAY.
Oſ!
“ON Comparative Analytical Resea...can
Sea Water,” by Prof. Forchhammer.—In "...y
between Europe and America the greates... ſº
of saline matter is found in the tropical ** 0 'sea
from any land; in such places 1,000 *...ality
water contain 36.6 parts of salt. This 3
Sixteenth MEETING OF THE BRITish Associatios.
361
ºminishes in approaching the coast, on account of
i.e. of fresh water which the rivers throw
€rn the sea: it diminishes, likewise, in the west-
i º part of the gulf stream, where I only found
º • 359 in 1,000 parts of water. By the evap-
tit ion of the water of this warm current, its quan-
*: 9f saline matter increases towards the east, and
.*hes, in N lat. 39°39' and N. long. 55° 16',
former height of 36.5. From thence it de-
*ses slowly towards the north-east; and sea
. at a distance of from sixty to eighty miles
§§ the western shores of England, contains only
i. 7 parts of solid substances; and the same quan-
. salt is found all over the north-eastern part
e Atlantic, as far to the north as Iceland, always
Such a distance from the land that the influence
"...ºresh water is avoided. From numerous obser-
. made on the shores of Iceland and the Faroe
.ds, it is evident that the water of the Gulf
*am spreads over this part of the Atlantic Ocean;
ººld thus we see that the water of tropical cur-
i.will keep its character even in high northern
*tudes. In the longitude of Greenland, and more
* 100 miles to the south of the southernmost
ºt of that large tract of land, sea water contains
. 35-0 in 1,000 parts. In going from this point
. the north-west, it decreases constantly; and
É.ºer Straits, at a distance of about forty miles
ºn the land, it only contains 32-5 parts of salt in
"90 parts of sea water. This character seems to
jºin in the current which runs parallel to the
!9tes of North America; and at N. lat. 433° and
long. 464° the sea water contained only 33.8
Pºrts of salt. Thus tropical and polar currents seem
. only to be different in respect to their tempera-
*e, but also in the quantity of salt which they
ºntain; and thence it follows, again, that while
the quantity of water carried away from the tropical
y evaporation is greater than that which rain
. the rivers give back to that sea, the reverse
ºkes place in the polar seas, where evaporation is
§y small and the condensation of vapor very great.
9 circulation must on that account be such, that
ºt of the vapor which rises in tropical zones will
*Sondensed in polar regions, and, in the form of
ºr currents, flow back again to warmer climates.
th though my analyses are only made on water from
"Scean between Europe and America, yet little
ºt can be entertained that also that part of the
**ºn which separates America from Asia is in a
ºilar condition; and that currents flowing from
i. Poles are the rule, and currents flowing towards
re: poles the exception. Besides the southerly di-
.*, which any current flowing from the north-
... Polar regions must take, it will, according to
§ll-known physical laws depending upon the rotº-
ºn of the earth, always take a direction towards
18 west, and thus be driven towards the CàStern
*ºs of the continents; while any tropical Current
"Wing towards the north will, according to the
2 laws of rotation, take a direction towards the
jºin shores of the continents. This is at pres-
... case in the Atlantic Ocean; and is effects
. the shores of Europe, which by a branch of a
ºpical current are surrounded by warm water,
Cre
§ Hºe a mild and moist climate. The water of
**ifferent seas is much more uniform in its com-
Pºsition than is generally believed. In that respect
analyses agree with the newer analyses of at-
..phºic air in showing that the differences are
* Slight indeed. Sea water may contain more
i. ss salt—from a very small quantity, as in the
ºlor part of the Baltic, to an amount of 37.1
Cxxxii. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI. 23
parts in 1,000 parts, which I found in water from
Malta, and which is the greatest quantity I ever ob-
served ; but the relative proportion of its constituent
saline parts changes very little. In order to get rid
of those differences which might arise from the dif.
ferent quantity of saline matter in sea water, I have
compared sulphuric acid and lime with chlorine, and
the following results are the mean of many anal-
yses:—In the Atlantic, the proportion between
chlorine and sulphuric acid is 10,000 to 1,188; this
is the mean of twenty analyses, which differ very
little from each other. In the sea between the
Faroe Islands, Iceland, and Greenland, the same
proportion, according to the mean of seventeen anal-
yses, is 10,000 to 1,193. In the German Ocean,
according to ten analyses, it is 10,000 to 1,191.
In Davis’ Straits, according to the mean of five
analyses, it is 10,000 to 1,220. In the IXattegat,
according to the mean of four analyses 10,000 to
1,240.-Thus it appears that the proportion of sul-
phuric acid increases near the shores; a fact which
evidently depends upon the rivers carrying sulphate
of lime into the sea. The proportion between chlo-
rine and lime in the Atlantic Ocean, according to the
mean result of seventeen analyses, is 10,000 to 297;
and in the sea between . and Greenland,
according to the mean of eighteen analyses, 10,000 to
300. Lime is rather rare in the sea around the West
Indian Islands, where millions of coralline animals
constantly absorb it—the proportion, according to
five analyses, being 10,000 to 247; and it is rather
copious in the Kattegat, where the numerous rivers
of the Baltic carry a great quantity of it into the
ocean. The proportion is there, according to four
analyses, 10,000 to 371.
“On the Changes which Mercury sometimes suſ.
fers in Glass Vessels hermetically sealed,” by Prof.
Oèrsted.—It has been frequently noticed that mer-
cury inclosed in glass tubes, even when those tubes
were hermetically sealed, undergoes a remarkable
change. It first becomes covered by a thin film of
a yellow color, which adheres to the glass, and
becomes eventually nearly black. This has been
attributed to oxidation; but the oxidation which
would arise from the exceedingly small quantity of
atmospheric air which could be contained within the
bulbs exhibited by Prof. Oèrsted was too small to
account for the formation of such a quantity of dark
and yellow powder as many of them exhibited.
Prof. Oérsted referred the change on the mercury,
to the action of that metal on the glass of which the
bulb was formed. It appears that sulphate of soda
is frequently employed in the manufacture of glass;
and it is thought that a sulphuret of mercury is
formed by the decomposition of the glass, itself.
This is not, however, proved; and it has only been
brought forward that attention might be directed to
a subject which appeared to involve some remark-
able conditions.
Mr. Hunt observed that if glass was exposed to
the influence of the solar rays, a molecular change
was induced on the surface; and that if the glass
was exposed to mercurial vapor, and then, with the
vapor upon it, set aside for a few days, the mercury
entered into combination with the glass, and left a
permanent stain upon it.-Mr. Pearsali remarked
on the condition in which glass apparatus is fre-
quently found, from the influence of mercury
upon it.
“On a Second New Metal, Pelopium, contained
in the Bavarian Tantalite,” by Prof. H. Rosé.-In
a former communication it had been shown that the
so-called Tantalic acid which occurs in the Boden-
362
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
maia in Bavaria, consisted of two acids—one of
which differed materially from all known acids.
To this, Prof. Rosé gave the name of Niobium, re-
garding it as a new metallic oxide. After a most
elaborate investigation, Prof. Rosé has ſound that
the other acid contains another oxide of a metal
differing from Niobium, and to this metal he has
given the name of Pelopium from Pelops, the son
of Tantalus, and the brother of Niobe. The Tan-
talite of Bavaria is, therefore, now shown to contain
three metals—Tantalite, Niobium, and Pelopium.
These diſſer from each other in specific gravity, and
they exhibit different and peculiar chemical prop-
€rtléS.
“On Crystallography and a New Goniometer,”
by Dr. Leeson.
“Analysis of The American Mineral Nema-
lite,” by Prof. Connell.—This mineral bears a
striking resemblance to asbestos, so that by the eye
it can hardly be distinguished from it. It was first
chemically examined by Mr. Nuttal, who ascertain-
ed that it differs entirely in constitution from asbes-
tos; and concluded, from his experiments, that it
consists essentially of magnesia and water, with a
little oxide of iron and lime. It was subsequently
examined by Dr. Thompson, according to whom it
also contains 124 per cent. of silica. The constitu-
ents found by the latter were—
Magnesia, . . . 51-721
Silica, . . . . . 12:568
Peroxide of Iron, . 5-874
Water, . . . . 29-666
99.529
The result which I have obtained differs somewhat
from both the preceding. According to both the
previous experimenters the mineral is soluble in
acids without effervescence. But I have found that
even perfectly fresh portions of the specimens which
I have of the mineral from Hoboken, in America,
sensibly eſſervesce when dissolved in acids, showing
some carbonic acid to be contained in it. I have
also found only a very minute quantity of silica, the
mineral leaving scarcely any residue when dis-
solved. The amount of water was determined by
ascertaining the quantity of water collected by igni-
tion in a tube of German glass twice bent, and con-
taining at one end fused chloride of calcium. The
carbonic acid was estimated by the loss of weight
on treating a portion of the mineral with dilute acid,
in a little bottle connected with a tube containing
chloride of calcium. The solid constituents were
determined by ordinary methods. The result was—
in 100 parts—
Magnesia, . . . . . . 57.86
Protoxide of Iron, . . . . 284
Silica, . . . . . . . . . 0-80
Water. . . . . . . . . 27.96
Carbonic Acid, . . . . . 10.
99°46
Considering the protoxide of iron to replace a little
magnesia, the mineral appears to be a combination
of hydrate of magnesia and hydrated carbonate of
magnesia. The formula
5 MgO. HO-H-MgO, CO, HO
will nearly express its constitution, and gives-
Magnesia, . . . 61-67
Water, . . . . . . . . . . 27-24
Carbonic Acid, . . . . 11'09
100.
The native hydrated carbonate of zinc (=inlilitº
is a mineral of analogous constitution. 0-
“On Cavendish's Experiment respecting Re; f
duction of Nitric Acid,” by Dr. Daubenyº. s
Daubeny stated the result of some experim. eſ
had instituted with the view of ascertaining whº
the production of nitric acid by electricity: * `
first effected by Cavendish, really arose from t 0-
direct union of oxygen with nitrogen, or was pſ
duced indirectly through the presence of m.
portions of ammonia. For this purpose he depº.
the air, through which the electrical sparks wº.
be passed, of water and of any traces of amº
that might have been contained in it, by allow.
to stand in contact with concentrated sulphur,” *.
for some time previous to the commencement of' ir
experiment. É. in this case, although the .
had been in contact with no liquid except the *.
cury over which it was confined, the usual di.
tion of volume took place after the electrical i.
had been passed through it, and solution o kitſ, d-
when introduced into the tube became sensibly *
dened. Hence the author infers, that nitrogen .
combine directly with oxygen, as it is now kº.
to do with carbon; but he still questions wheth.
can do so with gaseous hydrogen, since ammon"
cannot be formed, as nitric acid is, by means i.
electricity, and as in all the cases in which ammº".
has been produced artificially one of the elemeſ
appears to have existed in what is called a nas*
state. But if nitrogen can be made to combinº
rectly with oxygen, how comes it that, through ;
operation of thunderstorms, the composition of thſ!
whole atmosphere has not before this time i.
changed by the production in it of conside.
quantities of nitric acid 1 This the author expº.
by the small amount of heat generated by the ".
of the two gases; owing to which only those }.
ticles combine which lie contiguous to the line of f at
electrical spark: whereas, in other cases, as in th
of the union of oxygen with hydrogen, so .
heat is generated by the union of those parº al
which are affected by the passage of the elecº. €
spark, that a condensation of other portions of f
mixture results, whence will arise an unio" º
more of the particles and an extraction of a lº.
amount of heat. In this way the explosion R. %
gates itself through all parts of the mixture wº"
rapidity which causes it to be considered by *: h
instantaneous. In all cases, however, in W.
gaseous elements that can remain together with%
acting upon cach other are made to unite, the *
operandi, whether it be by electricity, heat, 9. i!
in the case of porous bodies) by adhesive aſſiml !!
appears to be the same; that is, such a condº. if
tion of the respective gases as shall brin .
particles within the sphere of their mutua affi
ity.
Report “On Crystalline Slags,” by Dr. P gº
and Prof. Miller.—The formation of crystals of º
markable regularity and beauty in the slags of th9
iron furnaces, and also in the slags from the tº
smelting, has long excited curiosity; but, un".
present time, no attempt has been made to a.
for their production, under the singular ciº.
stances in which they are formed—often º' th9
highest temperature of the iron furnaces. A. Cr-
York Meeting, Dr. Percy and Prof. Miller . 0°
took to investigate this matter. The gº. £I
graphic department has rested with Prof. Mi dci
and the chemical cxamination has bc.cn conſi
to Dr. Percy. At this meeting, many slags .
exhibited, of which the analyses were given—and 3.15
sº
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
363
iº will all appear in the “ Transactions” of
... sociation. The important bearing of this
$ºry on geological phenomena was strikingly
Pºinted out. By it a clue may be obtained to many
jº curious crystalline formations which have
* points of dispute amongst the most eminent
...ators of geological science. These crystals are
"ºd, many of them, to be quite analogous to nat-
§ crystals—and they have, in both cases prob-
W, been formed alike under the influence of in-
"sº heat. The report is not complete; and it is
. intention of the authors to extend the inquiry
"ch further than they have yet been enabled to
slao They solicit from the manufacturer crystalline
..ºf examination; and it is their intention to
C “mine the amount of impurities a crystal may
°ºin without losing its native character. t
B On the Electricity of Tension in the Voltaic
*tery,” by J. P. Gassiot.
MONDAY.
SEction C.—GEology.
Prof. Forchhammer read a paper “On Sea Wa-
. and its difference in various Currents,” and
r led to show what influence a change in such cur-
ºn's might have had upon the climate of the north
§ Europe; since, from the inquiries of Prof.
"enstrup and Lovén respecting the changes in
i * forest trees and marine animals indicated a slow
#ºrease of the mean temperature of northern Europe.
° account for this, he supposed the British Channel
§ have been closed, and a polar current to pass over
*lower part of northern Russia into the Bothnian
ulf, and thence into the German Ocean. The
*Paration of England from France was supposed to
have taken place in recent times; and without
§lloting the zoological evidence collected by British
*turalists, he would refer to physical features-
"ch as the various changes which the Rhine and
!he Scheidt suffer at their months, and which even
* Smallest rivulet on the western shore of the
"mbrian Peninsula assumes. These rivers turn
°ir mouths towards that side from which the tide
...-one having, in historical times, changed its
"ºuth more than thirty miles to the south. The
"ºuth of the Rhine has been known for about 2000
#.; and since the time of the Romans, when it
ºwed straight towards the north, where at present
...” Luiderrea is, it has been seen constantly turning
"Wards the west. From this change, he inferred
°hange in the direction of the tide—which he sup-
"ses to have arrived formerly at the coast of Hol-
"d from the north, instead of from the west, as at
Pºsent. The marshes on the southern and eastern
"es of the German ocean become broader in pro-
l'ºrtion as they approach the mouth of the present
ºannel. a circumstance the very reverse of what
light have been expected under present circum-
i.e., since the clay is never deposited when
ºre is any considerabic motion in the water. On
Sontrary, if the channel were shut up, then the
. locality of the marshes would be that best
*pted for their formation: from which he infers
* the principal marshes were formed before the
Pºning of the channel. The earliest accounts of
tle channel date from the fourth century, B. C., and
.. time of Alexander the Great, we find that
CO S about a very great inundation in the northern
"tries (the Cimbrian flood) had reached Greece;
* tradition still existing in Jutland combines
()
the measures and angles of the crystals. These such a flood with the opening of the channel
| Along all the western part of the Cimbrian Penin-
sula occurs a bed of pebbles, and in some places of
rolled pieces of the clay of the marshes, which must
be ascribed to an inundation washing away the lighter
materials. This inundation the author regards as
that of which both history and tradition speak ; and
he thinks it was occasioned by the first opening of
the channel. These changes were in close con-
nexion with a depression of the greater part of
northern and western Europe; which is indicated
along the coasts of Denmark and England by sub-
merged forests and peat-mosses. . At the shores of
the Dukedom of Sleswig a tumulus has been found
in a submerged forest; it contained knives of flint,
and shows that the subsidence took place after the
country was inhabited. The continuous elevation
of the North of Europe would lead to this result—
that the White Sea, in times not far remote, would
flow over the lower parts of Russia and Finland,
bringing cold water and masses of ice, into the
German Ocean, then a bay receiving its waters also
round the northern coast of Scotland, which must
have materially influenced its climate, making it
colder than it is now.
Sir H. De La Beche contended that the separa-
tion of England from the continent had not been a
violent movement; but one brought about by
causes operating during a long period of time;
breakers must have been chiefly instrumental in re-
moving the materials which once filled up the
channel.--Dr. Buckland also doubted whether the
separation of the Straits of Dover had taken place
within the historic period.—Mr. Lyell stated that
there had been several oscillations of level since the
present chalk cliffs existed, which must have been
considerable, since it allowed of the formation of
the Elephant bed at the base of the cliffs at Brigh-
ton ; in which the remains of that animal were im-
bedded together with those of whales. He consid-
ered the period of separation from the continent not
historical, but indefinitely remote.—Mr. Forbes
remarked that Prof. Forchhammer seemed to have
confused the deposits of several distinct periods.
In many parts of this country and in Ireland there
were beds of sand and clay containing shells of
molluscous animals mostly now inhabiting our seas,
but very inferior in number to those now living,
and equivalent to the group now found on the coast
of Librador. Above these were the submerged
forest, and higher still another series-such as had
been discovered in the basin of the Clyde, contain-
ing an asemblage of fossils, all recent; and many
of them eminently characteristic of the present cli-
Iſlate.
“Sketch of the Geological Structure of Austra-
lia,” by J. B. Jukes.
immº-wº"
Section D.—Zoology AND Botany.
“On the Vertebrate Structure of the Skull,” by
Prof. Owen. …”
*
Sun-Section E.-EtiiNology.
Mr. Jukes read a brief notice. “On the Aborigi-
nes of Newfoundland.”—His information on this
race he stated to be derived from Mr. Peyton, who
possessed, of all men nºw living, the best opportu-
nities of personal knowledge of them. According
to Mr. Peyton's opinion, the red men of Newfound.
land were the same race as the Red Indians of
North America; and they were certainly not at all
allied to the Esquimaux race, whom they held in
the greatest abhorrence, while on the contrary they
364
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
carried on a friendly intercourse with the Indians
on the coast of Labrador, to whom the last rem-
nants of the race have passed over, and they, prob-
ably, are incorporated with them.
Dr. Latham offered a few remarks on a New-
foundland Vocabulary.—He stated that the philo-
logical evidence corroborates the opinion advanced
by Mr. Jukes, the vocabulary having a strong affin-
ity to that of the Red Indians, and being quite dif.
ferent from that of the Esquimaux.--Dr. King
stated that he had held the contrary opinion, and
from historical evidence, going as far back as the
period of Sebastian Cabot, he had come to the con-
clusion that they were really an Esquimaux tribe :
nor did he think the evidence now adduced suffi-
cient to alter his former opinion.
Mr. Jukes read a paper “On the Varieties of the
Human Race in the Neighborhood of Torres
Straits.”—The author stated that in the years 1843,
4, 5, he had visited Australia, Java, Malacca,
Singapore, the islands of Torres Straits, and the
coast of New Guinea; he was much struck with
the differences in the races of men inhabiting those
countries; he divided them into three distinct peo-
le: 1st. The Malay races; 2d. The Papuan ; 3d.
The Australian. The first race is characterized by
physical, social, and intellectual superiority over
the others; being, in many places, a handsome,
well-formed people, with considerably advanced in-
stitutions, navigators, and agriculturists. The
second or Papuan races are decidedly inferior, in
person, institutions, and arts, although they are
much superior to the Australians, who are charac-
terized by the lankiness of their lower extremities;
their hips, thighs and calves being remarkably
straight and slender, with prominent eye-brows and
thick lips, and their social and intellectual condition
appearing to be the very lowest. The characters
and habits of the three races were described in de-
tail and contrasted.
Section F.—StAtistics.
The secretary read a paper, contributed by Dr.
Guy, “On the Duration of Life in the Members of
the several Professions, founded on the Obituary
Lists of the Annual Register.”
A paper was next read “On the Annual Con-
sumption of Coal, and the probable duration of the
Coal Fields,” by E. R. J. Knowles.—The author's
calculations being based, for the most part, on ap-
proximate estimates, many of which are open to
much controversy, it will be sufficient for us to
state the conclusions at which he arrived. He cal-
culated the annual consumption of coal at 12,500,-
000 tons, and the extent of the coal-fields of Eng-
land at 5,200 square miles, at the average of
20,000,000 tons to the square mile ; and thence, after
making allowance for the coal worked out, and for
the population being eventually doubled, deduced
that the coal-fields of England contain an ample
supply for at least 1,500 years.
Sir J. Guest, Col. Sykes, and Mr. G. R. Porter,
É. out many sources of inaccuracy, in Mr.
Knowles' computations, and said that the esti-
mates of consumption in various manufactories
must always be vague. They thought that the
only true criterion would be to ascertain the amount
annually brought up to the mouth of every pit.
Mr. Knowles professed his anxiety to obtain accu-
rate information, and promised to make the inquiry
in the form that had been recommended.
Mr. G. R. Porter presented an elaborate report
“On the Iron Manufacture of Great Britain,” pre-
ared at the request of the British Association.
#. called attention to the enormous demº” tlS
iron consequent on the general and simula.
construction of railways in England, on the tº.
nent, and in India, he said it was important "...
sider how that demand may be met, and alsº how !
on the cessation of that demand, which must bº .
porary to a great extent, the ruinous deprecial C-
of capital and suspension of employment, “.
quent on the change, may be averted. In ".
the whole quantity of pig-iron made in Englan”
and Wales, amounted to no more than 61,300".
of which 48,200 were made with coke of pit-coºl,
and 13,100 from charcoal : in the same year º
amount raised in Scotland was 7,000 tons.
1796 the quantity, owing to Watt's improveme"
the steam-engine, was nearly double, being-
England and Wales, 108,993 tº
Scotland, . + 16,086
--"
Total, 125,079 “
Ten years later, viz., in 1806, when it was propos.
to tax the production of iron, an inquiry was ".
and the production was found to have more *
doubled in this decennial period, being—
England and Wales, 234,666 tons.
Scotland, . . . 23,240 “
amºmummi-mº-
Total, 258,206 “
In 1823, this quantity had risen to 482,066 toº
and in 1830 it was further increased to 678,417 .
But since 1830, in consequence of the introducº,
of the hot blast by Mr. Nelson, of Glasgow, rºº.
improvements have been made, and a most imſ."
tant saving of fuel effected. The results were.”
stated:—fn 1829, using coke and cold air, each."
of iron required for its production 8 tons, I ºw"; d
quarter of coal. In 1830, using coke and hº
air, each ton of iron was made with 5 tons, 3°.
1 quarter of coal. In 1833, using raw coal .
heated air, each ton of iron consumed in its produº
tion, 2 tons, 5 cwt. 1 quarter of coal. The sa".
in fuel is thus seen to amount to 72 per cent. .
in Scotland the production of iron has risen fro
37,500 tons in 1830, to nearly 500,000 tons in 6
last twelve months. There exists a prºjº.
against the hot blast iron which is gradually al.
ing; and a similar prejudice long prevented the º
of the black band ore, the value of which was }
covered by Mr. Mushett so far back as 1801: . €
1836, every iron-work in Great Britain was i.
by M. F. lé Play, chief engineer to the Paris!".
of Works, and he estimated the amount pro º S”
that year at 1,000,000 of tons. In 1840, Mr. .
sop found that there were 402 furnaces in Engla
and Wales, in which 82, or 1 in 5, were ou" 10
blast; and out of 70 furnaces, 6, or 1 in 11, .
out of blast. The quantity of iron made in 18 .
was 1,343,400 tons; but in consequence of the * in
mercial depression, this fell to 1,046,428 *i.
1842, being a depreciation of 22 per cent.
next directed attention to the effect of railway ent
the price of iron. In 1836 and 1837, parlia” W
passed 77 railway bills, of which 44 were for º
lines, and the aggregate of extent about 1,200 .
requiring a production of more than 500,000
of iron. The price of bar iron, which had º, nd
10s. per ton in 1834, rose to 71. 10s. in 1839; 1ja-
in 1836 to 111.; but in 1837, the railway spºº. CW
tion had so far subsided, that only 15 acts tº .
lines were passed from 1838 to 1843—the Prº*
5 Oll
“HANDs Not HEARTs.”—A FARCE.
365
ºn fell more rapidly than it had risen, and during
* Period, iron could be sold with difficulty at less
A. * half the price it commanded in 1836. The
*ge price of iron at Glasgow in 1844, was 21.
; : d. per ton; in March, 1845, it rose to 5l. ; and
ſay to 5l. 10s.;—this rise in price of 175 per
gave such stimulus to production, that the
* of pig-iron, in Scotland, for the first six
ºils of this year, was 260,000 tons, or at the
* of 520,000 tons per annum;-the production
ºng been doubled since 1840. It is the opinion
...he iron-masters that since 1840, nearly all the
**ased production of iron in the kingdom has
*n drawn from Scotland. It appears that the
*and created by the new railways, has stimulated
'ºry establishment to its utmost limits of produc-
º * But, in order to add matcrially to the make
O iron, a great many circumstances must concur.
* of the chief difficulties arises from the work-
* : skill is necessary, and the number of those
Properly trained is so limited, that they make de-
*ds for an enormous and disproportionate increase
Wages on the first appearance of prosperity.
º the cost of production seems to have more
. kept pace with the rise of price. From this,
jºined, perhaps, with other causes, the amount
50 Production in England for 1845 was only 917,-
tons, being 238,000 tons less than the produc-
of 1840. From comparing several returns, it
°lear that we have no reason to dread a failure
bl laterial—some valuable and extensive fields of
§ -band ore having been recently discovered in
ºles; but it seems not improbable that the Staf-
. shire iron-works will soon experience a deficient
ºy of coal. A new source of supply has been
§. in the refuse and waste of the lead mines of
b Cardale. The rider of the lead ore is a true car-
ºte of iron, yielding from 25 to 40 per cent. A
*all blast ſurface has been erected at Stanhope,
Qr smelting this rider, and pig-iron of a strong and
*ellent quality has been produced. In conse;
§"ence of this success, the company has commenced
§ erection of very extensive smelting works, near
§ alsingham. The difficulty then arises, in the
"Pply of labor. It is hopeless to stimulatº, the
ions of the persons already employed. They
...aturally ready enough to exact higher rates
Wages when the demand for their labor becomes
* urgent; but, succeeding in this, they prefer
ºbtain the same amount of earnings, with higher
* of wages, to the securing of greater gains by
i exertion of even the same amount of toil;-so
i...greater urgency on the demand, may be, and
'luently is, accompanied by a lessened production,
ir "ºing the period of depression the low price of
°n led to its being extensively applied to various
jºss of construction in civil and naval arºhitec-
... On the subject of iron ships, Mr. Porter
htered into some calculations to show their econ-
j-but the subject will be found more fully dis-
*śsed in our report of the paper read by Mr. Fair-
§§ before the meeting of the British Association
pre lasgow, in 1840. i. to the beginning of the
i. century, nearly two fifths of all the iron
of E in this kingdom was imported from the north
urope; but in 1806 this proportion had fallen
i.ºh. and foreign iron is now only imported
Contr manufacture of steel. Our exports, on the
*y, have so increased as to become an object
"onal importance.—
tion
to
§ 1827 We
^ 1845 exported 32,313 tons, declared value fl,215,561.
351,278 “ “ “ 3,501,895.
The increase of our exports appears to be contin-
gent on a reduction of price, and must, therefore,
be materially affected by variations in the cost of
production. Should the new railways stimulate a
much larger production of iron, the quantity pro-
duced will greatly exceed the demand so soon as
those railways are completed, and then prices will
fall; perhaps to a lower point than has ever yet been
witnessed. This will, probably, cause iron to be
applied to many new purposes, and particularly to
the construction of ships, fire-proof houses, and
frame-work houses for export to new settlements.
All this, however, must be the work of time; and
it seems but too probable that, in the meanwhile,
our iron-masters will have to undergo a somewhat
lengthened season of adversity—for the enduring
of which they are, in a measure, prepared, from
former experience. -:
The length of time occupied in reading this paper.
of which we have only given the outline, rendered
it impossible to discuss its topics; as the hour for
the general committee meeting was fixed for 3
o'clock, and it wanted but a few minutes of that
hour when Mr. Porter concluded.
“HANds NoT HEARTs.”—A FARCE.
(FROM THE SPANISH.)
ScENE.-The Throne-room of a Palace. Child-
Queen and Queen-Mother discovered (the last, by
the way, not for the first time) surrounded by
Grandees, Ministers, Ladies of Honor, and
Chamberlains. The “Marsellaise” is heard with-
out. A flourish of trumpets.
Queen-Mother (aside to Child-Queen.)
Izzy, my dear—
Child-Queen (aside to her.) Oh, Ma! my heart's
in my mouth.
Queen-Mother. Heart! Where did you get it?
Remember who were your parents, and don't dis-
grace them. His excellency will be here directly
with his address of congratulation. Mind your
response. -
Child-Queen. I’ve forgotten every word you
taught me. I knew I should. There were so
many fibs in it !
Qucen-Mother. Beatific Ferdinand —shade of
a beloved spouse, do you hear this? Fibs, you
little fool! A queen talk of fibs. Like garlic,
they are only to be thought of by the swinish herd.
Know this, my child, for a great state maxim;
falsehood becomes ennobled when royalty conde:
scends to it. So, remember your reply—and mind
your stops. §
Child. Queen. My heart’s breaking; I shall
stop in the middle, I know I shall. * g.
Queen-Mother. Then remember the dignity of
Spain—recollect the glory of old Castile, and if
you can't utter a few ceremonious syllables—why,
show your feelings and faint. Your years may ex-
cuse a weakness that would ruin me.
Child-Queen. Every word flown out of my
head, like a bird from a trap. I knew it would be
SO
Now,
Queen-Mother (aside:) A. P. little wretch!
Now, my beloved child—idol of my heart—remem-
ber Don Francisco's set, of Pearls—lamb that you
are—and the seven hundred Paris milliners at work
—prop of my life-and the three hundred and fifty
jewellers—apple of my eye—and the two hundred
goldsmiths—hope of my soul—and the dignity,
and felicity, and happiness without end of a wed-
366
STATE BULLETINS FOR SPAIN.
ded wife'. Cherub that you are And now you’ll
speak to his excellency—I know you will—with
your own sweet silver voice, sweeter than Solo-
mon's trumpets—Paradise of my life .
Child-Queen. I'm told they’re the finest pearls
in Christendom.
Major-Domo (announces) “His excellency the
Ambassador of France.”
[Child-Queen turns pale, and shivers. Queen-
Mother puts on a smile of state.
Enter the Ambassador.
Ambassador (approaching Queen-Mother.), Mad-
am,_The best | mothers has been blessed with
the rarest of daughters. Virtue has produced twin
virtues. Let me congratulate you, that you are
about to see, in the marriage of your children, a
renewal of that conjugal tenderness that has earned
for you a name—and such a name—throughout the
world. Happy mother still in the freshness of
maturity, spared to watch the opening, sweetness
of kindred youth ! Favored is the full-blown rose
that, without one blush of beauty, one leaflet lost,
may still, upon the tree, behold the unclosing buds!
I am commanded by my master of France—by that
%. whose name, particularly on the Stock
2xchange, is synonymous with truth—by that
monarch without guile—by that sovereign whose
soul is open as the sea (and quite as deep)—by
that king whose peculiar glory it has been to em-
brace (with his royal tongue in his royal cheek)
the young Britannia—and caress, as he were a
poodle puppy-dog, the British Lion—I am com-
manded, I say, by the Napoleon of Pence, (as well
as of Peace,) to solicit the hand of the little Infan-
ta (rather young, to be sure, for the wedding-ring)
for the thrice-renowned and valorous Duke Mont-
pensier, a son of France, who, let the glory be
eternized in his epitaph, (when fame, in after centu-
ries, shall write it,) refuses to take of the Cortes a sin-
gle real with his bride, (aside,) seeing there is no
chance of its being offered him.
Queen-Mother. My heart is open as a book, and
you have read the text of conjugal and maternal
ſove, printed and illuminated (brightly as in a missal
within it. Knowing, profoundly knowing, º
am a full-blown rose, it would not be sincere, it
would not be Christian-like in me, to deny the
odorous truth. And the rose joyfully bestows her
youngest bud upon the son of that monarch with-
out guile—that king of the starry eye and crystal
heart—the king of France'
Ambassador (to Child-Queen.), Madam, let me
congratulate you upon your inexhaustible generos-
ity. You have not only thrown—given, I mean—
yourself away, but have in the most royal and lib-
eral manner given away your little sister. ... In this
act, the nation must acknowledge that liberality
which only belongs to the true, sovereignty of na-
ture. For it is the rare privilege of royalty not
only to hold its own heart as nothing, but espec-
ially to make light of the hearts of other people.
Čhild-Queen. I am flattered—that—that—in—
in—giving— *
Queen-Mother (prompting her, aside.)
heart”—remember the pearls. º
Child-Queen. My heart—yes—certainly, my
heart-to-to-
Queen-Mother (aside.) “Don Francisco”—
think of the bridal gown, with the twelve crowns
of Spain worked in it—to “Don Francisco”-
Child-Queen. Ton Francisco—I expect—that
is—l shall be as happy—
“My
- f
Queen-Mother (aside.) Provoking creature”
Think of the bull-fights—and the jewels—º.T.
Child-Queen. As happy as-is—can be *
pected. :1, m0°
[Queen-Mother, smiling a ghastly smile, .
tions to the Camarera-Mayor, who gº ".
and returns with the Infanta Luisa, with
thumb in her mouth. has
Ambassador (to the Infanta.) Madam, fate b6
called you early to happiness in calling yo" ig
the wife of a %rench prince, and thereby calling
you to Paris, a city unrivalled for its bon boº. h
fitures, and dolls—dolls, that not only open but S ith
their eyes | I am commanded to present yo" W
this portrait of your future husband. it-
Infanta (standing upon her toes to look " '
aside.) Oh my! he is pretty. 2S
Ambassador. And further to present to 3%.
typical of his disposition, this roll of sugar-"
table sucre de Normandie.
Infanta. I accept—that is, mamma says
Queen-Mother (aside to her.) Silly thing !
mean you accept with pleasure—
Infanta. Yes, that 's it. Mamma say
she knows—I accept with pleasure the prinº”
my husband—and his picture—and his sugar.
[The Ambassador gives portrait and sug" is
the Infanta, who, looking upon the 0% ll
about to eat the other, when it is respºl.” y
twitched from her by the Camarera-May". €
Ambassador (makes his bow, and is about to rgtiſt’
He speaks aside to one of his attendants.) Let
thousand francs be distributed among the mend.
of Madrid. One way to blind the world tº .
knaveries of the rich, is to throw gold dust 1” t
eyes of the poor doſ
[Another flourish of trumpets. Ambºº
and suite ereunt. The curtain falls, aſ
Farce ends. C-
N. B. Due notice will be given of the reſſ
sentation of the Tragedy.—Punch.
You
s—ſor
for
• thé
STATE BULLETINs roR SPAIN.—Such is d º
alarming condition of Spain, that it woul hć
highly satisfactory to the rest of Europe
were regularly attended by state physicians.
at brief intervals, should publish official bulle”
of her health ; as, for instance—
“6, A. M. Spain has passed a tolerable m
but is slightly troubled with symptoms of coſ"
tion this morning. toſ1
“ii, A. M. Within the last hour a revolº".
has broken out in Spain, but it has been,”,
pressed with a moderate amount of bloodshº ..
and for the last five minutes Spain has been *
quil. ed
“1, P. M. The tranquillity which was res".
to Spain at five minutes to eleven, lasted uP ".
quarter to twelve, when insurrections beg”.
manifest themselves in a few provinces; an Siſl i-
that time she has been laboring under febriº ag
tation. º till
“6, P. M. The agitation of Spain continued ok
four o'clock, when a remission of symptom; in-
place; but at five she had a relapse, and the OX"
surrectionary movements have recurred in paſ
ysms every quarter of an hour.
“ 11+, º M. Spain has just lost a little mor?
blood, which appears to have relieved hº: 31
for the last ten minutes has enjoyed Pº 0\l
i ght,
| repose.”—Punch.
THE LIFE AN 0 ADV. I.NTURI:S
CHAPTER XIV’.
º Will naturally be supposed that, looking upon
*W maid that fortune had so beneficently sent
**y first anxiety was about her clothes. Ani-
ºted by the most pleasant feelings, I rummaged
... boxes, and soon selected a very complete
Yardrobe. Many things were, of course, too fine
** servant—it having been instilled into me as a
§at principle, by my mother, that servants could
...," her own emphatic words, be kept “too
*h under,” and therefore could not be toº plainly
*st. If that good woman hated anything, it was
...y in any sort of a maid. She set her face
.*st anything beyond a penny riband, and would
. Permit ear-rings, even when they presented
.*selves in the modest guise of gold wires, to
*ngle from a servant.” However, in my pres-
€n condition, nothing remained for me to choose
. but my own wardrobe and the clothes of my
\. lºw-passengers. Of course I took the shabbiest
"d the most vulgar. When, however, I had
*ade the Selection, a greater difficulty remained to
*9Wercome. It was to induce Friday to submit
° thoroughly drest. She showed an almost
ºnquerable repugnance to stockings, putting
... on the hind part before, and gartering at the
*kle. As to ºver getting her into shoes, I gave
º 'he idea as hopeless; for this, however, I cared
. little; as her huge bare feet the better kept up
§. due distinction between mistress and maid.
obody—i was well aware of the fact—could wit-
. it; nevertheless, the circumstance was not
"thout its comfort.
sº gº test diſficulty, however, was with the
§§ When she first saw them, and began to
*them all over, and observed that they contained
* and whalebone—and when further she saw
that I threatened her with them—the poor ignorant
...ture fell at my feet, and cried, and, in her way,
#ed that I would give up so cruel a notion, as
Świdently terrified her worse than death. For
º time, I was greatly amused by the distress
ed Friday: but at last, becoming irritated, I insist-
that she should submit to wear the stays; whilst,
* same time, I indicated that they were ex-
Pressly made, and stiffened with steel and bone, to
i.e.: the beauty of the female figure. Upon
* Friday, like a poor ignorant savage as she
shook her head, and placed her two hands to
Waist, as much (like her impudence!) as to
* Look at me: I never wore stays; and I am
*aighter than you.” Now, insolence like this
ºld be unbearable from anybody; but, coming
. a servant, it was much more than a mistress
Quld put up with. Wherewith, I pointed to the
ºl with which I had killed the Amazon; and,
* moment, Friday was at my feet.
Was
he
$3.
}
OF MIlSS ROBINSON 367
Poor benighted creature . How cold she turned,
and how she trembled—for all the world like some
poor wretch about to be crushed by torture—when
I compelled her to put on the stays. She evident-
ly thought that they contained some evil spirits,
that would continually squeeze and punish her—
and by degrees consume her blood—and finally
waste her. She could not, poor wretch so ex
press herself; but I could see by the workings of
her mind in her countenance, that she looked upon
the stays as, in former days, sufferers have looked
upon the steel-boot.
At length, however, the stays were on, and I
prepared myself to lace them. I knew that by
doing this I was teaching the first lesson in civiliz.:-
tion, and felt myself strengthened for the task ac-
cordingly. But shall I ever forget the screams of
Friday, as I laced hole after hole! It was plain
she felt as nuns have felt—bricked up, as pleasant
histories tell us, for peccadilloes, in convent walls.
It was plain the poor wretch thought she was being
laced up for life; and this notion, I must confess
it, so troubled me that the more Friday screamed,
the tighter I laced, till, in the end, her figure was
so unlike vulgar nature, it almost approached per-
fection. ſº
When the stays were well laced and fastened, it
was droll to see the perplexity of the poor crea-
ture. She would not venture to walk without lay-
ing hold of some support, as if the tightness of the
stays had destroyed the strength and motion of her
limbs. When she looked round, too, she turned
her whole body, as if made too stiff to venture to
move her neck. It was clear from the melancholy
that possessed her, that she looked upon herself-
poor Savage –as a prisoner for life in walls of
whalebone and steel. And will it be believed 1
those stays had been made for a colonel's lady, and
had cost three guineas, if they 'd cost a shil
ling !
After the poor thing had become a little accus-
tomed to her captivity, and could the better under-
$ºnd me, I inquired about the savages from whom
I had delivered her. She told me they were all
Amazons. That they had originally come from
the moon, that they worshipped as a single lady.
That they made war upon the women of all mar-
fied nations, as creatures who—forgetful of their
true dignity in the world, which was to do entirely
as they like—had basely betrayed the independence
of their sex by allowing themselves to “love,
honor, and obey” brutes, their husbands. And
then I asked Friday what was the age of the
oldest of these Amazons 1 when she informed me
that none of them was ever able to count above
five-and-twenty. Lamentable ignorance!
CR USO E.
iº BE SoLD.—The Balance of Power. It is a
* ... ºut of order, and requires adjusting, as the
* has been kicked rather severely lately by one
. Philippe, which has thrown, the balance
ight y upon one side. A few English measures
** to be sold with it, in the shape of one or two
§ºtests, but thi. weight is so small that they do
i. *Yen turn the scale. For further particulars
§. to the British Ambassadors at Paris, or
*id; and for cards to view, to the Secretary
for Foreign Affairs, Downing-street, in whose
custody the Balance of Power is at present depos-
ited.—Punch.
SERMoss IN Stoses.—MR. O'Connell, said at
Conciliation Hall, “When I die, ‘ Repeal' will be
found written on my heart.” There is a slight
error in the above, absurdity. The Hereditary
Bondsman should have said “lithographed.”- .
Punch.
LEIGH
HUNT.
From Tait's Magazine.
LEIGH HUNT,
BY GEORGE GILFILLAN, AUTHoR of “A GALLERY
OF LITERARY Portſ-AiTs.”
It is singular to notice how some men “achieve
greatness” by the very act of living. Eclipsed
and crushed at first by successful rivals, they are
fortunate enough to survive them, and to shine
forth as stars in the twilight of their departed
glory. How picturesque yonder solitary pine,
yielding its dark cones to the wind reluctantly, as
if loth to bend its aged and reverend head to a
blast but newly born 1 Some years ago, it was
lost in the crowd of the forest, till the woodman's
axe cut its passage into perilous prominence. So
with certain authors: they gather around them
the added interest of those who have outlived a
generation of giants, and who mingle with the
admiration of the present somewhat of the awe of
the past. Last of a noble race, the homage they
receive is given ungrudgingly, and with the feel-
ing of discharging a debt of gratitude long due,
not to one, but to many benefactors. Sometimes,
as in the case of Wordsworth, the merit thus
tardily acknowledged is of the highest order, but
which detraction, and the success of more popular
writers, have unjustly veiled. Sometimes it is of
minor, though real value, which, amid the blaze of
contemporary genius, has been overborne and
drowned. In the year 1820, such men as Croly,
De Quincey, Wilson, and Leigh Hunt, were con-
tent, to be dii minorum gentium in the literary
pantheon. We now, in 1846, regard them as a
race of “elder gods,” Titans partly, because they
have outlived a Titanic family.
And yet we feel, that in applying the term
Titan to Leigh Hunt, we are bordering upon the
ludicrous. No such magnificent epithet will fit
him. He is no “giant, angel;” he is nothing
better than an inspired and perpetual child. He is
not great, nor even large ; but he is the perfection
of elegant and airy littleness. He flits about like
an Ariel among the sons of the mighty. Ariel,
indeed, the most imaginative and succinct of skyev
messengers, full of playful earnestness, is an apter
emblem of Hunt's genius than the tricksy Pück.
He is the down of the thistle floating no-whither,
while Ariel is the winged seed blown right on.
ward to the spot where it is to take root and grow.
As we have elsewhere said of Moore and Dickens,
we can never disconnect the idea of Hunt from that
of smallness. Perhaps, instead of Ariel, he is
rather a genuine brother of the Cobweb, Mustard-
seed, and Pease-blossom family ; like that re-
doubted race, tiny, swift, ethereal, with a fire in
his eye, and drops of gold sprinkled on his little
wing. Moore is, of the three, Mustard-seed—
sharp, biting, and mischievous. Dickens is Cob-
web-light, dancing, and sunny. Hunt is Pease-
blossom—smelling of the fields, and shining with
the hues of autumn sunshine. . .
Earnestness at ease, is the leading characteristic
of Hunt's nature. His is not that eternal frown
of certain patriots and philosophers, at which “hell
grows darker.” His genius wears, on the con-
trary, a gentle smile, to feed which everything has
run—his learning, his philosophy, his imagination,
and his tears. ,
“Sorrows [he sings] I've had severe ones,
I will not speak of now ;
And calmly mid my dear ones
I’ve wasted with dry brow.”
Struggles he has had—calumnies borneliº. .*
ment too known, in those dark days, when, i in
were watched, and words tortured, and to *.
some cases was to sin. He has been sº. S
from children dear to him “as the rud º
that visit his sad heart.” A child-like ſº.
dearer than a brother, was severed from him : for-
he saw, under the darkening sky of his 9" thé
tunes, the smoke of his funeral pile rising ſº thé
sea-shore. He felt, too, the recalcitration 9 eſ?
furious heel of Byron. He committed.
grave errors, and had many severe literary ..
But all ran to fill up the channel of the *.
smile. His heart would not get old. The 0.
element would not extract. And the auth” W6
“Rimini” and “The Feast of the Poets,” º: his
believe, smiling still—smiling at the memory.
past griefs and sufferings; smiling at the ch. J
treatment he is receiving from the literary Yº.
and from his ancient foes; smiling pity ovº. bui
dishonored dust of Byron, and over the isolº" }
retracted ridicule of Moore ; and smiling a dº.
happier smile at that milder social day which 3S
at length risen upon his path; for him, 19°
well as Virgil's shepherd,
Libertas tanquam sera respexit.
Hunt, like most writers of the day, has appº
to the public, not only at sundry times, b.
divers manners. He has been a critic, a jou"
ist, an essayist, a writer of tales and dramaš, t
satiric and a serious poet. As a critic, he º rS.
one time yeoman service to the cause of *}.
He stood up, in conjunction with Lamb anº.”.
litt, for the three objects, first, of vindicating ub-
fame of the lake poets; secondly, of directiºn
lic attention to the forgotten and neglected Eng. 5 :
authors of the sixteenth and seventeenth gen.
and, thirdly, of establishing a school of grº.
independent of the reviews, which at that .
lorded it over the world of letters, and were wº (5
high hand abusing their power. To these obj jS-
of this triumvirate, Lamb contributed his subt".
crimination, his delicate yet cutting irony...;
litt, his fierce passion and vehement declam”.
and Hunt, his grace, his tact, his livelines”; h6
learning, and his fine fanciful quaintness. ckly
public saw with surprise the pages of a we’”.
newspaper, studded with critical disquisitio. 6
profound, and much more genial, than aº...an,
found in the great quarterly journals; and .
in the extreme of reaction from former it"P.
submission, to regard these as blind guides; mers
although the influence of our literary tºº.
was counteracted by the furious abuse and "...y
ization which they personally experience", ow.
in the end gained their object. They shed ” y
light upon the pages of our elder dramatists:
vindicated the claims of the lake poets; *... of
contributed to rouse the public to that *less
independent judgment which has more ..ie
characterized it ever since, and has cº th
journals to become rather the followers that
leaders of the national taste. bat of
Hunt's criticism is distinguished above "...is
many, by its joyous geniality.—Hºw ... .ºne
over tid-bits —How he enjoys a literary 3.
bouche /–How he chuckles over a quaint.
recondite beauty He has, on such occas”
LEIGH
HUNT. 369
\
d
. bo
°0mrad
ºuthor
ulness
and
fro
bet
leader
t
hrow
0.
and
f a school-boy, who has lighted upon
* peculia p
* r pot of jam or neglected drawer of
Yeet-bread. J g
He laughs, rolls, and riots, in the
"şs of his heart; and, like the said school-
..", a fine generous fellow, calls upon all his
°S to share the spoil. He reads a favorite
*s a man reads to his adored, giving, in the
of his happy heart, beauty, and meaning,
"terest to the pages, which come in reality
* Sweeter and dearer source. Thus Hunt,
Լn sympathy with his author and with his
gilds his refined gold, paints his lilies, and
'*', a perfume over his violets. Even his
. quips, cranks, and wreathed smiles—
*
C
whº are not few—remind you of the little arts
* the eye of love produces, and which it alone
ill pa
Bet
t
rdon. The gush of genuine gladness must
ºrmitted its little gets, freaks and fantasies.
* far this than the cool, iron composure of
Wh ° miserable beings called critics by profession,
i. *te doomed to pass from the Dan of each new
i.e. to the Beersheba of each Finis, and find
nº. and are capable of enjoying only the
Ul
find
0
O fh
* { rv
h evi
tem
ll
Whi
xury of “establishing” when they cannot
* “raw.”
is criticism, the better specimens, we think,
in his earlier productions, his “Indicator,”
"Panion,” &c. In what seems to have been
| hour, he wrote “Lord Byron and his Con-
ºraries.” It awoke an outcry from a large
* of the public, who had not yet recovered
§ at drunken dream, through the medium of
As M they had for a long while regarded Byron.
Sl
# caulay has well shown, the conduct of the
º public to Byron was most extraordinary.
they idolized him unreasonably ; then as
jonally they ground their golden calf to dust;
a ..." they raised, reconstructed, and set him in
ti *her shrine than ever. And this latter reac-
Il
his
à
ln
dre
*ose simply from what always seemed to us,
!ſherical and insincere expedition to Greece :
"çident in his history no more deserving moral
*ation, than the conduct of the prodigal, who
* desperation enlists. Who on that account
cau." of canonizing the poor fellow 1. But, be-
S
losi
Gre
cal º - *
!. Confronting his calumniators, and resuming
Ult
been
mel
peri
be
CS
diſc t
yron, disgusted with himself, sick of Italy;
} with literary fame, or rather, afraid of
j the laurels he had gained, exhausted in in-
k' and bruised in heart, threw himself into the
* cause, (instead of returning to England,
ics as a landlord and a senator, which had
!he part of a wise man,) changed his poetic
y into a wild Albanian war-song, and
shed prematurely, therefore all the past was to
"given and forgotten, and therefore, if an
than ventured to blame any part of his con-
itriº le must be torn in pieces, and have his dis-
the
had
‘ltid
"embra thrown in propitiatory sacrifice upon
jº's Grecian grave. We care very little
t the charges of ingratitude and violated confi-
"...which have boen brought against Hunt. He
ºn treated by Byron with great liberality;
h id. 'Wºnder, since he had appeared single-
d in his defence, when the howl of all Eng-
lo º up against him. He had been admitted
\
{
with
ſ
t
l th
a..."?
.*onfidence, and might, had he been base
*", have claimed a similar honor with the ser-
Ie "h9 boasted that he was kicked by a duke.
een fed and insulted under the same roof
noble poet. And in exchange for such
* he was bound to flatter the man when dead,
* when living, he had always acted a firm
and manly part | We would have preferred, in-
deed, had he remained entirely silent on the sub-
ject. We never think of Byron as a man, without
recalling the words of Milton, in reference to the
rebel angels.
“The other sort,
In might though wondrous, and in acts of war,
Nor of renown less eager, yet, by doom
Nameless in dark oblivion let them dwell.
For strength, from truth divided and from just,
Illaudable, nought merits but dispraise
And ignominy, yet to glory aspires
Vain-glorious, and through infamy seeks fame:
Therefore eternal silence be their doom.”
But if Hunt was to speak of Byron at all, he
was bound to speak the plain unvarnished truth,
avoiding equally the extremes of sycophancy and
of spleen. And now, the public, by another, and
we suspect a final revulsion of feeling, has come
round to his opinion, and unites in writing on
Byron's bust, the most fatal of all inscriptions, “A
traitor to his own transcendent genius.”
Our quarrel, then, with this book, is not so
much its treatment of Byron's memory, as its
general spirit and execution. Its spirit is waspish,
its execution feeble. In the one, you read disap-
pointment; in the other, dyspepsia. IIis memoir
of himself, must, from its profusion of capital I’s,
have taxed severely Mr. Colburn's printing press,
and has the garrulity without the bonhommie of
old age. His estimates of contemporary talent are
not eminently felicitous, nor, with the exception of
his personal friends, particularly candid. You see
altogether, in this work, a mind, in an unhappy
state of transition from its first fresh, buoyant
enthusiasm, to that mild and serene twilight, which
has now permanently settled upon its powers.
Clinging still to our former image of a gentle smile,
as the best emblem of Hunt's nature, we must grant
that, in this production, it is but faintly visible, if
not entirely concealed.
w As a journalist, he exhibits a marked contrast,
in the course of his progress, between the dashing,
slashing, free and fearless style, in which (con-
jointly with his brother) he conducted The Eram-
incr; and the meek and almost mawkish tone of his
London Journal. How changed from the daring
libeller, whom regency honored with its personal
hatred and vengeance, and who, like another Ca-
mille Desmoulins, shot his bright and bickering
shafts at sublime swindlers and crowned imbeciles,
the kindly old man babbling of his green fields,
looking with dim, tearful eye at his old, favorite
authors, welcoming to his arms books which for-
merly seemed steeped in the green and Jiyid slime
of bigotry, saying civil things of “The lights and
Shadows"—ay, of “Matthew Wald,” and its
author—shaking (with some tremor) the huge fist
of Christopher North, and instead of the bitter sar-
casm in which he often indulged, just hinting faults
and hesitating dislike, even tº the imbecile, the
impertinent, and the absurd. We prefer him, we
must say, in the latter character. It is more true
to his original tendencies. Fºr the tear and wear,
the fret and fever, the squabbling and heart-burning
of a newspaper life, Hunt was never fitted. Only
by nursing and coddling the inferior parts of his
nature, could he have qualified himself for discharg-
ing its duties. . And he did not too soon resign it
to the hands of one much better adapted for the
craft.
370 LEIGH
HUNT.
We regret, exceedingly that Leigh Hunt's Lon-
don Journal did not succeed. Never did a cheap
H. exhibit a more catholic and genial spirit.
road-fronted, mild-tempered, with fine imaginative
sympathies, holding that “beauty is truth,” it did
not deny the converse of the creed, that “truth is
beauty.” Not a mere weekly dispenser of the cold
comfort of utilitarianism, to thousands who begin
to feel that thus the deeper wants of their spirits
are insulted, as egregiously as were a drop to be
Sprinkled on a burning thirst, or a crumb to be
handed to a raging hunger; it delighted in bringing
out the poetry of usefulness, and the spiritual pur-
poses which are served by even the mechanisms of
the present age. He never speaks with contempt
of this age, as a mechanical age; its motion, that
of a rattling railway train; its agitation, the trem-
ble of an unmanageable machine. He sees that
machines contain in them a stern poetry of their
own ; that they present forceful and colossal im-
ages of power, of iron will and iron necessity; that
in annihilating time and space, girdling the globe
with Puck-like speed, “yoking their cars with
whirlwinds and the northern blast,” they gather
round them the double interest of fact and fiction ,
that a railway carriage, which looks tame enough
at rest, in two minutes rushes into poetry, and
with its ſlag of flame, passes through the most
beautiful country, less like an intruder than a mon-
arch ; while in a dream of beauty walks the waters
of the summer sea the great steamship, or wrestles
like a demon of kindred power with the angry bil-
lows ' He asks, “Has mechanism taken color
from the grass and warmth from the blood?” and
feels that while itself often a coarse Caliban, a
strong drudge, it may be taught to do the spiriting
and perform the magical bidding of the Prosperos
of poetry; that in the varied and vast mechanical
powers of the age, there lies over for coming art-
ists, a fund of thought and imagination, not likely
to be soon exhausted ; that each railway train
seems shrieking with that unearthly scream of its,
for the coming of its poet, and shall not always
scream in vain | Such views he held, and was
beginning to expound, successfully, in his journal,
when unfortunately, for want of passengers, it
came to a stand-still, and now runs no more.
In the essay, Hunt found himself in his perfect
element. Some minds have been as much out of
theirs in it as leviathans in a pond. Foster, for
instance, lashes his large tail against its narrow
limits, till he bursts them asunder. Hazlitt is more
at home in its small circle, only through the sacri-
fice of much that is peculiar, and of all that is pro-
found in his intellect. Lamb's highest qualities are
seen shyly and from afar off in even the “Essays
of Elia.” But Hunt is as active, and bright, and
happy, in it, as a gold-fish in its globe of glass.
All the finer qualities of his mind—his vinous live-
liness, his recherché rather than recºndite lore—his
conversational tone—his gleesome disposition—his
snatches of higher imagination—his wide sympa-
thics—the gem-like minuteness of finish he gives to
his better things—the air of fireside east which
waves like a light scarf around all his motions, are
to be found in “The Indicator” and “The Com-
panion.” With what a light dainty step he con-
ducts us along the “sweet security of streets,”
from shop to shop, finding incense in the perfum-
er's, and a dream of Golconda in the jeweller's,
and Alnaschar still sitting at the door of his crock-
ery warehouse, and an echo from the stithies of
his ow'ſ boy.
Etna lingering in the brazier's, and d hoº!'
self standing stealthily at the bookstall." c miº
faces smiling on him under the bonnel; . t ing it
liner's, and “all the Arabian heaven' ope 2. blue
the print-seller's, and in the apothecary º of
and lurid splendor, sending him home 19 dr o, how
drugs and death. Ye sticks, and haº," ing
much do ye owe to his fine idealization,” |
ries of the metropolis, how has he embal"
Even mists and fogs thereof, ye arº
thanks for piercing your thick folds with *.*hou,
poetry. And, happy above all pig drive. foot"
the immortal genius of thine art, whom jous
steps chanced to follow, in thy difficult but gsfully,
pilgrimage down the Strand, guiding su% unting
through direr Scyllas and Chârvbdes, thy,8" f the
charge And who, in that sunnier slº otted
Round-table, which he contributed, has...on
his “Day by the fireside,” where “,” ackle
things that round us lie”—the crump anº.
of the hot roll—the knock of the pºsiº. ath
song of the tea-kettle—the tickling feeling:
one's feet, of the hearth-rug—the mus.'
ſlickering flames in the grate—the drawing.
the evening curtains—the toasting of on".”
itching toes—the tying and smoothing ºth 3!!
night-cap, become suddenly surrounded Y. e is
edge of imagination, and we feel that ther
oetry in everything? **
poº What 's ; ºie !” asks Shakspeare. Every
thing, we reply. Power, delusion, depth 0
ing, the force of fate, are all involved in
A name cannot raise the dead; but it cºº f
spirits stronger than that which rose at Fº
met the patriot at Philippi. We have hºt
weakness of words deplored; but we knº' con"
power—that they are things—that they often syl-
tain an omnipotence of mischief in their mag” not
lables, and that the most vigorous minds º'be
exempt from their influence. Volumes ºnes
written, for instance, on the nuisance of niº ºrs
—on the mischiefs they have done—the .r.
they have broken—the characters they hº
tially or forever clouded—the books they t
strangled—the currents of progress whic."
yes they, poor, paltry collocations of ſoul dº. light
been able, for a season, to impede. In what.” ºth
does it represent the literature of the minº caſ’
century, that its principal quarrels have bº. epi,
ried on through the medium of contemptuº and
thets, possessing neither point nor tº ".cd
which, by sticking, only more convincingly pr uch
that they were made of mud. We allude ool.”
terms as tº the Lakers,” the Satanic se! vcd,
ºne Cockney school,” &c. will it be bº.
in an after age, that the second of these elega" f the
binations had, at one time, almost the powº º at
greater excommunication; and that one lencº:
least, mad with the very fanaticism of bene” ºte:
was, through its unscrupulous applicatiºn, tr will
as a walking incarnation of the evil one ‘...is
it be believed, in an after age, that a deX jthet,
ringing of the changes upon this witty #.g.
“The Cockney school,” was the means ºne
ing the bread from the mouth of more *
struggling and gifted man? “What
name?” O Shakspeare, with the inevita".
askest thou! Why, the merest misnomº. to a
most contemptible alias affixed by an ene.
character, has been often as effectually * wº
doom, as though it had been uttered in thº’
by those -
(0tl º
C *in
ray o'
ne's
have
hey.
Yê
to 5
LEIGH
HUNT. 371
*
- - s - * 4. # *
of "lºyalling their originals; and Byron's “Vision |h
! the
Airy tongues which syllable men's names
"Sands, and shore, and desert wildernesses.
J ack
as new
ºtanic,
º title
tSire
Wilkes was never a Wilkite; Coleridge
er a Laker; Shelley did not belong to the
nor Hunt to the Cockney school. His
to the term lay in his inextinguishable
tº find the good and the beautiful in the per-
Cre hd scenes amidst which his lot was cast. If
there Were vulgar manners in Little Britain, he felt
and i. also warm hearts. If there were dirt
Sole rudgery in the city, there were also high and
into memories, shadowing its meanest streets
the ...leuſ, and giving a certain pathos even to
aş Ound of Bowbell. Because Richmond Hill
wº the Jura, had it no beauty to be desired?
°ompl; owper less a poet because he was forced to
...'Pºin that he had seen no mountains, nor ex-
º: to see them, unless he saw them in heaven!
§§ th the Cockneyism of the country as detestable
it º of the town? Is a rose less a rose because
wi. within the sight of St. Paul's! . And
Ot .. stands and waves the English oak, does it
sº. and wave in poetry—the poetry of the
Ou ulated associations of two thousand years?
that §reat matter of offence, indeed, with Hunt is,
ips * has not enough of the Cockney—that he
but slenderly into that most awful world of
Ultor On—that he contents himself with partial, des-
}, and outside views; and never, or seldom,
€S * + *
i. into those abysses of wild anguish and
Smok Joy, of fun, fury, and madness, which the
tes. of its every evening over-canopies. It was
ins . for Dickens to go down, in the fearlessness
jº by good-will and good-nature, into those
w.ºs chambers of city life, and show that there
tº “soul of goodness, and a spirit of latent poe:
the and an element df hope, moving even amid
º, all-unutterable abominations. Blessings on
thi "aring child, though for nothing else than for
i.ºchievement! And where he has preceded,
i. 8, hope that Marion (see Mary Howitt) will,
":by, in her loveliness, follow.
al * Hunt's contributions to The Liberal, we are
w. ashamed to allude, they are so totally un-
i...of his pen. When writing them he wº
Š. melancholy plight both of body and mind.
dist: *y, long a screen between him and pecuniary
***, as well as a link binding him to the moody
un.ºrain Byron, was newly drowned. Mis-
dai standings between him and his host were
ino l multiplying. The climate of Italy was rous-
º is bile. His “Letters from the South,” ac-
a."gly, are weak, querulous effusions, looking
. helplessly insignificant beside. Hazlitt's
.."ºing invectives against the “Spirit of Mon-
telly; 8-9
and ...; Shelley's translations, at once rendering
wa."gment,” a lampoon, such as for bitterness
a. "ever thrown into the lion's mouth at Venice,
.* M. * blasphemy of which reduces the Satan of
tº. to a drivelier, and leaves even the Mephis.
Smi
*s of Goethe limping behind. , Hunt's small
“...S. countenance thrust in between those
st.“ſul faces thronged, and fiery arms,” like a
in...", peeping in amidst the fallen gods in
lu i. halls of Pandemonium, looks absolutely
.. That fell Titanic warfare, revolved in
doubts ºrk and mighty spirits aiming on “daring
dº.” pile thoughts that should call down thun-
her, "as no scene for our mild, though manful
^
f his later specimens of criticism in the “Comic
Dramatists,” “Imagination and Fancy,” &c., &c.,
we know only enough to convince us that they
reveal in him no new powers. We find in them
all his generosity of spirit, softness of heart, delica-
cy of sentiment, refinement of taste, with perhaps
less liveliness and brilliance, and with more of those
sudden and dyspeptic sinkings down from consider-
able elevation to weakness and languor of thought,
which distinguish all his writings. We agree with
a writer in The Athenarum, in thinking him too hard
upon Dante, for being too hard upon his sinners in
the “Inferno.” We believe that the man Dante
would have shrunk from consigning even the finger
that signed his mandate of banishment, to eternal
burnings; but this was not to prevent the poet
Dante, when elaborating an ideal hell, heating, if
he pleased, his furnaces seven degrees, and indulg-
ing his imagination in compounding into every re-
mendous variety the elements of torment. The
poet is ever bound to give the brightness of bright-
ness, and the blackness of darkness; to mend, if he
can, the air of Elysium, “and heighten the beau-
ties of Paradise;” and, on the other hand, to
make “hell itself a murkier gloom.” It will
never do to argue thence either the benevolence or
the cruelty of his disposition. Was Michael
Angelo responsible for the awards of his “Last
Judgment?” Is the illustrator of Tox’s “Book of
Martyrs” answerable for the kindling of all those
curling, crested, reluctant or rejoicing, eager or
slumbering flames? Was Coleridge less the
“Friend,” because he appears to exult in the
perdition of William Pitt Is Thomas Aird less
one of the most amiable of men, because his
“Devil's Dream” contains a most horrific picture
of the place of punishment And has John Wil-
son the soul of a butcher, because in that famous
Noctes directed against our friend Dr. Knox, he
describes with such dreadful gusto certain uncere-
monious proceedings in that “other place,” about
the spirit of William Burke 1 There are, indeed,
persons who exult and express their exultation in
the future ſate of those whom their narrow sym-
pathies exclude from bliss ; but these are ſanatics:
they are not artists, and we never yet heard of a
true artist who was a fanatic. Art is ever too
wide, restless, progressive, to remain confined in
the sullen brazen furnace of a bigoted and narrow
belief.
Of Hunt's contributions to fiction and dramatic
literature, we know little, and prefer not speaking
at all. It remains only to say something of him in
the character of a poet. And it were vain to deny,
that he possesses many of the elements of a genu:
ine poet. No man could be such a good critic, and
such a fine essayist without a large share of the
poetic spirit. But to enable a writer to interweave
is poetic power into living verse, requires a
“double portion” of that indefinable and incom-
municable essence. And that such a double por-
tion has befallen him, we doubt. His great want
is not of fancy, nor of feeling; nor of language; it
is that of sustained and masculine strength. Beau-
tiful imaginations abound. Fine lines drop down,
soft and bright as rosebuds. winnowing their
way from their mother-tree. Such is his descrip-
tion of a stream, which seemed
“As if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.”
Epithets fall, fitting themselves as perfectly to
their objects as snow-flakes to the form of the
yielding branches on which they descend. In-
372
SOCIAL PROGRESSION.
deed could epithets make an immortality, his were
secure. “Scattery light,” for example, what an
image that presents of the sails of a ship coming
up in the sunshine ! Pathos, too, is frequent, al-
ways delicate, and sometimes profound. How it
sighs in his poem on his children, “like parting
wings of cherubim " How it steeps with tears
that fatal page in “Rimini,” where the lovers
stopped their reading, and stopped forever ! But
while of sentiment there is no lack, there is little
profound passion. While there is enough and to
spare of fancy, the grand unifying influence of im-
agination is often absent. While there is much
poetry, there is no poem. Deep thought and pur-
pose strike not, like strong trunks, through the
łuxuriant and clustering foliage. The only uniting
principle we can observe in his poetry, is that of a
systematic and vicious style. Odd and obsolete
phrases, compound barbarisms, an uncommon use
of common words, a tasteless selection from the
vocabulary of antique writers, deliberate innova-
tions, and false coinages of language, are among
the manifold affectations which abound, partic-
ularly in his poem entitled “Foliage.” This is
the more singular, as his prose is generally free
from such blemishes. But, as he told Lord Byron,
he committed them on system: thus, as Shelley
remarks, “permitting a system relating to mere
words, to divert the attention of the reader from
whatever interest he had created, to his own inge-
nuity, in contriving to disgust them according to
the rules of criticism.” But such perverse tortur-
ing of language does more than disgust the reader.
It impedes the motions, and limits the power of
the author. His mind cannot be working with
full force and freedom, while compelled by a sys-
tein to look with such a minute and fastidious eye
to the mere verbiage in which his thoughts are
clothed. He places himself, in fact, in the false
position of one who is thinking in one language
and writing in another. The language of elevated
conversation is, we think, the language in which
oetry should be written. But if Hunt, or John
É. who hampered, by similar shackles, far
more majestic movements, and checked a much
profounder vein, had gone through the streets talk-
ing in the style of “Endymion” or “Foliage,”
they would have been sent tº Bedlam, and have
deserved the translation. Wordsworth's barba-
risms are those of a particular county; and, harsh
as they are, have much in them that is racy and
characteristic. But those of Hunt and Keats,
seem artificially twisted beyond the power of pro-
nunciation in any human tongue, and fitted for the
inhabitants of some other and still odder world
than this. With what severe and smiling scorn
did the Grecian culture of the poet ºf Prometheus
teach him, through all his love and sympathy, to
regard those little affectations on the part of his
friends, and which we regret to say, are still com-
mon in the writings of some genuine poets of
the age, who, with the poor English language,
are playing such “fantastic tricks before high
heaven,” as might make us weep, were it not for
laughter.
Great or good writers may, perhaps, he divided
into two classes, the Oracles and the Companions.
The first sit, shrouded and folded up in obscurity
or in dazzling light, and utter their responses to
wondering, and fearing, and far-off auditors. The
second sit, or stand, or walk by our sides; some
moody and speaking only by fits and starts, others
scowling and sullen but instructive; a third class,
º 0ſ
- º 0.1
ever cheerful and communicative. * orá"
Coleridge may be taken as a specimen,9 Addiso" *.
cle; Swift was the sulky but sensible, anjoſ";
the cheerful, and Hazlitt the moody cºme.
It was the glory of Shakspeare, that he . will
the qualities of both, of all. Where, as in hi herº
you find such oracular deliverances! at âtea',
such plain homely sense! and where such ºnial
ful moods and tenses 4 and where *lºpeſ:
gayety? Now he is a Pan, in hºariº.m.
telling mysterious tidings from the thicke. É. and
of nature; now an elf leaping on your
playfully pinching your nostril; now S
grave, Socratic sage, talking to you of matte. a
concern your busixess and your bosom 3 jet
misanthrôpe, looking on all things at "ling
angle ; and now a kind, and glad, an º: to
companion, as is the lively and lip-full . er's
the wanderer who walks beside it for a su"
day. - }
fiant, need we say, is “the Companion' mp
easy, and talkative, and good-humored of *
ions, thou hast, to us, beguiled not a few
while reading, and not a few while at pres”
ing of thee. Our glad hours owe thée nº.'s
thou hast gladdened them still more. . aſ!
hours owe thee more, for thou hast sooth”.et
brightened them at times. In the flesh wº º
saw thee, and never hope to see ; but wº
thee for thy company none the less; and n°.
our paths diverge, we bid thee a hearly *
grateful farewell.
-º t.
From the Spectator, 1700
SOCIAL PROGRESSION.
A VISION OF THE FUTURE. :*.
AFTER the successful result of some great }.
cal movement, there is first a childish exulº. mé"
then a long pause of torpor and apathy; theº e20°
thing which it has become fashionable to call *.
tion; and then the hopes of the enthusias".
aspirations of the ambitious, the speculation**, to
theoretical, rush into a tumult of conjecture” e.
what the next great political movement is tº of
The exultation consequent on the trium? athy
free trade is subsiding; the torpor and the . ng;
are already visible; the reaction is approa” ăg
and the season of false or true prophecy reg" will
the future, and its primordial political chang”
not ſail to come. al
There are minds, however, that ovel...s
these intermediate steps; and, with the kº.n:
of the political gambler, or with the coºp”.
siveness of the philosophic idealist, already º:
with impatient imagination in the presence .
they consider as destined to be the chief poll
struggle of the age that succeeds the presen. d at
Now, it is probable that, as respects En; "...m.
least, we shall not have till more than half. "m º
tury has elapsed, anything corresponding "...in
nitude and intensity to the political contests, Il Jast
importance to the political victories, which icº
twenty years have witnessed; and that Pº ocial
improvement must sink into the handmaid of *
rogression. r0
p It is evident to the philanthropist, that th. :
woes in the community which no governme." their
heal; to factions, that party cries have ". 0.
charm, and party conflicts their excitemen y
society, that it must be its own physician. hence,
Statesmanship, therefore, must consis; ocial
forth of the ability so to master and moul” "
FRENCH HISTORICAL MEMOIRS.
373
tlem
§00 º as to evolve the largest amount of social
jº political education will inevitably be
hiº. aims and wider in its grasp than it has
ºlities een. It will require, as before, practical
e * An extensive and mature experience, an
"litiation into parliamentary habits, into
* subtleties and dexterities, into financial
... * thorough acquaintance with all which
Willi. er the general name of routine: but it
histo. ° demand a profounder knowledge of human
§. the human heart, such as the solitary
§voluti ºn best acquire. Now, here we have a
kind" ºn in statesmanship of the most momentous
Fant º the instant you seek more from a states-
ºis. can be learned in courts and parliaments,
bly be ºn ceases to be what it has almost invaria-
ſey”." in England, the cunning application of a
ºn."ºtocratic traditions; and the power is at
Co ...ken from exclusively aristocratic hands.
the ºlently, when social progress begins to be
wea.ºn inspiration and object of statesmanship,
than º at that emancipation of talent for which
$0 a.i. Barnest soul among our countrymen has
Princi tly sighed. Statesmanship for purposes
Shat pally political, requires simply shrewdness
will. “d by exercise, and enlarged by collision
lies. Y persons and many things; of the quali-
the ...sary for statesmanship of this description,
the jºritic class possesses a more abundant
so..."? than all other classes; and thus it is not
been ** a misfortune as we think it that they have
ſor Ul "r lawgivers so long. But statesmanship
the ..ºses principally social, requires thought in
there ** significani acceptation of the word; and
ind... it is to men of business habits certainly,
bes. Practical sagacity and promptitude, but who
Whil. ; *re philosophers, that we must after a short
90k for our statesmen.
prºjºſe many enthusiasts who think that social
is...ºsion will be much more beautiful than any
ſº." ºf political advancement; and they turn
first tº latter with a sort of disgust. But the
ºi...of social progression will be a very pro-
the ºr... We may call it, for distinction's sake,
and "tºrial phase.” The objects of statesmen
tial: lilanthropists during this period will be so-
and'." they will involve only material changes,
ther."ºnversant only with material details. Nu-
skill
pººl systematic effºrts will be made tº
whe..."9 material condition of the people ; but,
orm.*.* plan of national education be attempted
of... there will be nothing deserving the name
dej. will come the second, or what we may
Wille the asthetic phase of social progression;
Wei..., culture will begin. Comfort, material
Pyca *g, diffused in every mode that philanthrº:
his "...suggest or government can aid, there, will
bwe *hong the people the taste for art and the
ºf the beautiſm." This taste, this love, will
tºtal. ºuraged by the national instruments and
bec, *hments of education. But the people will
lion"." "eir own educators in art, when the affec-
And ... art has become a hunger of the mind.
lsts i. “an never be an agency to civilize, or art-
to be §eat things among a people, till art is felt
* indispensable need of that people's heart.
And aſ §ood, the true, and the beautiful are one.
of ."º a feast of the beautiful, the cloyed spirit
stro. nation will yearn for something sterner and
Nº. than the beautiful can give. This will
Sion, * third or moral phase of social progres-
* will be something as heroic as Puritan-
ism, yet not expended like that noble fact in fierce
antagonism, but in generous deeds of universal bless-
ing. The bravery of Puritanism was the result
of deep faith. The bravery of the period we are
foretelling will be sympathy sanctified by the wor-
ship of the beautiful. A brave government and a
brave people, acting under such influence and act-
ing together—the very thought is sufficient to
make poets of us all. º
It is not possible for a nation to continue for any
length of time this heroic attitude—such a heroic
mission. But if either an individual or a nation
wished to be manly, wished to have completeness
of character, to pass through heroism is indispensa-
ble. The individual, or the nation, that has bowed
down to the beautiful, that has done homage to
the good, deserves, and cannot fail to seize, the
heritage of the true. The fourth phase of social
progression, consequently, is that which may accu-
rately be termed the human phase; for it supposes
national culture to have grown identical with hu-
man culture; it supposes an end of exaggerations,
extremes, and onesidedness; it supposes a nation
in the plentitude of material resources, and in the
amplitude of physical energies, with such harmony
of physical, moral, mental, and religious educa-
tion and enjoyment, as earth has not herctofore
beheld.
From the Spectator.
FRENCH Historical MEMOIRs.
MeMoIRs form a very extensive, delightful, and
important branch of the literature of France. They
seem almost coeval with that literature itself; and
their supply has been abundant and uninterrupted
from the days of old Philip de Comines and of the
Duc de Sully to those of the revolution, the
empire, and the restoration. A future day will
probably bring to light, in similar forms, much of
the private history of the present time. The
peculiar propensity of the French to memoir-
writing, and their admirable skill in it, must be
accounted for by something in the national charac-
ter and disposition ; in the same way as some dif-
ference in the mental constitution of tho sexes
makes a lady’s letter so much more easy, fluent,
graceful, and lively, than a man's. In France,
people of all ranks and conditions have been
memoir-writers: grave statesmen, martial com:
manders, philosophers, courtiers, littérateurs, and
artists of every class, and women of the highest
fashion and the most brilliant accomplishments;
and their productions form a body of literature
without a parallel in the world. . In themselves,
they furnish pleasant reading from their wit,
vivacity, and endless variety; while, there is
scarcely a topic connected with the history, the
social condition, and the manners of France for
several centuries, on which they do not throw
floods of light. In this agreeable and valuable
kind of literature, we have little to show ; hardly
anything, indeed, of consequence; beyond the
writings" of Horace Walpole, who possessed,
among other Gallicisms of character, the gift of
memoir-writing, and whose productions of the
class make us regret that they stand almost alone
in this branch of English composition ; for we can
not rank as belonging to it those memoirs of emi-
nent men which are now-a-days manufactured
after their death by professional authors, and
generally as bookselling speculations. The me-
moirs we want are those of men and women of the
374
AIEMOIRS.
FRENCH HISTORICAL
world, moving in the busy affairs of life, and
actors as well as spectators in the scenes which
they describe.
We have before us the third and fourth volumes
of M. Barrière’s “Bibliothèque des Mémoires
relatifs à l’Histoire de France pendant le Dix-
huitième Siècle;” a work still in progress of pub-
lication, which, when completed, must be of con-
siderable magnitude. The first two volumes con-
tain some memoirs relative to the close of Louis
the Fourteenth's reign, and the regency ; the
volumes before us embrace the period from the
accession of Louis the Fifteenth to the breaking
out of the revolution in 1789; and those which
have yet to appear will of course relate to the
eventful time till the establishment and consolida-
tion of the consular government under Bona-
parte. -
The third volume commences with the memoirs
of Madame du Hausset, the femme de chambre of
Madame de Pompadour. She was a person of
condition, and treated by the royal favorite more as
a companion than a servant; being trusted with all
her mistress's secrets, admitted to her utmost pri-
vacy, and familiarly treated by all her associates,
even the king himself. This soubrette seems to
have been a shrewd, intelligent Frenchwoman,
well aware of the interest of what was passing
round her. Like Boswell, she was in the habit of
writing down, from day to day, what she saw and
heard. Her style is naïve and simple ; she shows
much attachment to her mistress, and views with-
out any severity the scenes she witnesses : but her
miniature-painting has filled up the details of a
picture of royal degradation and general corruption
of morals paralled only in the worst times of the
Roman empire. Madame de Pompadour, a young
married woman of the middle class, brought to the
lving's notice in furtherance of a court intrigue,
soon gained a complete ascendancy over the royal
sybarite, sank him deeper and deeper in sloth and
sensuality, and for nearly twenty years governed
the kingdom in his name ; ruining its finances, in-
volving it in disastrous and disgraceful wars, and
exciting not only against herself, but the monarch y;
the deep and concentrated hatred of the people,
which afterwards exploded so terribly. That she
did all this is well known ; but how she did it
can be learned only from such a source as these
memoirs.
Some of the distinguished literati of the time
figure in them in an amusing manner. The famous
Quesnay, the chief of the sect of the Economists,
was the king's physician in ordinary, and on inti-
mate terms with the Sultana, though he appears
to have been a simple-minded man, uncontami-
nated by the manners of the coºk, and wrapped up
in his philosophical theories., The following trait
of him is told by Madame de Pompadour to her
attendant. *
“Do you know what Quesnay said to me one
day ! T. king was talking to him in my apart-
ment, and he looked so agitated and confused, that
when the king left the room, I said to him, “You
look very much embarrassed before the king, and
yet he is so good-natured ''. ‘Madam,” he an-
swered, ‘I was forty when I left my native village,
and have little experience in the world. When Í
am in a room with the king, I say to myself—
Here's a man who can cut my head off; and that
idea troubles me.” “But the king's justice and
goodness ought to reássure you.’ ‘O, that is all
very well to reason upon; but feeling is much
º re ſ
more prompt, and it inspires me with ſº Iſl diately
can muster up reasons against it.' . . " "In that]
(says Madame de Haussel) wrote this d"
might not forget it.”
The king's treatment of literary men. ted
“The king, who admired everything . thſ.
with the age of Louis XIV., remembering by
Boileaus and Racines had been wellº. W35
him, and that a part of the glory of his . im
ascribed to them, was flattered that he . hitſ,
his own reign had a Voltaire ; but he e. al , I
and did not like him. He said, “Atº Ated
have treated him as well as Louis X*"... ſouls
Racine and Boileau ; I have given him; º
XIV. gave Racine, the place of a gettle if
ordinary, and a pension ; it is not my.
commits follies, and thinks himself entitled
chamberlain, to wear a cross, and sup wº
king. This is not the ſashion in Franº.jeme.
there are rather more beaux esprits an n() largº
here than in Prussia, I should need a . 0ſ!
table to hold them all. And then he rºº
his fingers, “Maupertuis, Fontenelle, Pº ardº
Voltaire, Piron, Destouches, Montesquiº.ody;
nal Polignac.’ ‘‘Your Majesty,’ said sº said
“forgets D'Alembert and Clairault.’ “ Yºe.'
the king ; “and Crebillon and La Cha".
‘And the younger Crebillon,” added sº Very
‘and, the Abbé Prevost, and D'Olive!...twenty
well,” said the king ; “for these five-and- f the
years all that crew [tout cela, an expressiº" ºppº
utmost contempt] would have dined and *
with me.’” ch3!"
The next memoirs are those of M. de **i.
mont, a member of the fashionable society º Fif
in the latter part of the reign of Louis .go.
teenth and the early part of that of his º.ngº
He was in the habit, for many years, of lº his
diary for his own amusement and tha", "inde:
friends. It was afterwards printed abroº: its."
the title of “Mémoires Historiques et Littº. has
in thirty-six volumes; from which a sº.º.
been made by the editor of the present publi S5 of
The original volumes, he says, contain a *.ich,
rubbish, of no interest or value in our day 㺠be-
when cleared away, leaves but a small reºgree
hind; but this residue, he thinks, (and * is 4
with him,) is well worthy of preservation...cs of
mélange, like that of Grimm, of all the ". ºted
the day, public, literary, and fashionable. and
with a Frenchman's lightness and vivºy, it
very entertaining ; though, with all its É , c0ſ?
throws a melancholy light on the thoroug"ºnme.
rupted state of French society in the year”
diately preceding the revolution. is thº'
From some notices in this diary it appº. small,
the death of Louis the Fifteenth (caused". al and
pox in May, 1774) was the subject of geº. took
undisguised rejoicing. The following 59°
place at his funeral. O
“The royal remains were conveyed t
resting-place on the day appointed, with *; cere:
cent haste, and an absolute destitutioſ' "fiji of
monial. The taverns along the road wº. "One
drunken people, singing and making ºat thé
of them is talked of, who was so riotou? and
people of the house wanted to turn him...trid
refused to let him have any more wine...ssio"
of him, they said that the king's funeral,”, hº
was going to pass. “What 'he cried, he lº
made us die of hunger all his life, and nº,"
dead, is he going to make us die is the
their
inder
y
of thirst?
t 3
The most curious part of these memº"
FRENCH HISTORICAL MEMIOIRS.
375
º
§ given, day y day, of Voltaire's final visit
up #. He arrived in February, 1778, and took
lette *hode with his relative, the Marquis de Vil-
skelet e was eighty-four years old, and a living
e.”... but as active, vain, and ambitious as
isia he details of the homage paid him by the
ceivi "... literati and bas blous, and his way of re-
ºxiet it—his sarcasms, wit, and gallantry—his
Irène y about the production of his last tragedy,
* * an
Ślegel his presence at its performance—the
ej laid to him by the clergy during his final ill-
of ". eir zeal to extort from him a renunciation
iſ...fººl opinions—his confessions under the
te.9e of fear of death or physical weakness, and
jºions of them when he rallied for a time his
lif..."." and spirits—and the closing scene of his
ti.e. all full of character, and many of
ti...º not mentioned by his biographers. From
pa Part of the memoirs we shall translate a few
*Sages
FRANKLIN AND VOLTAIRE.
he º Dr. Franklin called on M. de Voltaire,
ii.ºnted to him his grandson; and, with all
80me ... and puerile adulation, or, according to
*$ked *Yout people, with a derisive impiety, he
Philoso im to give the child his blessing. The
Placed Pher, as good an actor as the doctor, rose,
his hands on the little innocent's head, and
ić."ºced with emphasis these three words—
$ Liberty, Toleration.’”
volt AIRE's TEMPER.
! {{
3rt M. de villette,
Wat dinner.
oltai
r
thank Q
a few days ago, had a large
In sitting down to table, M. de
- missed his drinking-cup, which he had
Said *!, with his seal. “Where is my cup” he
hi...ºth flashing eyes, to a simple footman behind
hi.", whose special duty it was to wait upon
stan. he poor devil, frightened out of his wits,
lº.º. out a few words. ‘Enemy of your
gº.ºroared the old man in a fury, find my
Qut º- will have my goblet—I won't dine with-
leſ. th Seeing that the goblet did not appear, he
shut. table in rage, went up to his room,”
de Wºlf in. Madame Denis, Madame and M.
com."ºtte, one after the other, went to beg him to
tºwn, but in vain. At length, it was ºr
Who hed to depute the Marquis de Villevieille,
*iab oltaire is fond of from his pleasant and
t Wh *Imanners. He knocked softly at the door.
sailº is there?' ' 'Tis I–Villevieille.’ ‘Ah,'
tna * taire, opening the door, “it is you, my dear
r º
ºm.; what do you want with me!" & I. alſTl
Yºut . name of all your friends, in despair at
The "sence, to beseech you to cºme down.”
you.” *k me to come down º' ‘They conjure
so; ...But, my dear friend, I dare not.’ “ Why
think They will laugh at me.’ ‘How can you
thi. Sº? Have we not all our notions about
§ that belong to us? Does not everybody
wº own glass, his penknife, or his pen º'
Jet. I see you wish to find an excuse for me.
.." us ºther own frankly that everybody has his
ha. blush for mine; but yet I_remember
Passi. *ad somewhere that the sage Locke WàS
Af. Go down first—I shall follow you.’
down "inutes afterwards he appeared, and sat
of a . table, mimicking the timid awkwardness
Pers ghty child that expects a scolding. Some
that tº: Present, who told the story, assured us
“y never saw him so amiable.”
HIS CONFESSION.
“M. de Voltaire's partisans, not being able to
deny the fact of his confession, which is too pub-
licly known, are now trying to efface the dis-
agreeable impressions it may produce by repre-
senting it as an act of derision ; in proof of which,
they repeat his reply to the curé who was exhort-
ing him to reënter the pale of the church—“You
are right, M. le Curé ; we should, die in the
religion of our fathers. , Were I on the banks of
the Ganges, I should wish to expire with a cow's
tail in my hand.” The following is his declaration -
of faith—º I, the undersigned, declare, that being
attacked at eighty-four years of age with a vomit-
ing of blood, and being unable to drag myself to
church, M. le Curé of St. Sulpice has added to his
good works that of sending to me the Abbé
Gautier, to whom I have made my confession ; and
that, if God dispose of me, I die in the holy Catho-
lic religion in which I was born, hoping that the
Divine mercy will pardon all my sins; and that, if
I have scandalized the church, I beg pardon of
God and it. Voltaire. 2d March, 1778, in the
house of M. the Marquis de Villette, in presence
of M. l'Abbé Mignot my nephew, and M. the
Marquis de Villevieille my friend.’”
HIS LAST APPEARANCE IN PUBLIC.
“On the 1st April, M. de Voltaire went to the
Comédie Française. The court of the building,
large as it is, was ‘full of people waiting for him.
As soon as his carriage, sky-blue and spangled
with stars, made its appearance, the assemblage of
Savoyards, apple-women, and all the canaille of
the neighborhood, burst into acclamations of ‘Vive
Voltaire ' The Marquis de Villette, who had
previously arrived, and another friend, helped him
to alight, and had some trouble to get him out of
the crowd. When he entered the theatre, a crowd
of a more elegant kind, and full of real enthusiasm
for genius, surrounded him ; the ladies especially
threw themselves in his way, and stopped him that
they might look at him the better; some of them
eagerly touched his clothes, and others pulled hairs
from the fur of his cloak.
“The saint, or rather the divinity of the day, was
to occupy the box of the noblemen of the bed-
chamber, opposite that of the Count d'Artois.
Madame Denis and Madame de Villette were
already seated, and the pit, in convulsions of joy,
waited the poet's appearance. There was no rºst
till he was placed in the front row, beside the
ladies. Then there was a cry, ‘The crown' and
Brizard, the actor, came to place it on his head.
“Ah, Dieu, vous woulez done me faire mourir.”
cried Voltaire, weeping for joy, and refusing the
honor. He took the crown in his hand and pre-
sented it to Belle et bonne, [his pet name for
Madame de Villette;] she was declining it, when
the Prince de Beauveau, seizing the laurel wreath,
placed it on the head of the Sophocles of the hour;
who refused it no longer.
“His new tragedy was acted, and applauded more
than usual; but not enough, to correspond with so
triumphal a reception. When, it was over, the
curtain fell; and, rising again, discovered the bust
of Voltaire, surrounded by all the performers, with
palms and garlands in their hands. The bust was
already crowned ; and after a flourish of drums
and trumpets, Madame Vestris declaimed, with an
emphasis proportioned to the extravagance of the
376
OF A METEOR.
THE TRAVELS
scene, some verses composed for the occasion by
the Marquis de St. Marc. Then they all, in suc-
cession, placed their garlands round the bust:
Mademoiselle Fanier, in a transport of enthusi-
asm, kissed it, and all the rest followed her
example.
“Voltaire's little comedy Nanine, was then per-
formed; when it was over there was a fresh hub-
bub, and fresh embarrassment for the philosopher's
modesty : when he got into his carriage, it was
not allowed to proceed; the crowd threw them-
selves before the horses, and held them ; and some
young poets began a cry, to take out the horses,
and draw the modern Apollo home ; unluckily
these enthusiasts were too few for the purpose, and
at length the carriage was allowed to move on, in
the midst of “vivats,” which he could hear all the
way to his residence. When he got home, he
wept afresh, and modestly protested that if he had
foreseen that the public would commit such follies
he would not have gone to the theatre. Next day,
his friends came in crowds to congratulate him
on his triumph : he was unable to resist such
ardor, kind feeling, and glory, and immediately
resolved to buy a house and settle himself in
Paris.”
A CONTRAST.
“May 31. M. de Voltaire died last night, at
eleven o’clock. As the priests refuse to bury him,
and his friends dare not send his body to Ferney,
where his tomb is waiting him, they are seeking
means to get over the difficulty. tº: *
A little before his death, the pastor, whose charity
is indefatigable, again approached his bed and
asked him if he believed in the divinity of Jesus
Christ : The dying man hesitated a moment, and
then answered—‘Monsieur le Curé, laissez-moi
mourir en paix.’ He turned himself and expired,
repairing, in the eyes of his disciples, the pusilla-
nimity he had previously shown. The government,
whose weakness appears in everything, has pro-
hibited the actors from performing any piece of
Voltaire's till further orders. It feared some fer-
mentation in the public thus assembled. What a
contrast with the coronation of the modern Sopho-
cles three months ago '''
The fourth volume contains the Memoirs of the
Baron de Besenval. They have been long pub-
lished, and are more generally known than those
which we have already noticed, having been fre-
quently cited and referred to by Lacretelle and
other historians of the revolution. De Besenval, a
native of Switzerland, began his career as an officer
of the Swiss Guards of Louis the Fifteenth ; served
with distinction in that corps in the Seven Years'
war; rose to the rank of a general officer, and
assed his life at the court of France till the break-
ing out of the revolution., Being a loyalist, his
fortunes were involved in those, of his sovereign;
he was arrested, imprisoned, and narrowly escaped
with his life. Had he survived till the “reign of
terror,” his escape from the guillotine would have
been but temporary; but he died in June, 1791, in
his seventieth year. His memoirs are almost
exclusively political, and contain ample details
respecting the character and transactions of the
leading statesmen and other public personages—
such as De Vergennes, the Duke d'Aiguillon,
Calonne, Necker—who figured in the latter days
of the monarchy; and likewise of the º
the royal family, especially the ‘... [...is
Count d'Artois. As to the unfortuna”. tº:
Sixteenth himself, he scarcely appears "...yº
dramatis persona—a striking mark of thº." i
his character. The reader of these mºthey
not find much novelty in the events º' *... avery
relate; but they fill up the picture draw. y of the
contemporary writer, of the utter imbº” iſ...fits
government, the corruption of every. ranc f the
administration, the unblushing proſtigºnding
higher orders, and their blindness to the . ow8
storm which they had drawn upon th.
heads. There is no occasion to have * coun'
to the writings of “the philosophers”
for the French Revolution : had 110
written a line, there was enough, in *
of the people,
to i. ()
iloš
ph wrong”
“To move . ... ??
The stones of France to rise and muti"
The Travels of A METEOR.—An ºing
cal correspondent of the Morning Herald which
given an enlightened account of a melº. eved”
appeared in the metropolitan heavens a ſº. taſy"
ings since, concludes his letter by hoping.".mmu.
body else who may have observed it will º thé
nicate the time of observation, and the tºº.
meteor took. We have collected a deal º th9
mation upon this subject, which is perfecº whº
service of the above or any other astrono"
wishes to make use of it. he wº
Mr. Napoleon Smith saw the meteor * joº
coming out of the Adelphi Theatre. . [tºber
the tail of the lion on the top of North.”
land House, and disappeared behind the ji.
window of a house in George street;... wº
Cannot be positive about the hour, º
somewhere between the burlesque and the i owſ
Policeman C. 105, followed the meteor *... of 4
Regent street. It disappeared down the *.intº
house in Cavendish Square, and seemed tº *. it.
the kitchen. Went after it, but could n°
* Hour, supper time. h6
ſiss Very Green saw a strong light as . lº
returning home from Islington. It shot,”. of
heavens, and then burst into a golden shº"...th
guineas, Held out her apron, but did *...
any. Asked what it was, and was told?' 'ºrceſ
eruption of Mount Vesuvius; which M. West'
thought was very likely indeed, conside; ſºme
vius is somewhere in the neighborhood of
Time, the last 'bus to Barnes. nu
Cabman, Jim Downy. Doesn't knºis.
about it. Saw somefin blueish, then reddis $ 3.
in the 'evans, but thought it was the firº. agin,
Wauxhall, and did n't trouble imself tol" They
as he 's tired seeing on 'em ev’ry nigº nt aſ
cum out of the chimbley of the Helep "...is
Castle, and vent he doesn't know where, ºn h”
no vatch, and does n’t know the time
sees it. ... we sº
We hope the above testimonies, which "...i b6
out a commissioner purposely to colleg" ...stia
sufficiently luminous to support al... may
theory the Morning Herald corresponde"
w88
entertain.—Punch.
NEWS OF THE WEEK.
377
NEWS OF THE WEEK.
sº the most extraordinary phenomena ex-
"t pag y Italy, the most wonderful is recorded in
an j this week. It is proposed to establish
Pºsal is . to promote free trade; and the pro-
"Or in th tºwn out, not in anonymous placards,
* the * shouts of rebels, but is deliberately made
ºat, scientific congress, in Genoa, in the
ºr. Of authority; and what is more, it is
as jºggived! Certainly, free trade follows
*Vitable consequence of railways, just as
ºft. free travelling does; and free political in-
sili... will eventually follow both. The propo-
wi. ºlogical enough; it is also, in truth, highly
to sº. Pudent, and conservative. The wonder is
are maj “go-ahead” progress which the Italians
and'.g., But they are a great people. Art
tiºnee have survived every national humilia-
lº." even political knowledge has flourished
dent the surface. Like the supernatural resi-
"as re the Castle of Otranto, political knowledge
ins.”y growing too big for its confined tene-
own. which it would have burst and shaken
i. ºd not Pius the Ninth unlocked the iron
feel; Of tyranny, allowed the ſettered genius to
ture, * coming freedom, and so saved the struc-
§: fermentation about the Montpensier mar-
wj. ...inues rapidly to subside, in London as
th. in Paris and Madrid. The idea which we
St .. last week touching the “forbidden bans”
to fo the treaty of Utrecht really has no provision
poiſ. a marriage—seems to have struck divers
CUl º: as cogent; and we presume that it had
Matte °d to others still more conversant with such
§ss. Aggressive gesticulations are now con-
ly is to be silly, and official England has discreet-
hot i.e. to be content with a passive sulkiness,
nºnpatible with a certain awkwººd digity
it is * returning good-humor. Lord Normanby,
kin . by gossips, refuses at present to dine with
j ouis Philippe ; but we do not yet despair of
ta.; at no distant day, that the marquis has
si," a chop even with the Duc de Montpen-
T º *
ºize º two Spanish marriages have been solem-
isis"; Spain has looked on in silence; the journal-
ſto; hat threatened to prevent the match, driven
inj. *y tenable position in the present, rush into
Pa ...e waticinations for the future; and Lord
an...ston has so far recovered his self-possession
to .*humor, that, we see, Lord Normanby is
sº. With M. Guizot. The nine-days' wonder is
§elve y declining in interest. Some console them-
ha. With the reflection, that even if the match
in." worse results, it will have impaired the
sº confidence and cordiality between France
ai."gland, Possibly; Louis Philippe's desper-
ma push for his unendowed son, his youngest boy,
di. without reason have scandalized English
jºie etiquette in such matters; and there
si. . a coolness—to disappear at the first occa-
to t º; mutual service between the nations. As
tion f eeling in Spain—“enthusiasm” and affec-
ºn.” the French princes, according to , the
º: ministerial writers; dogged, sullen dislike,
Bij y armed power and bribes, according to
of...gºnists—it is ſo us most evidently that
moſ.indifference. If the Spaniards had any
jtive and stronger feeling, they would not
. XII, LIVING AGE. VOL. XI. 24
hesitate to express it pretty loudly.—Spectator, 17
Oct.
A REPORT was circulated in London early in the
week, with ostentatious display, as if it were genu-
ine intelligence, that Mexico had purchased peace
from the United States by the cession of California;
and there was a burst of indignation at the traitor
Santa Anna, who “must have sold his country.”
The advices brought by the mail-steamer mention
nothing of the sort; and the report now appears to
have been a pure fabrication, of course for stock-
jobbing purposes. Santa Anna's policy is still
involved in doubt.
THE Cape of Good Hope appears to be at pres-
ent the Algeria of England; only that the savages
who keep our troops employed are not so warlike
as the Arabs, nor endowed with such a leader as
Abd-el-Kader. A perpetual movement, occasional
successes of a paltry kind, lead to nothing decisive ;
while the government seems, like a policeman,
always to be out of the way when he is wanted.
THE accounts from New Zealand provoke the
bitterest reflections. The Hutt has again been the
scene of a disastrous assault on the British troops,
with such loss on our side as to incite the ignorant
audacity of the savages. The whole course of
affairs in New Zealand has been of a kind to de-
lude the natives, as much as if the very object had
been to lead them on by every possible show of
weakness on the part of the British ; and now,
when Captain Grey had somewhat succeeded in
counteracting such an impression, his lieutenant
at Wellington, Major Richmond, does his best to
restore it. Major Richmond was warned of the
attack ; but he received the warning with absurd
incredulity—rebuffed the friendly natives, dis-
banded the militia, and in short acted as if he were
agent for the enemy. Of course we do not mean
to imply anything of that kind. But he belongs
to the old set of officials, who, incapable in them-
selves, were thoroughly demoralized by the per-
verse rule which has distinguished the local
government. Captain Grey ought to have swept
away the whole set.
TIE memoir of Thomas Clarkson, published in
the papers recently, omitted to mention that he was
a clergyman of the established church. Such,
nevertheless, is the fact. IIe was made a deacon
in early life ; but his exertions in the cause of
Emancipation brought him into connexion with
many estimable Quakers, whose views he imbibed
to a very considerable extent. The consequence
was, that he dropped the title of “ reverend, and
ceased to officiate as a clergyman.-Globe.
Tire marriages of Queen Isabella and the ſnfanta
were solemnized in the Hall of the Ambassadors, at
half-past ten, P. M., on the 10th in lant. , All the
royal family were present, as well as the high
dignitaries of the state, the church, and the house-
hold; the foreign ambassadors; and a host of
nobles, ladies, guards, &c. A sumptuous tempe-
rary altar was erected on the left of the throne.
All having taken their stations, the religious cere-
mony commenced. It is briefly described by the
correspondent of the Morning Post—
“The queen, who was as pale as her sister was
flushed, descended the steps of the throne ; the In-
fante Francisco de Assiz placing himself by her
*=
378 NEWS OF THE WEEK.
side ; the queen-mother being on her majesty's
right. At the same time, the infanta and the Duke
de Montpensier, with the Duke d'Anmale, stationed
themselves on the right of Queen Christina. The
patriarch of the Indies read a short exhortation
upon the duties of matrimony, and proceeded
through the usual form of demanding of the prin-
cipals, whether there was any impediment why
they should not enter the bonds of holy wedlock,
and whether they accepted each other for husband
and wife He then blessed them with the sign of
the cross, in the name of the Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost. This concluded the ceremony; and
immediately after, Queen Christina, who was ob-
served to raise her handkerchief to her eyes more
than once during its continuance, embraced her
daughters, and kissed the Duke de Montpensier
and the Infante Francisco de Assiz on the forehead.
At the same time, the brides and bridegrooms re-
ceived the congratulations of the royal family; and
the queen and her sister retired with their hus-
bands.”
The Duke de Montpensier had presented Sefior
Isturiz with the grand cordon of the Legion of
Honor, and with a snuff-box set in brilliants, bear-
ing the portrait of king Louis Philippe.
“Our Paris correspondent,” says the Times,
“announces some facts of an unpleasant character
connected with this affair”—
“The much-desired despatches from Vienna had
reached the French government, and conveyed
Prince Metternich's surprise that the British gov-
ernment should have found in the treaty of Utrecht
anything that could prohibit the marriage of the
Duke de Montpensier with the Infanta Donna
Luisa. The prince declared to the French am-
bassador, Count Flahaut, that he regarded the con-
duct of France in the affair as perfectly justifiable;
and repeated the same language to Sir R. Gordon,
the British ambassador. “The Austrian govern-
ment,’ adds our correspondent, “will necessarily
bring with it those of Berlin and St. Petersburg to
the side of France.’ ‘This is not all, however,’
continues our correspondent : “the king of Hol-
land, to whom, when in London, the British court
displayed so much coldness last summer, returned
to his states overflowing with indignation. His
majesty, it seems, makes a return by giving vent to
his delight at the marriage of the Duke de Mont-
pensier with the Spanish infanta. His majesty is
described as delighted with the check to British
pride given by the coup of the king of the French.” ”
—Spectator, 17 Oct.
The Clamor Puhlico announces that Mr. Richard
Cobden, the “ celebrated economist,” has arrived
at Madrid; and claims for him a hearty welcome
by the Spanish liberal party.
The Suffolk Chronicle mentions an instance of
“Sir Robert Peel's unobtrusive benevolence.” It
was related by Mr. Wilderspin, in a lecture which
he delivered at the Ipswich Mechanics' Institution ;
and the anecdote is given in the speaker's own
words—
“Some of you have heard of Haydon the painter,
t
whose death was rather lamentable; and " *:
you have heard that Sir Robert Peel, the º dis-
minister of England, sent that man 50l. " º
tress. It ought to be known, by my mº"; ught
the country in this manner—and I never "...ºn
of self, for I always had faith that my countſ t the
would not allow me to die in a union, and .
Almighty would not allow me to ask for º my
mon necessaries of life—that I had spent . x.
money. I was at last reduced to the utmos kept
tremity. I wanted a crust of bread; ye" for an
the secret within my own breast. I set out 10 my
obscure village, where I thought I would, ""; hº
days. A friend called upon me. And when had
not a single shilling in my house—whº de my
nothing to offer him, for I felt I should deg. jog
cause by running into debt—when, my !. the
was as thin as my children—50l. came fro Peel.
rime minister of England, Sir Robert h98
Thus, you see, there are two men whom € thé
benefited : one is now in the eternal world, *...fre
other is the humble individual who stands
you.”
nveſ!"
THREE gentlemen abroad lay claim to th; º 3.
tion of a fulminating gun-cotton. M. Chodº";
Pole, has exhibited "some at the Acadeº wing
Sciences in Paris; but it has the defect 0 j,
a considerable deposit in the gun-barrel. M. "... à
a mechanical engineer at Paris, has takeſ. jen”
patent for his invention; which has received i.
tific and official approbation. “Burned on the h:
it causes no sensible pain, leaves no stain; aſ
duces no smoke. Dipped in water and Pº
and afterwards dried between two leaves of . s.”
ting-paper, it preserves its fulminating propº mis"
Another inventor is Dr. Otto, Professor of .
try in Brunswick. Sneering at those who ".
been before him in protecting their inventiº". ſor
says that he “scorns to sell or take out *Pºe.
his very interesting discovery:” and he publi ral
his method of making the cotton, “for the gº"
good of the public”— d ſº
“Common well-cleaned cotton is dippº itriº
about half-a-minute in highly concentrated "ie
acid, (the acid which I use being mado iX
distillation of ten parts of dried saltpetre . in
of oil of vitriol,) and then instantly pla". r t0
water, which must be often renewed, in orde. *
free the cotton from the acid with which it?
pregnated. Care must then be taken that."ºn-
knotty particles of the cotton are properly ‘After
tangled, and that it is thoroughly dried.... its
this, the explosive preparation is ready for uº.g.:
effects create astonishment in all who witness' k on
and the smallest portion explodes when st".er;
an anvil with a hammer, like fulminating p" firó
when kindled with a glowing body, it tak..."is
just like gunpowder; and when used in a g". its
operation, though in a far greater proportiº"...ow-
weight, is precisely the same as that of,g"; the
der. This gun-cotton is employed exactly...med
same way as gunpowder: a piece of it is . after
down the barrel, then a bit of wadding, * S
that a ball ; a copper cap ignites and explode
cotton.”
“HochelAGA” AND
“THE EMIGRANT.” 379
l From the Quarterly Review.
Hochel
Edi º: or, England in the New World.
, Of º by Eliot WARBuntos, Esq., Author
Lo The Crescent and the Cross.” evols.
2, T "don. 1846.
lê £migrant. By Sir F. B. IIEAD, Bart.
9ndon. 1846.
{{
did ºw puzzled us as much as “Eöthen”
ge. fair readers of book advertisements. we
fore {l * was a name affixed by the Scandinavian
A.ºrs of Columbus to the coast of North
Siº ºf the part of it where they disembarked
they § all young ladies are now German scholars,
ing'; ..." understand our interpretation of its mean-
Hall ''' it turns out that Hochelaga is an aborigi-
is sº." name for Canada. The name, however,
º's, and looks grand on the title-page of a
º, which might have dispensed with anything
Thº...! be classed in the category of claptrap.
º "or, in a very modest preface, intimates that
al thor is a friend of his, who could not person-
Willi "Perintend the printing, and who, though un-
Wei...ºblazon his own name, felt that the public
ºf..."ºlled to some guaranty for the character
ºn.” work included many statements of a
! do º startling description. We see no reason
W. ...that the nameless writer is worthy of Mr.
ºn's friendship, and therefore of our full
ºr.º. We infer that he is a regimental offi-
iii. Ployed during several years past in Canada.
“T *Position is not to be ranked with that of
hieri...tescent and the Cross,” but it is still very
§ be "s; and his principles and feelings appear
lish ºn every respect those of an enlightened Eng-
then §tleman. Without any regular arrange-
j is materials, he has contrived to include in
the ..."9 little volumes a very entertaining view of
combination with her rebellious subjects—appealed
to the loyalty of the people of Upper Canada—saw
his appeal enthusiastically received and seconded
by them—suppressed insurrection—repelled inva-
sion, and vindicated and maintained the rights and
the honor of the ſlag committed to his trust; re-
turning, with imminent hazard of his life, through
the native state of the “sympathizers,” and greeted
on his arrival in England by the astounding intelli-
gence of the beginning of a series of measures on
the part of the British government, the obvious in-
tention of which was, as their effect has been, to
rebuke and sadden the loyal spirit of Canada, and
to instal not only in the tranquillity of amnesty, but
in the triumph of legalized predominance, the pro-
Vincial faction by whom the queen's authority had
been insulted, her faithful servants massacred,
every effort made to dissever from her crown the
magnificent possessions so well entitled to the
name of “England in the New World.” He as-
suredly, if he should live for thirty years to come,
would be as incapable then as he is now of writing
coolly on these subjects; and far, very far, be it
from us to quarrel with his warmth. In that short
period was condensed for him the poetry of a life-
time—every feeling and every energy strained to
the topmost pitch—hope, zeal, gallant devotion,
generous confidence, the magic of loyal brother-
hood, the exultation of conscious heroism and of
complete success—to be followed and darkly re-
lieved by a most disheartening series of reversals.
Suddenly, without solicitation or expectation—
without ever having dreamt of such a thing any
more than of the mitre of Canterbury—he had
been appointed to a viceroyalty in British America.
Repairing thither, he had been called on to encoun.
ter difficulties as unforeseen as his own elevation;
but as he had fortunately been in his earlier life
incºmery and the manners of our Canadian prov- trained and exercised in arms under the great cap-
i. '."º a few striking sketches of their past his- ºin, these difficulties were not found too severe for
left"d a sober estimate of the results of recent
Wºlation . to the period at which he wrote.
6 are Sorry that he dismissed his MS. before the
ow.'"ºasures of last session had reached our ſel-
Picº. lºts in Hochelaga; but, from his bright
$0m."; their anticipations as to the working of
ºil." old arrangements then abruptly over-
War. We can hardly doubt that he has entered
desº, into their present feelings of alarm and
Wonden cy.
*tva; Warburton's friend, though a hearty con-
but "We and churchman, and of course anything
i. “mirer of the political institutions of the
thore tl tates, or approver of the motives, any
*hj,” of the proceedings, of the late Canadian
Fei.ites on the transactions of the insurgent
9ieſ.*d of their consequences, as far as devel-
für ...tº with perfect temper—sorry evidently
y, |ºl that had been done under British authori-
hin ºdestly willing to hope that what vexed
|a.; have really been considered a matter of
the idable necessity by the responsible advisers of
Pººl; Fir different, it will readily be sup:
tº...he tone in which Sir Francis Head once
Whic *Is to the incidents of that short period to
"Whiff" lºoks back as the marking epoch of his
ed his the two years during which he represent-
jºign in one of our noblest dependencies
ty's te §§ed an unprovoked invasion of her Majes-
rritory by republican sympathizers acting in
#: -
Reprinted by Wiley & Putnam, New York.
jler his observation, with the calmness of a
his resources. As the impartial author of “Hoche-
lºga', says, “the daring policy of Sir Francis
Head was eminently successful.” As suddenly,
his work done, he was dismissed from his high
Pºsition. A title of hereditary honor had been
given him: to withhold that would have outraged
the universal sentiment of the country, as well as
i the grateful heart of the sovereign he had so well
served. But from that moment the chill of official
discountenance enveloped him; and how could it be
otherwise, since he had made himself the very type
and symbol to all the British colonies of the princi-
Ples which were now to be put under ban? Since
then six years have passed over his head in private
obscurity; but he is still looked to with undimin-
ished regret and respect by the old friends of Eng-
land in the “England of the New World ;” and his
ºrt beats in unison with theirs, while the features
of his personal intercourse with them, and of their
adopted country, remain stamped in ineffaceable
vividness on the memory and imagination (usually
commensurate) of a man of genius—a man whose
powers of description and declamation are answera-
ble to the keenness of his eye and the glow of his
sentiments, and which, we must at once say, have
never been displayed more brilliantly than in “The
£migrant.” º
We read with gratification and benefit every year
many new books, well worthy of all that their au-
thors aspire to—the popularity of a season or two.
We are pleased and thankful: we soon read, and
we perhaps too soon forget them; but with what dif.
ferent feelings do we turn the leaves of a new book
380
“THE EMIGRANT.” h6
:le i
“HochelAGA” AND
when, after advancing a few pages or chapters, it
is, as the Methodists say, “borne in upon us” that
we hold in our hands a document which is certain
to be opened with unfaded interest long after we as
well as the author shall have “joined the majority”
-a record which must fix itself into the abiding
literature of our language, and be studied by who-
ever shall attempt in future times to master the his-
tory of this wonderful age of the British empire
Such, we venture to say, is the character which
every mature reader will at once perceive to be
that of this “Emigrant.” From this the future
Mahon will gather the means of enlivening the de-
tail of our annals—from this the Macaulay of
another day will draw the minute circumstances
which preserve the very form and image of the
past. -
It is not, however, our purpose to write a politi-
cal article on “Hochelaga” and “The Emigrant.”
We are content to recommend the former work
most heartily, in case any of our readers may as
yet be unacquainted with it, and to avail ourselves
of the opportunity to enrich our own pages with
some specimens of the other, which, from acciden-
tal circumstances, as we are told, cannot be pub-
lished for some weeks to come. And, in selecting
these specimens, we shall adhere for the most part
to the purely descriptive chapters of the book—
leaving the properly political ones to produce their
own just impression upon those who peruse them
by-and-by in the author's own arrangement, as
constituting in themselves a complete portraiture
of a most remarkable episode in British history—
one to be linked on, no question, to great coming
GVents. *
We begin with the beginning—Sir Francis
Head's chapter entitled “A New Sky”—being
his bold and rapid summary of the to him novel as-
ects of nature under the climate of the Canadas.
This chapter is an excellent specimen, not only of
his very peculiar talent for painting with the pen,
but of his skill in bringing science down to the
humblest capacity—a skill in which he has not
been surpassed by even the very reverend cancrolo-
gist of Westminster. What a lecturer he would
have made for a merry tiſſining of the British Asso-
ciation
“However deeply prejudiced an Englishman
may be in favor of his own country, yet I think it
is impossible for him to cross the Atlantic without
admitting that in both the northern and southern
hemispheres of the new world Nature has not only
outlined her works on a larger scale, but has paint-
ed the whole picture with brighter and more costly
colors than she used in delineating and in beautify.
ing the old world. The heavens of America ap-
pear infinitely higher—the sky is bluer—the clouds
are whiter—the air is fresher—the cold is intenser
—the moon looks larger—the stars are brighter—
the thunder is louder—the lightning is vivider—the
wind is stronger—the rain is heavier—the moun-
tains are higher—the rivers larger-the forests big-
ger—the plains broader; in short, the gigantic and
beautiful features of the new world seem to corre-
spond very wonderfully with the increased locomo-
tive powers and other brilliant discoveries which
have lately been developed to mankind.
“The difference of climate in winter between
the old and new world amounts, it has been esti-
mated, to about thirteen degrees of latitude. Ac-
cordingly, the region of North America which
basks under the same sun or latitude as Florence,
is visited in winter with a cold equal to those of
St. Petersburg or of Moscow; and thus: wº
inhabitant of the Mediterranean is wº. very
or other light clothing, the inhabitant of . eithé!
same latitude in the new world is to be fou! In h;
huddled close to a stove hot enough tº º of
eyes out, or muffled up in furs, with all i. face,
contrivances to preserve the very nose or "
and the ears on his head, from being fºc
“This extra allowance of cold is the * deavo!
various causes—one of which I will "... as
shortly to describe. It is well known ſhº... are
temperature is concerned, 300 feet of al.; y;
about equal to a degree of latitude; acº";
that by ascending a steep mountain-º" carce!
layas, for instance—one may obtain, with: TS
any alteration of latitude, and in a few. " ire?
same change of temperature which would ...h;
long journey over the surface of the earth . s of
and thus it appears that in the hottest ſº nS of
the globe there exist impending stratific...ise
cold proportionate in intensity to their ſº reſ."
altitudes. Now, as soon as moisture or ***.com.
ters these regions, in southern countries" rtlieſ"
densed into rain, and in the winter of nt) cific
ones it is frozen into snow, which, from 1% . it is
gravity, continues its feathery descent ".
deposited upon the surface of the ground...ced:
blem of the cold region from which it has P. it is
ed. But from the mere showing of the cº, thé
evident that this snow is as mubh a strang”...who
land on which it is reposing, as a Laplander wh9
lands at Lisbon, or as in England a paupe." ettle"
enters a parish in which he is not entitle eſs,
ment, and, therefore, just as the parish * ºced
under the authority of the law, vigorously ... to
to eject the pauper, so does Nature Prº ssion
eject the cold that has taken temporary, Pº d the
of land to which it does not owe its birth ; *.ſir
process of ejectment is as follows: The "ºls
cumbent atmosphere, warmed by the *ºne;
the surface of the snow; and as soon as tº wind
has taken to itself a portion of the cold, ". 0;
bringing with it a new atmosphere, repe”...w is
eration; and thus on, until the mass 0 “...ir
either effectually ejected, or materially
ished. d wiſ
“But while the combined action of sun ºld,
are producing this simple effect in the º ne.
there exists in the northern regions of ºn. ſ
world a physical obstruction to the oper. thé
allude to the interminable forest, thº. diſg
boughs and branches of which the dº maiſº
snow falls, until reaching the ground iſ .ind:
hidden from the sun and protected from lº. u!!"
and thus every day's snow adds to the *., a
tion, until the whole region is convertº low”
almost boundless ice-house, from which ther”... the
ly but continuously arises, like a mist west
ground, a stratum of cold air, which the noſ “hich
prevailing wind wafts over the south, º, of all
freezes everything in its way. The 9 f on
passing over ice is curiously exemplift."..., a
Atlantic, where, at certain periods of the y ë sudº
of a sudden, and often during the night, jº.
denly comes over every passenger a cold ºd b
aus chill, like the hand of death itself.ne.
the vicinity of a ſloating iceberg. In Sout aſ eſ.
ica I remember a trifling instance of the .# Saº
fect. I was walking in the main street ... eveg
Jago in the middle of the summer, and, " ...sº
human or living being in the city, Wºº } som"
by extreme heat, when I suddenly fel: ** a lung”
one was breathing upon my face with frº
“HochelAGA’’ AND “the EMIGRANT.” 381
jºl, and turning round, perceived at a little
ey i" line of mules laden with snow, which
if thi Just brought down from the Andes. And
ilary º cargo—if the presence of a sol-
Se à." iceberg in the ocean can produce the
ery * I have described, it surely need hardly be
. how great must be the freezing effects on
Wind linent of North America, of the northwest
pose 9Wing over an uncovered ice-house, com-
in thick masses of accumulated snow several feet
len Skness, and many hundreds of miles both in
* and breadth. º
back. it is curious to reflect that—while every
he ºdsman in America is occupying himself, as
his . ‘S, solely for his own interest, in clearing
*xe ºation—every tree which, falling under his
iii. ºuts a patch of sunshine to the earth, in an
'hate *imal degree softens and ameliorates the cli-
th..." the vast continent around him; and yet, as
par *tion of cleared land in North America, com-
Sai . that which remains uncleared, has been
COat ºly to exceed that which the seams of a
all." to the whole garment, it is evident, that
"Q doi, the assiduity of the Anglo-Saxon race has
axe."ºt affected the climate of North America, the
Port 'oo weak an instrument to produce any im-
§ C ange.
of Nºt one of the most wonderful characteristics
ºr. is the manner in which she often unob-
ºute . produces great effects from causes so ml-
Whil * to be almost invisible ; and accordingly
ºli...º human race—so far as an alteration of
in ° is concerned—are laboring almost in vain
Stran, regions in question, swarms of little flies,
law. as it may sound, are, and for many years
ths."ºen, most materially altering the climate of
#. continent of North America. .
for he manner in which they unconsciously per-
Šlin ºis important duty is as follows :—They
deg. ite, and torment the wild animals to such a
{utes *...that, especially in summer, the poor crea-
bjike those in Abyssinia, described by Bruce,
rid ..." althost in a state of distraction, and to get
pen...their assailants, wherever the forest hap-
i. e on fire, they rushed to the smoke, in:
be un °ly knowing quite well that the flies would
ºbse *ble to follow them there." The wily Indian,
thºg these movements, shrewdly perceived
di. Şetting fire to the forest the flies would
to tr * him his game, instead of his being obliged
proj in search of it; and the experiment having
Years ºnently successful, the Indians for many
"g tº ºve been, and still are, in the habit of burn-
i...ºf wood so immense, that from very high
the .ºntific authority I have been informed, that
of t "ºnt of land thus burned under the influence
and jºiºs has exceeded many millions of acres,
ºng th * it has been, and still is, materially chang-
in." Slimate of North America.” ſº
is ...besides, the effect that this small machinery
Ousl ºicing on the thermometer, it is simultane-
tº "orking out another great operation of Na-
{{
tiny Although the game, to avoid the stings of their
sºns, come from distant regions to he
ºf tº *nd therein fall from the arrows and rifles
dest ºf human foes, yet this burning of the forest
Youn * the rabbits and small game, as well as the
bra Of the larger game; and therefore, just as
its o y and whisky for a short time raise the spir-
melan.” drunkard, but eventually leave him pale,
Provid. *y, and dejected, so does this vicious, im-
"t mode of poaching game for a short time
fatten, but eventually afflict with familie all those
who have engaged in it; and thus, for instance,
the Beaver Indians, who forty years ago were a
powerful and numerous tribe, are now reduced to
less than one hundred men, who can scarcely find
wild animals enough to keep. themselves alive. In
short, the red population is diminishing in the same
ratio as the destruction of the moose and wood
buffalo on which their forefathers had subsisted :
and as every traveller, as well as trader, in those
various regions confirms these Statements, how
wonderful is the dispensation of the Almighty,
under which, by the simple agency of little flies,
not only is the American Continent gradually un-
dergoing a process which, with other causes, will
assimilate its climate to that of Europe, but that
the Indians themselves are clearing and preparing
their own country for the reception of another race,
who will hereafter gaze at the remains of the elk,
the bear, and the beaver, with the same feelings
of astonishment with which similar vestiges are
discovered in Europe—the monuments of a state
of existence that has passed away !”
After some more dissertation on the climate gen-
erally of North America, as constituting the most
extraordinary feature in its physical character—
and especially on the contrast between its West
Indian summers and its Norwegian winters—he
comes to the Christmas scenery of Canada in par-
ticular.
“Even under bright sunshine, and in a most
exhilarating air, the biting effect of the cold upon
the face resembles the application of a strong acid;
and the healthy grin which the countenance as-
sumes, requires—as I often observed on those who
for many minutes had been in a warm room wait-
ing to see me—a considerable time to relax. In a
calm almost any degree of cold is bearable, but the
application of successive doses of it to the face, by
wind, becomes occasionally almost unbearable ; in-
deed, I remember seeing the left cheek of nearly
twenty of our soldiers simultaneously frost-bitten in
marching about a hundred yards across a bleak
open space, completely exposed to a strong and
bitterly cold northwest wind that was blowing upon
us all.
“Of late years, English fireplaces have been in-
troduced into many houses; and though mine at
Toronto was warmed with hot air from a large
oven, with fires in all our sitting-rooms, neverthe-
less the wood for my grate, which was piled close
to the fire, often remained till night covered with
the snow which was on it when first deposited there
in the morning. And as a further instance of the
climate, I may add, that several times, while my
mind was very warmly occupied in writing my de-
spatches, I found my pen full of a lump of stuff
that appeared to be honey, but which proved to be
frozen ink; again, after washing in the morning,
when I took up some money that had lain all night
on my table, I’at first fancied it had become sticky,
until I discovered that the sensation was caused by
its freezing to my fingers, which, in cºnsequence
of my ablutions, were not perfectly, dry.
In spite of this intensity of cold; the powerful
circulation of the larger quadrupeds keeps the blood
in their veins, as the movement of the waters does
the great lakes, from freezing ; but the human
frame not being gifted with equal vigor, many
every winter lose their limbs, and some their lives,
from sheer cold.
“I one day inquired of a fine, ruddy, honest-look-
ing man who called upon me, and whose toes and
3S2
“The EMIGRANT.”
“HOCHELAGA” AND
insteps of each foot had been truncated, how the
accident happened! He told me that the first win-
ter he came from England he lost his way in the
forest, and that after walking for some hours, feel-
ing pain in his feet he took off his boots, and from
the flesh immediately swelling, he was unable to
put them on again. His stockings, which were
very old ones, soon wore into holes, and as rising
on his insteps he was hurriedly proceeding he
knew not where, he saw with alarm, but without
feeling the slightest pain, first one toe and then
another break off as if they had been pieces of
brittle stick, and in this mutilated state he con-
tinued to advance till he reached a path which
led him to an inhabited log-house, where he re-
mained suffering great pain till his cure was
effected. Q
“On another occasion, while an Englishman
was driving, one bright beautiful day, in a sleigh on
the ice, his horse suddenly ran away, and fancying
he could stop him better without his cumbersome
fur gloves than with them, he unfortunately took
them off. As the infuriated animal at his utmost
speed proceeded, the man, who was facing a keen
north-west wind, felt himself gradually as it were
turning into marble, and by the time he stopped,
both his hands were so completely and so irre-
coverably frozen that he was obliged to have them
amputated.
“Although the sun, from the latitude, has con-
siderable power, it appears only to illuminate the
sparkling snow, which, like the sugar on a bridal
cake, conceals the whole surface. The instant
however the fire of heaven sinks below the horizon,
the cold descends from the upper regions of
the atmosphere with a feeling as if it were poured
down upon the head and shoulders from a jug.”
If any Canadian artist aspires to rival the famous
sign-posts of “Les Quatre Saisons” at Wiesbaden,
he will find his materials ready to his hand in what
follows:–
“In the summer, the excessive heat—the violent
paroxysms of thunder—the parching drought—the
occasional deluges of rain—the sight of bright-red,
bright-blue, and other gaudy-plumaged birds—of
the brilliant humming-bird, and of innumerable fire-
flies that at night appear like the reflection upon
earth of the stars shining above them in the
heavens, would almost persuade the emigrant that
he was living within the tropics.
“As autumn approaches, the various trees of the
forest assume hues of every shade of red, yellow,
and brown, of the most vivid description. The air
gradually becomes a healthy and delightful mixture
of sunshine and frost, and the golden sunsets are so
many glorious assemblages of clouds—some like
mountains of white wool, others of the darkest
hues—and of broad rays of yellow, of crimson, and
of golden light, which without intermixing radiate
upwards to a great height frºm the point of the
horizon at which the deep red luminary is about to
disappear.
“As the winter approaches the cold daily
strengthens, and before the branches of the trees
and the surface of the country become white, every
living being seems to be sensible of the temperature
that is about to arrive. The gaudy birds, hum-
ming-birds, and fire-flies, depart first; then follow
the pigeons; the wild-fowl take refuge in the lakes
—until scarcely a bird remains to be seen in the
forest. Several of the animals seek refuge in
warmer regions ; and even the shaggy bear, whose
coat seems warm enough to resist any degree of
3. hollow
haſig º
ſlitch 9
cold, instinctively looks out in time for
tree into which he may leisurely climb, tº
it during the winter as inanimate as * house:
bacon from the ceiling of an English. farm- -watch
and even many of the fishes make their dººr. ht
arrangements for not coming to the suſ!".
rivers and harbors during the period * !Cy
covered with ice. s of th9
“Notwithstanding the cheerful bright**.inc.
winter's sun, I always felt that there ... |C
thing indescribably awful and appalling " ". it
bestial, birdal, and piscal precautions ; aſ birds of
with pride that one observes that while hº icſ,
the air and the beasts of the field, one aftº *"...le:
are seen retreating before the approaching arſº
like women and children before an advanciº...!
the Anglo-Saxon race stand firm —an' he wi.
they are quite right to do so, inasmuch as "...no
ter, when it does arrive, turns out to be a . 18
hilarity and of healthy enjoyment. Not ". and
whole surface of the ground, including *.iºr
paths of every description, beautifully
ized with a covering of snow, over w
man's horse, with tinkling bells, can draw ill
his family in a sleigh but every harbor * iver 3"
national playground to ride on, and every Il
arterial road to travel on. lly co".
“In all directions running water gradu: 3. 4.
geals. The mill-wheel becomes covere lºss
frozen torrent, in which it remains as 10 ºgil
case ; and I have even seen small waterſal.
to freeze on both sides, until the cataract, * .d fºr
in its fall by the power of heaven, is convº. e teſ.
the season into a solid mirror, Although t inite!
perature of the water in the great lakes is | of the
below freezing, yet the restless rise and "jºin;
waves prevent their congelation. As *do ...i
instance, however, of their disposition to I was gi
may mention that during the two wintº...I de'
Toronto, I made a rule from which I "...long
parted, to walk every morning to the end {} ºteſ
wooden pier that ran out into the unfrozºireme
of the lake. In windy weather and during ... rose
cold, the water, in dashing against this Wººſeſ
in the air; but before it could reach mº. º. th9
froze, and thus, without wetting my º: 'B'
drops of ice used to fall harmless at my ſº.nent':
*}
1ſt,
*
§v,
i5
although the great lake, for want of a dred; of
tranquillity, cannot congeal, yet for huſ".k 0°
miles along its shores the waves, as they ...ratiº"
the ground, instantly freeze—and this . uje!
continuing by night as well as by day, "...h6!.
shingled beach is converted throughout.'... oscº
length into high, sharp, jagged rocks 6 1°, was
which it is occasionally difficult to climb, , , ice
one day riding with a snaffle-bridle on th; g jº
of the great bay of Toronto, on a horse ... of hº
purchased, without having been made gº ºn tº
vice, which I afterwards learned had º whe"
cause of a-serious accident to his late masº ruſ."
he suddenly, unasked, explained it to ‘... wa.
ning away. On one side of me was the * shoul
of the ſº, into which if I had riddeº coatiſ;
almost instantly have been covered with "is iust
of ice as white as that on a candle thº sid:
received its first dip ; while on every *. thé
was surrounded by these jagged rocks... ſuch
narrow passes through which I was . Écoue.
too fast to be able to investigate. My *: ro.
therefore, was to force my horse round . th:1
within the circumference of the little * do every
environed me, and this I managed lº
time diminishing the circle, until, be
“hochelAGA” AND
“THE EMIGRANT.” 383
W
tºº, Smith termed “squirrel-minded,” the
{{ °came sufficiently tired to stop.
wint.” Scene on these frozen harbors and bays in
leas O is very interesting. Sleighs, in which at
gº. young representative of the softer sex is
and tin Yseated, are to be See Il and heard driving
son.g. across, in various directions, or occa-
Some . Standing still to witness a trotting-match or
ºf this ºr amusement on the ice. In the midst
"h the *ene, here and there are a few dark spots
whº surface which it is diſficult to analyze even
§ass jºuched, until from beneath the confused
stud !ere gradually arises, with a mild “Why-
fic.hº" expression of countenance, the red
has and Shaggy head of an Indian, who for hours
d sº." lying on his stomach to spear fish through
throu hole which, for that purpose, he has cut
0. the ice. In other parts are to be seen
§. ºmen occupied in sawing out for sale large
an.blocks of ice of a beautiful bluish appear-
for § piled upon each other like dressed Bath-stones
Fº ilding. The water of which this ice is com-
as .as clear as crystal, resembling that which
hi. *ly been imported to England as well as to
$º. which has become a new luxury of
use.”
º now a charming bit of lecture on the
S."ºlightful novelty of our own London summer
{{ enham ice:— -
§§ *ſe often been amused at observing how
in."ºly the theory of ice is, practically speak-
‘. "derstood in Éngland. People talk of its
the "g hot as fire,’ and “as cold as ice,” just as if
Whe *perature of each were a fixed quantity,
Anj.“ there are as many temperatures of fire,
'hate many temperatures of ice, as there are cli-
lmo § 9n the face of the globe. The heat of boil-
º ºr is a fixed quantity, and any attempt to
sts. Water hotter than boiling' only creates
§ an which flies off from the top exactly as fast
ºf . ºxactly in the proportion to, the amount
d * * *
om. e it great or small, that is applied at the
{{
lºop Nºw, for want of half a moment's reflection,
Wai. England are very prone to believe that
ing...ºnnot be made colder than ice ; and accord-
iº. * good-humored man succeeds in filling his
*s an "*, he feels satisfied that his ice is as good
&nd . other man's ice; in short, that ice is ice,
deny'.” there is no use in anybody attempting to
thiſ: * But the truth is, that the temperature of
W. Wo degrees of Fahrenheit, that at which
"peºezes, is only the commencement of an
Selati "h that is almost infinite ; for after its con-
fees." water is as competent to continue to
jº as it was when it was fluid. The
ſº..."9n of cold to a block of ice does not there-
wa.” in the case of heat applied beneath boiling
the oil 9ause what is added at one end to fly out at
add."ºr but on the contrary, the extra cold is
imp * and retained by the mass, and thus the
thºuture of the ice fails with the temperature of
to i. until in Lower Canada it occasionally sinks
leg. degrees below zero, or to seventy-two
§. glow the temperature of ice just con-
°uses t is evident, therefore, that if two ice-
§y 6 Yºre to be filled, the one with the former,
Riºla ice, and the other with the latter, say
Cold . *ē, the diſſerence between the quantity of
the #. up in each would be as appreciable as
Cell...nºe between a cellar full of gold and a
9fice li of copper; in short, the intrinsic value
“, like that of metals, depends on the investi-
ation of an assayer—that is to say, a cubic foot of
i. Canada ice is infinitely more valuable, or in
other words, it contains infinitely more cold than a
cubic foot of Upper Canada ice, which again contains
more cold than a cubic foot of Wenham ice, which
contains infinitely more cold than a cubic foot of Eng-
lish ice ; and thus, although each of these four cubic
feet of ice has precisely the same shape, they each,
as summer approaches, diminish in value, that is to
say, they each gradually lose a portion of their
cold—until, long before the Lower Canada ice has
melted, the English ice has been converted into
lukewarm water. The above theory is so clearly
understood in North America, that the inhabitants
of Boston, who annually store for exportation im-
mense quantities of Wenham ice, and who know
quite well that cold ice will meet the markets in
India, while the warmer article melts on the
passage, talk of their ‘crops of ice,’ just as an
English farmer talks of his crop of wheat.”
On seeing for the heading of a chapter “The
Emigrant's Lark,” we confess we anticipated the
details of some spirited episode in the personal his-
tory of Lieutenant-Governor Sir F. B. Head, but
no—it is a simple humble story about a poor emi-
grant cobbler—told with all Sir Francis' quaintness
of humor, and that, as is so often the case with
him, delightfully mellowed with a subdued and
amiable pathos —
“Henry Patterson and his wife Elizabeth sailed
from the Tower in the year 1834, as emigrants on
board a vessel heavily laden with passengers, and
bound to Quebec.
“Patterson was an intimate friend of a noted
bird-catcher in London called Charley Nash. Now
Nash had determined to make his friend a present
of a good sky-lark to take to Canada with him ; but
not having what he called ‘a real good un’ among
his collection, he went into the country on purpose
to trap one. In this effort he succeeded, but when
he returned to London he found that his friend Pat-
terson had embarked, and that the vessel had sailed
a few hours before he reached the tower stairs. He
therefore jumped on board a steamer that was start-
ing, and overtook the ship just as she reached
Gravesend, where he hired a small boat, and then
Sculling along-side, he was soon recognized by Pat-
terson and his wife, who, with a crowd of other
male and female emigrants, of all ages, were
taking a last farewell of the various objects which
the vessel was slowly passing. ‘Here’s a bird for
you, Harry,” said Nash to Patterson, as, standing
upon , the skiff, he took the frightened captive
out of his hat, “and if it sings as well in a cage as
it did just now in the air, it will be the best you
have ever heard.” Patterson, descending a few
steps from the gang-way, stretched out his hand
and received the bird, which he immediately called
Charley in remembrance of his faithful friend
ash.
“In the Gulf of St. Lawrence the vessel was
wrecked; almost everything was lost except the
lives of the crew and passengers; and accordingly
when Patterson, with his wife hanging heavily on
his arm, landed in Canada, he was destitute of
everything he had owned on board excepting Char-
ley, whom he had preserved and afterwards kept
for three days in the foot of an old stocking.
“After some few sorrows, and after some little
time, Patterson settled himself at Toronto, in the
lower part of a small house in King street, the prin-
cipal thoroughfare of the town, where he worked as
a shoemaker. His shop had a southern aspect; he
384
“The EMIGRANT.” like
lk
“HochelAGA” AND
drove a nail into the outside of his window, and
regularly every morning, just before he sat upon his
stool to commence his daily work, he carefully
hung upon this nail a common sky-lark's cage,
which had a solid back of dark wood, with a bow
or small wire orchestra in front, upon the bottom
of which there was to be seen, whenever it could be
procured, a fresh sod of green turf.
“As Charley's wings were of no use to him in
this prison, the only wholesome exercise he could
take was by hopping on and off his little stage; and
this sometimes he would continue to do most cheer-
fully for hours, stopping only occasionally to dip
his bill into a small square tin box of water suspend-
ed on one side, and then to raise it for a second or
two towards the sky. As soon, however, as (and
only when) his spirit moved him, this feathered
captive again hopped upon his stage, and there,
standing on a bit of British soil, with his little neck
extended, his small head slightly turned, his droop-
ing wings gently fluttering, his bright black eyes
intently fixed upon the distant deep, dark blue
Canada sky, he commenced his unpremeditated
morning song, his extempore matin prayerſ
“The eſſect of his thrilling notes, of his shrill
joyous song, of his pure, unadulterated English
voice upon the people of Canada can probably be
imagined by those only who either by adversity
have been prematurely weaned from their mother
country, or who, from long-continued absence and
from hope deferred, have learned in a foreign land
to appreciate the inestimable blessings of their
father-land, of their parent home. All sorts of
men, riding, driving, walking, propelled by urgent
business, or sauntering for appetite or amusement,
as if by word of command, stopped, spell-bound to
listen, for more or less time, to the inspired war-
bling, to the joyful hallelujahs of a common homely-
dressed English lark | Reformers, as they leaned
towards him, heard nothing in his enchanting mel-
ody which even they could desire to improve. I
believe that in the hearts of the most obdurate radi-
cals he rešnimated feelings of youthful attachment
to their mother country; and that even the trading
Yankee, in whose country birds of the most gor.
geous plumage snuffle rather than sing, must have
acknowledged that the heaven-born talent of this
little bird unaccountably warmed the Anglo-Saxon
blood that ſlowed in his veins. I must own that,
although I always refrained from joining Charley's
motley audience, yet, while he was singing, I never
rode by him without acknowledging, as he stood with
his outstretched neck looking to heaven, that he was
(at all events for his size) the most powerful advo-
cate of church and state in her majesty's dominions ;
and that his eloquence was as strongly appreciated
by others, Patterson received many convincing
proofs,
“Three times, as he sat beneath the cage, proud
as Lucifer, yet hammering away at a shoe-sole
lying in purgatory on his laſºstone; and then, with
a waxed thread in each hand, suddenly extending
his elbows like a scaramouch, three times was he
interrupted in his work by people, who each separ-
ately offered him one hundred dollars for his lark;
an old farmer repeatedly offered him one hundred
acres of land for him ; and a poor Sussex Carter
who had imprudently stopped to hear him sing was
so completely overwhelmed with affection and ma-
ladie du pays, that, walking into the shop, he
offered for him all he possessed in the world,
his horse and cart; but Patterson would sell him to
no one.”
We infer that Henry Patterson turned *:::::
many others of his class, when Sir F. 14% nd and
on the liegemen of the crown to will. poor
and chastise the “sympathizers,” and that! jargº
cobbler was slain in his humble efforts to *.is
what he was so unenlightened as to ſegº ... the
duty. The historian's method of alluſ. -48
fact is highly characteristic, it must be º Oſlº
much so as his excellency's own proceduº
sequence thereof. 837
“On a certain evening of October, '''halſ.
shutters of Patterson's shop-windows wº. jecſ
closed, on account of his having that morºccº
accidentally shot dead. The widow's, P. ... heſ
were thus suddenly ruined, her hopes tº C 'my-
goods sold, and I need hardly say that lº r Paº
self the owner—the lord and the master of P*
terson’s lark. g he
“It was my earnest desire, if possible, to ()
his condition, and I certainly felt very prº. ley
sess him ; but somehow or other this ‘ Charlº
my-darling' sort of feeling evidently wasn'". of gº".
cal. Whether it was that in the conservatº.sky
ernment house at Toronto Charley misse ent,"
—whether it was that he disliked the move" s–0%
rather want of movement, in my 9 come
whether from some mysterious feelinºiſ.
strange fancy or misgiving, the chamber of ":" is:
mind was hung with black, I can only * ervic'
during the three months he remained in my and
I could never induce him to open his mº".
that up to the last hour of my departure
never sing to me. *
“On leaving Canada I gave him to Dani
an honest, faithful, loyal friend, who had º: w39
Il
thſ,
elorſ;
nied me to the province. His station 1 ord.
about equal to that of poor Patterson ; an thé
.ingly, so soon as the bird was hung by hit"... sing
outside of his humble dwelling, he began do
again as exquisitely as ever. He continº.ition.
so all through Sir George Arthur's adminºjº
He sang all the time Lord Durham was al...tiº
he sang after the legislative council—the *. : had
council—the house of assembly of the prº. 6
ceased forever to exist—he sang all the "
imperial parliament were framing and ag” jaº
an act by which even the name of Uppſ. Tords
was to cease to exist—he sang all the wº € ſect’
John Russell and Sydenham were arrangº.icº
ing, and perpetuating upon the United . |
of Canada the baneful domination of W. . eci"
called “responsible government;" and tº ongº
ing that the voice of an English lark could ºer m”
be of any service to that noble portion of
jesty's dominions—he died. is left.
“Orris sent me his skin, his skull, and ...i.
I took them to the very best artist in Lonº. whº
gentleman who stuffs for the British Muse. wer?
told me, to my great joy, that these renº. grº
perfectly uninjured. After listening W. ised ſº.
professional interest to the case, he prº" and ''
that he would exert his utmost taleº, druk
about a month Charley returned to me wil k cstſ”
fled plumage, standing again on the little "...arº
of his cage, with his mouth open, lookiº.'ſha'
—in short, in the attitude of singing, Jus
described him. al, a laº.
ºf have had the whole covered wit" f the
glass case, and upon the dark wooden 3C I upº
cage there is pasted a piece of white º: ... ſihi;
which I have written the following Wº...it, tº
Lark, taken to Canada by a poor emig; ºgil'é
shipwrecked in the St. Lawrence, and aſte 3,
4. “HochelAGA” AND
“THE EMIGRANT.” 385
, ſº
Thr
tºº. nine jears, died there on the 14th of
*tteet #). #ºnitºrial, regretted.—Home! Home!
lan º little story has tempted us into the border-
feelin Politics—but not surely so as to hurt the
aft.* of any bird-fancying Exaltado. . We are
ne."º cannot promise quite as much for our
F."ºtion. N.evertheless, we fancy even Sir
ſhow Head's stiffest political opponents will
be." his days of governorship are so well over)
sia . his, however weak and feverish, enthu-
3. cº ºut what was to him the sacred symbol of
then º they would consign to the same depart-
skin ºp. British Museum which contains the
*hout haraoh and the wig of Potiphar. We are
Flag ...” plunder a chapter called “The British
{{
tºº. my arrival at Toronto, people from all
feelin of the province, propelled by a variety of
ten. which they could not control, were seen
Q ...ally riding, driving, or walking towards
to."ºlent house. One, in pure English, described
trict. "9 astonishing luxuriance of the western dis-
.."ºther, in a strong Irish brogue, the native
º of Lake Simcoe ; another, in broad Scotch,
thººd to me the value of the timber trade on
isli. *Wa; one confidently assured me that in his
i. Gre were veins of coal—another hinted at
jº of copper—one raved about a fishery—
"es. Was in raptures about the college—some
S. to me Lakes Huron, Erie and, Ontario
§ate, al the Falls of Niagara—all praised the cli-
deer,' and yet,” said I to myself, as absorbed in
dejºelancholy I imperfectly listened to their
the 'Ptions in detail, and yet how is it that in
Wis.ground of this splendid picture I can no-
ful . See the British flag Except by its power-
Pºrted "ence, how can I, inexperienced and unsuſ-
*ě al. expect to stand against the difficulties which
how ºut to assail me! Except by its eloquence,
ºù. advocate the glorious institutions of our
ve. Except under its blessing, how can I
indh ºpe to prosper? With nothing to look up to,
atte 9thing to did under, an admiral might as well
to Se pt to fight a ship without a pennant, or to go
Mainl .* a ship without a bottom, as that I should
Wilſº ºldertake to govern Canada from a house
Nºs. ing on its roof to greet the winds of
! { "t stacks of reeking chimneys.”
to c. uilding, I know quite well that it is usual
foun...ºnce by laying what is vulgarly called the
Wºj tion stone; however, I determined that I
§p, begin to builă my political edifice from the
the i.ºordingly in due time there appeared on
Yºrk. of government house, first, half a dozen
hi. mysteriously hammering away as if at
Shall Wn skins, then a tall straight staff wearing a
$ºging cap on its head appeared, as if it had
| ti, "P by magic, or like a mushroom had risen
blu. *ght; and lastly, an artilleryman, in his
§Ins º and red cuffs was seen, with extended
hind to haul up, hand over hand, and to leave be-
flag. lm, joyfully fluttering in the wind, the British
hº W
ad
his
. not divulge, but the sensation it created
‘T. ºut the
clai re's Ilſ)
province I need not fear to describe.
i.hed mistaking what that means !’ ex-
d renº. ºld Canadian colonel of militia who
*dés...º be standing with a group of his com-
9 moment the artilleryman finished his
ere my own feelings when I first be-
§uardian angel hovering over my head I
job. “Now what's the use of that, I should just
like to know?’ muttered a well-known supporter
of republican º: However, the latter ob-
servation was but an exception to the rule, for the
truth is, that the sight of the British flag extin-
guished rather than excited all narrow jealousies,
all angry feelings, all party distinctions, all pro-
vincial animosities. Its glorious history rushed
through the mind and memory to the heart of al-
most every one who beheld it. The Irish Catholic,
the Orangeman, the Scotch Presbyterian, the
Methodist, the English reformer, the voters for
ballot, for universal suffrage, for responsible gov-
ernment, or, in other terms, for “no governor,’ for
liberty and equality, and for other theoretical non-
sense which they did not clearly understand, as if
by mutual consent, forgot their differences as they
gazed together upon what all alike claimed as their
common property, their common wealth, their
common parent; and while, as if rejoicing at the
sight of its congregation, the hallowed emblem
fluttered over their heads—it told them they
were the children of one family—it admonished
them to love one another—it bade them fear nothing
but God, honor their sovereign, and obey their own
laws. From sunrise till sunset this ‘bit of bunt-
ing” was constantly, as from a pulpit, addressing
itself to the good feelings of all who beheld it—and
especially to the members of both branches of the
legislature, who, in their way to, and return from,
parliament-buildings, had to walk almost under-
neath it twice a day during the session. In all
weathers it was there to welcome them, as well as
all conditions of men; sometimes, in the burning
heat of summer, it hung motionless against the
staff, as if it had just fainted away from the dull
sultry mugginess of the atmosphere; at other
times it was occasionally almost veiled by the
white snow-storm, termed ‘poudré,” that was
drifting across it. Some one truly enough declared
that “the harder it blew the smaller it grew ;’ for,
as there were flags of several sizes, it was deemed
prudent to select one suited to the force of the gale,
until, during the hurricanes that occasionally occur,
it was reduced from its smallest size to a “ British
Jack' scarcely bigger than a common pocket hand-
kerchief; nevertheless, large or small, blow high,
or blow low, this faithful sentinel was always at his
post.
“For many years the English, Irish, and Scotch
inhabitants of Upper Canada had been in the habit,
on the days of their respective patron saints, of
meeting, and (very prudently before dinner) of
marching together arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand, or
‘shoulder to shoulder,’ in procession down King-
street to government house, which forms the west-
ern extremity of that handsome thoroughfare of the
city. These assemblages were naturally productive
of glorious recollections and of noble sentiments;
and, as I have already stated, they allayed rather
than excited all provincial disputes. It was highly
desirable to encourage them : and as for some time
there had been carefully preserved in the govern-
ment store an immense silk standard, sent from
England, and which had been hoisted on a flag-
staff opposite parliament-buildings on the opening
of the provincial legislature, on the birth-day of the
sovereign, and on other State occasions, I directed
that on the three days alluded to the artilleryman
who had charge of the flag-staff on government
house should lower the ordinary flag so soon as the
head of the procession, preceded by its baud, made
386
“THE EMIGRANT.”
“HochELAGA” AND
its appearance ; and then, as it approached, to haul
up this great imperial standard.
“It would be difficult to describe to those who
have never been long from England, and quite un-
necessary to explain to those who have, the feelings
with which the followers of each of these three
processions received the compliment, so justly due
to the distinguished day on which they had respec-
tively assembled. Every man, as he marched to-
wards the imperial standard, which he saw majes-
tically rising in the sky to receive him, felt convinced
that his stature was increasing, that his chest was
expanding, that the muscles of his legs were grow-
ing stronger, and that his foot was descending
firmer and heavier to the ground. The musicians’
lungs grew evidently stouter, the drummer's arms
moved quicker ; the national airs of ‘God save the
queen,' ‘St. Patrick's Day in the Morning,” and
‘Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,” resounded
louder and louder; and as the sacred object upon
which every eye was fixed in its ascension slowly
floated and undulated across the pure deep-blue
sky, it gradually revealed to view a glittering mass
of hieroglyphics out of which every man ravenous-
ly selected those which he conceived to be espec-
ially his own.
“‘What animals are those 2' said a man through
his nose, on St. George's day, as he pointed to the
congregation of lions with fists clenched ready to
box, and of unicorns quite as eager to butt, that
were waving over his head. ‘Is it animals you're
spaking after 1' sharply replied a young Irishman,
who like the querist had been standing in the
crowd, waiting to see the procession of English-
men arrive : ‘one of thim animals I tell ye is THE
IRISH HARP; and so get out o' that, ye Yan-
kee, or I'll bate the sowl out o' ye!' Now it so
happened that by the time the last words were
ejaculated, the young Irishman's white teeth had
almost reached the middle-aged querist's eyebrows;
and as they were evidently advancing, and as the
surgical operation proposed strongly resembled that
of taking the kernel out of a nut, or an oyster out
of its shell, the republican naturalist deemed it
prudent instantly to decamp, or, as it is termed by
his fellow-countrymen, to absguantilate,
“A number of instances, more or less amusing,
were mentioned to me exemplifying the strong
feelings of attachment to the mother country clicited
by the parental presence of the British Flag. A
compliment, however, was paid to it by one of its
most bitter enemies, which, as it forms part of an
important subject, and elucidates a serious moral, I
will venture to relate.” ºf
Sir Francis now mentions what occurred to him
on his arrival in Toronto after the suppression of
the M'Kenzie outbreak — . . .
“On entering the room which to me, as well as
to my predecessors, had, by day and by night, been
the scene of many an anxious hour, nutl in whiuli
I had been in the habit of transacting the whole of
my public business, my first feeling was, naturally
enough, one of humble gratitude to that Supreme
Power which had given viclory to our cause ; and
I was in the pleasing enjoyment of reflections of
this nature when one of iny attendants entering
the room delivered to me a card, and informed me
that Mr. Bidwell was in the waiting-room, and that
he appeared extremely desirous to see me.
“When I first arrived in the province this Mr.
Bidwell was Speaker of the Commons’ House of
Assembly, in which he commanded a republican
majority. Without, however, repeating details
a brieff
which are now matters of history, I willº
remind the reader, that after I had diº.
House of Assembly, and had appealed to tº c.
ple to assist me in resisting the principlº . and
sponsible government” which Mr. Bidw e, thº
Mr. Baldwin had endeavored to force up” º and
former not only ceased to be speaker, ºl n mº
almost every other member of his repººl. by
jority lost their election, and were rºP. ns. .
members firmly attached to British institº” whos”
“The insignificant gang of conspiratºng:
declamations had caused so much sensation * all
land, seeing that they had irrecoverably weſº
power in the legislature of Upper Cºnſ
* * * f * \{l *
induced by a secret influence, which I shº. by
have occasion to expose, to endeavor tº, *
force of arms that system of “responsible 0.
ment' which by argument they had faile bellio;
tain. In this conspiracy, as well as in thº. } had
which had just been suppressed, Mr. Biº. thé
been deeply implicated ; and, indeed, '''. coſtſ.
very moment of the outbreak he had been ſº and
munication with Dr. Rolph, Mr. M'Keº how;
other leaders of the rebellion. Although, and
ever, he had acted with extreme cautiº à m30
although, being what is commonly callº, jing
of peace,’ he had prudently refrained from"... he
arms, yet in consequence of the politica Pºem:
had acted and the sentiments he was know.”
ob’
- - º eS
tertain, a number of people in the United Stat wer
well as in different parts of Upper anº...! in
Canada, addressed to him letters which ºf the
such numbers, that on and from the mome". their
rebellion the post-office authorities deemº...me
duty to seize them, and then to forward thºſing
unopened. As soon as Mr. Bidwell, on inſ! that
for his letters, ascertained this fact, as * 1016
M'Kenzie had inscribed his [Bidwell's] nºred
on the rebel flag which the militia had just cºs
at Gallows Hill, he felt that his own canº" je iſ
no longer of any avail to him, for that by yed.
caution of others he was no doubt already º tsu".
His only hope had been that the rebels mº, osing
ceed in massacring the loyal, and in thus
the power and authority of the crown; bº º sº
as he learnt that the former had not only *jºb;
pletely defeated, but that M'Kenzie, Dr. ited
and their other leaders had absconded to º exis'
States, Mr. Bidwell felt that his life, that "...ºrsº
tence, hung upon a thread. His obvio"... was
was to fly to the United States; but the "...orse,
already guarded—and besides, as he was no lº and
C
man, he had not courage to attempt to escap f any
J
yet his conscience told him that the hand º b6
loyal, man might, in retributive justic.spé.
raised against him; and as he knew how *.de:
ated the militia had been by the barbarous... not
of the brave Colonel Moodie, he had re. that
only to fear the vengeance of the crowº, ". om0
any one of the militia-men he met inig","ſo do,
his executioner; in short, he know not *
where to go, or how to hide himself. . nC0 with
“In this agony of mind his acquain'...nowl.
the magnanimity of British institutions, º jitish
edge of British law, British justice..."...a tº
mercy, admonished him to seek protectio" th9
sovereign authority he had betrayed: ". nd
executive power he had endeavored to dep"...ds
accordingly with faltering steps he walked g-rooſ”
government house; and entering the wº. Ag
he there took refuge under the very Bºº. of hiº
which it had been the object of the whº"
political life to desecrate.
“HochelAGA” AND
THE “EMIGRANT.” 387
$t
sº the day before the outbreak I had had the
Tec ws of the room in which I was sitting when
Ul . Mr. Bidwell's card, blocked up with
§h timber, and loop-holed ; and on his opening
99r, the instant this strange and unexpected
§ement caught Mr. Bidwell's eyes, he re-
*" at the threshold for some moments, and at
€ slowly advanced until he stood close before me.
*ither bowed to me nor spoke; but fixing his
.9, the tied-up bundle of his sealed letters
held in my hand, he stood for some time
Il own in spirit, and overwhelmed with feel-
* to which it was evident he had not power to
º utterance.
s I had not sent for him, I of course waited
not. what he desired to say ; but as he said
*g, and appeared to be speechless, I myself
“tran
Thain
ast
H
0.
her majesty, and laid before parliament) that Mr.
Bidwell's “object had been to separate Canada from
the parent state, to create disaffection for the
paternal government of the king, and by forming
an alliance with M. Papineau's party, to exchange
the British constitution for the low grovelling prin-
ciples of democracy;’ and ‘that for these reasons
publicly to elevate Mr. Bidwell to the bench, would
deprive me of the respect and confidence of the
country.”
“But the picture I here draw of Mr. Bidwell's
principles and of the objects he had all his life had
in view was highly attractive rather than repulsive:
—and accordingly, in reply to my sketch, I was
boldly informed that her majesty's government
‘could not regard the part which Mr. Bidwell for-
merly took in local politics as an insuperable barrier
º: the solemn silence that prevailed by saying
hº as I pointed with his letters to the loop-
...Windows at my side, Well, Mr. Bidwell,
See the state to which you have brought us!"
*ade no reply, and as it was impossible to help
the abject, fallen position in which he
prie. ...") calmly pointed out to him the impro-
i. of the course he had pursued; and then ob-
wº."; to him, what he well enough knew, that
bei to open his letters his life would probably
Well my hands, I reminded him of the mercy as
º the power of the British crown; and I
tiv by telling him that, as its humble representa-
if ..." would restore to him his letters unopened,
wººl. give me in writing a promise that he
... leave the queen's territory forever.
ºr. Bidwell had concealed in his heart some
Q feelings as well as many bad ones; and as
tº as his fears were removed, the former prompt,
hot lm to express himself in terms which I will
Sq ºndertake to repeat. Suffice it, however, to
800d
S
to his future advancement in his profession, and that,
on the contrary, adverting to the general estimate
of Mr. Bidwell's qualifications for a seat on the
bench, it appeared that the public service (i.e. Lord
John Russell's object) would be promoted by secur-
ing his service.’ I was therefore ordered, in case
of another vacancy, to offer the appointment to Mr.
Bidwell: this, rightly or wrongly, it now matters
not, I refused to do ; and thus while Mr. Bidwell,
in consequence of having abjured his allegiancp to
the British crown, was receiving in the United
States compliments and congratulations on his ap-
pointments to the American bar, it appeared from
the London Gazette that the queen's government
had advised her majesty to relieve his opponent
from the administration of the government of
Upper Canada; in short,
“The man recovered from the bite,
The dog it was that died ''
“The above epitaph so graphically describes my
- º at he retired to the waiting-room, wrote out
te Promise I had dictated, and returning with it I
COr...] it with one hand, and with the other, ac- º
wi. to my promise, I delivered to him the
...of his letters unopened.
he sentence which Mr. Bidwell deliberately
upon himself he faithfully executed. He
y exiled himself from the queen
Pºsse
int
Il * -
ye. *nd repairing to the state of
jurº f nited States, and openly, and publicly al:
§º to all other authorities, and ‘cs-
& in ! to the crown of Great Britain ' '. In return,
the stantly received all the honors which it is in
th Power of republicans to bestow ; and such was
re. ing in his favor, that, contrary to custom,
wºent, and I believe contrary even to law, he
icº iºd by acclamation a member of the Amer-
{{ -
... he sequel of the story is an odd, one.
's domin-
ew York, he
tº “ºnsistently took there the oath of allegiance
decease, that I have not a word to add to it.”
Although we have transcribed Sir Francis'
official epitaph, we would fain indulge ourselves
with the detail of his personal escape from the
rebels and their sympathizers. We have not room,
however, for the inimitable chapter good-humoredly
entitled, “The Hunted Hare.” Our readers will
recollect that the dismissed governor had received
many hints and warnings that there was an organ-
ized conspiracy to murder him if he passed by the
route of Halifax. These he disregarded until the
very day before his successor was to be sworn in,
when a confidential despatch from Sir John Col-
borne, in Lower Canada, gave him such distinct
information of the fact, that it would have been
madness to persist. He, therefore, took the bold
course of passing through the territories of the
United States; and after a sharp run before an
ardent pack of “sympathizers,” he at last, dis-
tanced them, and reached in safety...the Albany
ſho l thº very moment that Mr. Bidwell, with
in: litred light from my loop-holed windows shin-
Sta
Wrot
que
g before me, tendering with the hand that
, it his own sentence of condemnation, the
ºf j position in which I stood, because I had
§er th to promote this Mr. Bidwell to the bench
Hjºº heads of Archibald Maclean, Jonas Jones,
*nadi herwood, Sir Allan MacNab, and other
() ... horn members of the bar, who through-
field °ir lives had distinguished themselves, in the
to.” well as in the senate, by their attachment
ºtish throne. I had told the queen's gov-
l
€rn -
1. °nt (vide my despatches printed by order of
r
!" and shadowing his pallid countenance, was
ndin es
6 - g
tel... government were relieving me from the
Steam-boat, just starting for the civilized city of
New York, i º
“On our arrival at New York, I was quite aware
that I was not only out of reach of border-excite-
ment, but that I was among a highly-intelligent
people, and that I had only to conform to their
habits to ensure generous treatment during the
week I had to remain among them, until the sail-
ing of the packet. Instead, therefore, of living in
any way that might offensively savor of ‘exclu-
siveness,” I resolved to go to one of the largest
hotels in the city, and while there, like everybody
else, to dine in public at the table d'hôte.
“I accordingly drove up to the American hotel ;
|but, thinking it only fair to the landlord that he
i
388
“THE EMIGRANT.”
“HOCHELAGA” AND
should have the opportunity of (if he wished it) re-
fusing me admission, I told him who I was, and
what I wanted. Without the smallest alteration
of countenance, he replied by gravely asking me to
follow him. I did so, until he led me into his own
little sitting-room, and I was wondering what
might be about to happen, when, raising one of his
hands, he certainly did astonish me beyond descrip-
tion by pointing to my own picture, which, among
º other framed engravings, was hanging on the
Wall I
“When the dinner hour arrived, my worthy
companion and I proceeded at the usual pace to the
room, but everybody else, as is the custom, had
gone there so very much faster, that we found the
chairs appointed for us the only ones vacant.
There was evidently a slight sensation as we sat
down; but of mere curiosity. A number of sharp
glittering eyes were for some little time fixed upon
us, but hunger soon conquered curiosity, and in due
time both were satiated.
“During the week I remained at New York, I
had reason not only to be satisfied, but to be grate-
ful for the liberal reception I met with. Although
as I walked through the street I saw in several shop-
windows pictures of the ‘Caroline' going over the
T'alls of Niagara, detailing many imaginary, and
consequently to my mind amusing horrors, yet
neither at the theatre which I attended, nor else-
where, did I receive either by word or gesture the
slightest insult. Several American citizens of the
highest character in the country called upon me,
and I certainly was gratified at observing how
thoroughly most of them in their hearts admired
British institutions.
“On the morning of my departure, I was in-
formed that an immense crowd had assembled to
see me embark. Mr. Buchanan, the British con-
sul, also gave me intination of this circumstance;
and as among a large assemblage it is impossible to
answer for the conduct of every individual, Mr.
Buchanan kindly recommended me, instead of
going in a carriage, to walk through the streets to
the pier arm in arm with him. I did so; and
though I passed through several thousand people,
many of whom pressed towards us with some little
eagerness, yet not a word or a sound, good, bad, or
indifferent, was uttered. I took a seat on the deck
of the packet, and when almost immediately after-
wards the moorings of the vessel were cast adrift, I
felt that the mute silence with which I had been
allowed to depart was a suppression of feeling
highly creditable, and which, in justice to the
American people, it was my duty cver to appreciate
and avow.” * * * *
The chapter on his arrival in “the old country”
must be drawn upon for one Pºragraph more —
“During my residence in Canada I had read so
much, had heard so much, and had preached so
much about ‘The Old Country,' that as the packet
in which I was returning approached its shores, I
quite made up my mind to see in the venerable
countenance of ‘my auld respekit mither’ the rav-
ages of time and the wrinkles of old age. Never-
theless, whatever might prove to be her infirmities,
I yearned for the moment in which I might exclaim
—‘This is my own, my native land!'
“I disembarked at Liverpool on the 22d of
April, 1838, and, with as little delay as possible,
started for London on the railway, which had been
completed during my absence.
“Now, if a very short-sighted young man, in-
tending to take one more respectful look at the pic-
* :...in the
ture of his grandmother, were to find within
frame, instead of canvass,
‘A blooming Eastern bride, • 1 3
In flower of youth and beauty's pride,
ſyll
he could not be more completely, and, as hº .
º irreverently term it, agreeably ".
than I was when, on the wings of *.*.
spring morning, I flew over the surface of
Ingland.”
“Everything looked new The gr
meadows was new—the leaves on the tº he
hedges were new—the flowers were new.
blossoms of the orchards were now—the
were new—the young birds were new—t €
were new—the railway was new. As we whis in
along it, the sight, per minute, of an erect. nº. *
bottle-green uniform, standing like a direction? thé
stock still, with an arm extended, was new ent,
idea, whatever it might be intended to repº.
was quite new. All of a sudden plunging, da!"
into utter darkness, and then again into brig i
zling sunshine, was new. Every station ºf .
we stopped was new. The bells which aſſº.
ately greeted our arrival, and which, somet! art,
almost before we even could stop, bade us dep
were new. thé
“During one of the longest of these intervals:
sudden appearance of a line of young ladies C st;
a counter, exhibiting to hungry travellers tea, .
scalding-hot soup, sixpenny pork pies, and ‘.
thing else that human nature could innocently des {0
to enjoy—and then, almost before we could #
these delicacies, being summarily ordered...,
part;—the sight of a crowd of sturdy English.
in caps of every shape, hurrying to their respº
carriages, with their mouths full—was "...ae a
short it was to new and merry Fngland that “... it
weary absence I had apparently returned : "...i.
was not until I reached Downing street I *%
believe that I really was once again in ‘Tº id
Country;' but there I found everything ol : 0
men, old women, old notions, old prejudiº.ſy
stuff, and old nonsense ; and what was 10
worse, old principles.” * cis
“Old ...; We presume Sir rian
Head remembered “who was the first whig.asure
We must not refuse ourselves the sa, p.;
of appending to these fragments of Sir lºom
Head's Canadian biography a brief paragrº, cry
“Hochelaga.” It is the story of one of thº, he
few who suffered death for their concerſ, lar
rebellion of 1837—almost all of them for cru%
ders perpetrated in cold blood, but not S9
case to be quoted. The author says:-
“Six of the Prescott brigade, and th
assassins of Dr. Hume, were executed: a and
leader, of the former was the first trºjo by
hanged; his name was Von Schoultz, a nad
birth, and merely a military adventurer. rel
fought with jºi jº, ; and he died braw º
and without complaint, except of the falsº ing
sentations which had caused his ruin, º'.
him to join the godless cause. Doing all,” litt
in his power to repair his cror, he left ºf
property, about eight hundred pounds, hº
Roman Catholic college at Kingston, *
remainder to the widows and orphans ". thé
English soldiers and militia who had fallº"
combat where he was taken.”—IIochelag”
p. 73.
We have filled so many pages from “ .
grant,” that we cannot afford to copy tº
rce of º:
vol.
the
“HochelAGA” AND
“THE EMIGRANT.” * 389
tur
§ing i. Savage tribes round about. In course of
!
the :
i. Hochelaga.” It is due to such a writer,
'%', that we should give one sufficient speci-
i. his performance, and we select the very
£rs § history of one of those nondescript adven-
and º abounding in the New World, both south
taken rth. Our readers will not, however, be mis-
º supposing that we fixed on the following
at. on account partly of the special interest
"d at this moment to the name of California.
{ {
º One of my transatlantic voyages in the
an . met with a very singular man, a Ger-
to A. birth, who was on his return from Europe
d ..". He was about thirty years of age, of
fea º Small but active and wiry frame, his
out. very handsome, of a chiselled and distinct
Maj his bright black eye never met yours, but
keen º, as you looked away, with penetrating
an "less; the expression of his mouth was wild
i.Somewhat sensual, with two perfect rows of
. 'eeth, white as ivory; his hair was black,
sºlind; complexion fresh and ruddy, but
Still º over by sun and wind. He was never
When ut kept perpetually moving to and fro, even
*imal seated, with the restlessness of a savage
th. always glancing, round and behind, as
foe he expected, but did not fear, some hidden
low, b is voice was soft and rather pleasing, very
tº as if suppressed with effort.
Gen..."is strange being had been educated in a
the . university, and was very well informed;
him."ºpean languages were all equally familiar to
even e spoke them all well, but none perfectly, not
at i.nº ; in several Indian tongues he was more
ty. When still young he had left his coun:
§ trug gling out from among the down-trampled
li...of the north of Europe, he went to seek
of . In America. But even there the restraints
Fº were too severe; so he went away for the
find ºt, where his passion for freedom might
H. vent, under no lord but the Lord on High.
º and trapping for some months on the
ºld in ranches of the Missouri, he acquired money
hi."ºnce enough to collect a few Indians and
Williºnd drive a dangerous but profitable trade
lin O * Commerce prospered sufficiently, to enable
dian.ºssemble twenty-four men—hunters, Cana-
Wit.'"yagers, and Indians—well armed with rifles,
i. mules and wagons laden with the han-
of the older states. iſ .
Started with his company, in the beginning
for the Rocky Mountains, from Indepen-
the i. he last western town, originally settled by
he "mons, four miles from the Missouri river.
thro Ravelled from twelve to fifteen miles a day
Wer the “bush' and over the prairies, and
º beyond the lands of friendly or Sven
trea. Tibes, among the dangerous haunts of the
ºft"." and warlike Blackfeet...º dº.
ey ... party was ever on the watch ; though
Were ºly saw them, they knew that enemies
§ten around. The moment there was any ap-
the W Sºrelessness or irregularity in their march,
lf ther ** attacked, with horrible whoop and yell;
Ons tou "as sufficient time, they ranged their wag-
indſ "", and used them as rests for their rifles,
() *
the * Protection from the bullets and arrows of
{{ §dians.
º le
Watºsionally these adventurers had lack of
. intº ºf when they got five hundred miles on,
jee, ...he Rocky Mountains, they found abun-
fra," h many mineral springs, some of them
tº vi
*tues, and a few salt lakes. The peaks,
f
of this grim range are here ten thousand feet high,
always white with snow ; but the company, keep-
ing in the gorges and the valleys, felt no great cold
at any time. They steered their course by the
compass through the wilderness.
“For five hundred miles more, their way lay
through these Rocky Mountains; for six hundred
beyond them, they still veered for the northwest,
till they struck on the upper forks of the Columbia
river. Here they met with more friendly natives,
and some of a race mixed with French-Canadian
blood, besides a few lonely hunters and trappers.
Here, and further on, they traded and got great
quantities of rich find valuable furs, in exchange
for their blankets, knives, guns, and other products
of civilization.
“California, to the south of these regions, has a
soil of exuberant fertility; the climate is genial, rich
woods cover it, lakes and rivers suited to the uses of
man intersect it. San Francisco has a noble harbor.
American emigrants are crowding in every day;
they are already nearly strong enough to seek an-
neration to the giant republic, and to drive out the
feeble Mericans; but the powers of Europe will be
more cautious in allowing the game of Teras to be
played a second time, and on this will arise a ques-
tion between England and America far more difficult
of adjustment than that of Oregon.
“The adventurer prospered very much in his
traffic; the next few years' gain enabled him to
increase his party of traders to the northwest to
sixty or seventy men, with three or four hundred
mules; while he, with a small body, crossed the
Rocky Mountains to the southwest from Indepen-
dence, and journeyed nearly a thousand miles, en-
tering the province of Santa Fé, and bartering his
goods with great advantage for the gold and silver
of the rich Mexican mines.
“The burning of the prairies is one of the dan-
gers and hardships to which these traders are ex-
posed. In the autumn the tall rich grasses dry up
and wither; the slightest spark of fire suffices to
set them alight, and then, whichever way the wind
may carry it, the flame only ends with the moun-
tain, the lake, or the river. The heat is but for a
few moments, as the blaze sweeps by, but it leaves
no living thing behind it, and the smoke is dense
and acrid. When the fire approaches, no man
mounts his horse and trusts to its speed ; that
would be vain; but they fire the prairie to leeward
and follow the course of the burning, till enough
desolation lies between them and their ravenous
pursuer to starve it into tameness. The German
once found the blackened track of the fire for nine
hundred miles, and could only obtain scanty grazing
for his cattle by the borders of the lakes and rivers
on his route.
“In the year 1844 he was delayed much beyond
his usual time in collecting mules sufficiº for his
expedition, and could not start for Santa Fê till the
middle of September. There is a low, hºllow
country, many miles in extent, abºut fifty days'
journey on their road; it is covered with gravel,
sand, and stone; there is no hill, rock, or shelter
of any kind; it supports no animal or vegetable
life, for a strong, withering wind sweeps over it,
summer and winter. The adventurers have named
this hideous place—probably from the wind—the
Simoom. Great caution is always taken to pass it
before the winter begins; this year they were late,
and the rigor of the season set in very early ; and
when they were well advanced into the danger, a
thick snow-storm fell. There was no track; the
390
THE RAPACITY OF REPUBLICANISM.
cattle moved painfully; they were without fuel,
and the stock of forage was soon exhausted. Many
animals, dropped by the way; and, in one night, a
hundred and sixty mules died from cold, weariness,
and hunger. º
“Then the hunters, who had faced many great
dangers and hardships before, became appalled;
for the snow still fell heavily, and the way was far
and dark before them. The next morning they
consulted together, and agreed to abandon the con-
voy and hasten back to save their lives. An old
hunter, who had served long and faithfully, and
was known to be much esteemed by their leader,
was chosen to state this determination to him.
The delegate came forward, and, in a quiet but de-
termined way, declared the mutiny. As he spoke,
£he German shot him dead : the rést returned to
their duty. Leaving orders to his company to re-
main where they were, the leader, escorted by two
Indians, rode back to the settlements: they had
but little food with them; the journey was seven
hundred miles, and they had to cross many rapid,
swollen streams—but he arrived safely, procured
supplies, returned to his people, and, after a pros-
perous expedition, they all came back in safety.
“His narrative of these events was as free from
bravado as it was from the expression of human
feeling or remorse.
“The adventurer, being now wealthy, went to
Europe, with the intention of settling, or at least
of spending some time with his friends in Germa-
ny. He remained in London for a month, where
he met some connexions who treated him with
kindness. . . But the bonds of society proved intol-
erable to him; he gave up his plan of going home,
and once again turned to seek the wild but fas:
cinating life of the prairie. This strange man was
thoroughly well informed on all political and social
conditions of the nations of the earth, in their po-
etry, philosophy, and even their novels. He had
read and thought much : with an anxious effort to
overcome this love of savage life, he felt deeply
the evil of yielding to its influence, but succumbed.
By this time, he is again in the deep gorges of the
Rocky Mountains, or chasing the buffalo on the
prairies of the west.”—Hochelaga, vol. ii., p. 161.
From the Britannia, 17 Oct.
THE RAPACITY OF REPUBLICANISM.
THE republicans are now busy in the two grand
affairs of republicanism-getting, money and grasp-
ing at territory. Their journals are filled with
exultation at the activity of their corn-market, and
the gallantry of their troops, who, in the last six |
months, have advanced about as many miles.
However, there is no fear that Jonathan will not
advance when there is anything to be got by it;
and Mexico, with its mines, its pastures, and its
seaports, is open before him. The Mexican will
not fight; and who can wonder at it! He is a
beggar, a peasant, a robber, or an Indian. As the
first, he cares, for nobody but the passer-by who
can give him the means of living without work; as
the second, he is torn from his cabin and his cows
and sent to be shot, he knows not for whom, or
what, ºr why ; as the third, he is forced to give up
a popular occupation, much cultivated by roués of
the higher order, and instead of shooting, with the
chance of making a full purse, and being called
capitano, he is drilled to be shot at for threepence
a day, that threepence, often only promissory, after
being starved, stripped, and strappadoed in the
- ised
preparative for soldiership. Who can be. .
that any one of the three classes has an º wholl
aversion to the puncture of a bayonet, anº. 0
disapproves of standing in front of a diº;
six-pounders? As for the fourth, the lº. of
native master of the soil, the aborigina ...anic
swamp and prairie, of sunless valley and *"...r.
hill, he equally abhors them all, Spaniard 9:
ican. He regards the struggle as a spºº, rats,
would one between a terrier and a brood 9
and calculates his gains on the number whº, ell
be killed on both sides in the encounter.
Sultan Selim was told that the Prussian: "...ich
trians were going to war, and was aske".
side he preferred, his Ottoman reply was, r the
is it to me whether the dog eats the hog, i; of
hog eats the dog?” The Indian is undoubº
the Ottoman opinion. in the
But the higher moral remains to Eurº thé
condition of the Mexican government, and 9 *ºn
governments of South America. We ha"...of
constantly worried with harangues on the energ ap6
republicanism. From Vera Cruz down. º eX”
Horn all is republicanism, yet all is lassitº".
haustion, public profligacy, and private i.is
If an exception occurs here and there, ſº color
simply from the supremacy of some one dºes
nel or general who rules by the sword, º goº.
morals by the bullet, and comprises the art * (eſ. "
ernment in the gallows. Despotism has therºid
the task out of the hands of republicani.ie
“Senor il Presidente” has no privy council"
hangman. tand-
* * * . . . . S
Republicanism is boasted of as raising the loweſ,
ard of talent, as summoning the ability of the civiº
orders to the service of the state, and as plº thé
genius on the “stool of power.” But whº uleſ
reality? In every one of those republics the Yê.
is a soldier; the civilian is a tool, a drudge, º: t of
The sceptre is the cat-o'-nine-tails, and the *.ion
law is the drum-head. And, much as . ap”
sense abhors ambition, and common hum. at6
jures bloodshed, the struggle would be . if the
for the highest interests of the western wº in Oſlº
whole cluster of those republics were merge."mod
huge, stern, and stately monarchy—if solº sh
ern Augustus would coax, or frighten, . longi.
those bitter and boasting factions by lines 9
tude and latitude into one pacific mass,
their fierce colonels and cut-throat captains. aiting"
quiet cattle of courts, liveried lords in "...i.
crouching chamberlains, and antecham ; battle
bands, with the carpet for their only field 9 of wº.
and a japanned pike their deadliest weapº.hich
Still, the American invasion is an act º and
even American subtlety has found no exº"The
at which even American effrontery blushº. thing:
journals, which seem made to defend aſºn
shrink from its defence; and the ºpiºiº
began its career with something likë aſ "inch;
to swallow the transatlantic continent º hould
and finish with Europe as a dinner, even t Pe:
not take tea with the Emperor of Soughºjzuº
kin, has never ventured tº to talk” of the monº
of Mexico. But the seizure goes on, ..". full-
by month the Yankee is restrained frº. "...ly by
est employment of his powder and shot, "...”him
the determination of the Mexicans 19 of a der
take all that he likes without the trouble p0
nial. d
The arrival of Santa Anna has F. lsº
change except to Monsieur Paredes, " o his prior
ordered to quit his lodgings, and return
THE BOURBONIAN MANIA,
391
ltiy *
jºin, sheepskin clothing, and goats'-milk
º d nt These, with a cigar, will satisfy the ex-
Paniard against all the frowns of fortune. Every
thout."...ºn earth, has but to find a cigar in his
Practi .." a cloak to wrap round him, to be a
§hole philosopher in the worst of times. The
The ...!!!estion is now, can Santa Anna fight!
dº." lem awaits solution. If Santa Anna
Whi. the hundredth part of the reputation
$vail e brings with him, he will fight; and if he
Will º of the simple means of his country,
Alex. have General Taylor on prison rations in
tight i. a month, and the heroes of Washington
fiti. tº scamper across moor and mountain
ag. ey wrap their scars in the remnants of their
* Mexico's four times the size of France. It
.."y-made guerillas by the ten thousand or
*dred thousand. It has hills and hollows
ty men might stop the march of fifty thou-
, sº has forests through which nothing could
thin .. Way but a wolf, and deserts which few
ºf ...ºuld pass but a bird. It has ten millions
tº. Ple, and if, of those, every tenth man were
Qn tº". a soldier for the emergency, no power
Th; ... Ҽuld make an impression upon Mexico,
ºts i. too, is open. If Mexico cannot build
ºath. ° can at least commission privateers; and
Pock." Would learn his only wisdom, that of the
ºff." the most immediate degree, by the op-
ºthi. of those sea musquitoes. But Mexico does
Whº. She has no model but Scrub in the play,
*śnd; *nders his keys at once, drops on his knees
#
#
r but S Plores of the “bold captain” to take his life,
*e his money.
* * –
THE BOURBONIAN MANIA.
biº Philippe is a great architect, but in his
uilding his anxiety, wisdom, and atten-
° been exclusively directed to one depart-
uji."º portion. This is the summit of the
Wall". Others may lay the foundation, rear the
ºl...ºt the column. This done, no person is
*ca i. to put on a roof, adorn a pediment, or fix
ºbj \pon the column. In France, this division
ignºllabor between the people and the sover-
"twº succeeded admirably. The French have
*ing jº a century been themselves engaged in
i. %, foundation of their political and social
di ley began by a great clearing, and the
§. 9ns which they laid, rest upon the most
*sjºnd solid stratum of mother earth. They
§§ * raised wall and column, solid too, with
º, *\lated dimensions. To drop the meta-
j popular rights and liberties are firmly
§ . and established too by their own
º: land. On this Louis Philippe has been
Jººst . place his superstructure, his court, his
º Fº *s peers, and in part his administration.
§e. all these have flourished because of
j ... basis on which they rest. But Louis
* from is had no hand in the inferior structure.
Śl his *ending or strengthening it, he has done
jed Pºwer, to injure and weaken it. He has
With municiº e d. and
; anº", municipality and national guard, an
§ º every element of popular liberty, as
§esºlurst and could. If they survive, it is
h iº of him.
She, i. *Philippe has not confined his policy to
...ther . Wºuld build political edifices abroad.
'. §ºn *Alps, nor the Pyrenees, nor even the
r • "3 St 4 º r
ºp*in, *P him. There he is not so fortunate. In
r *ample, over which he has ruled these
four years, and where he now dominates, his whole
attention has been directed to what we have called
the superstructure, the fashioning of the court and
government. As for any foundation in public wel-
fare, popular institutions, in consulting and pre-
serving such customs as were purely and thoroughly
Spanish—the French king has cared for none of
these things. He has taken no account of Spanish
peculiarities, Spanish character. And in Spain all
these foundations and rude walls for the support of
the political edifice, are wanting, or new, or weak.
Nevertheless, he has gone on boldly to raise his
superstructure. He has erected a king, a court, a
government, a dictatorship, a stringent, and direct
taxation, a centralized administration, all after the
manner of France. All is gilt, and new, and mag-
nificent, and dazzling. But who, acquainted with
Spain, does not at once see, that all this is built
upon the sand, or upon foundations so corrupt, that
ruin is inevitable 1
But the Bourbonian monomania is even more
manifest and ridiculous in its transatlantic than in
its European ambition. Sober people will be un-
willing to believe in serious projects for the restora-
tion of monarchy, and of Bourbonian monarchy, in
the new world. And yet it is but too true that
such schemes have never slept, and that we could
fill volumes with chronicling such folly. Even the
other day, in Mexico, grave diplomatists have sug-
gested, that the only cure for her weakness and
her ills, was a return to the bosom of monarchy, "
and the election of a Bourbon to the throne of
Mexico. The French envoy, who has since de-
parted the country, dreamed it. The Spanish en-
voy, Bermudez de Castro, pressed it, and President
Paredes was fool enough to listen to them. It was
the chief cause of his fall.
And now an expedition is fitting out in Spain by
General Flores for the conquest of the Ecuador, to
which Queen Christina and the Spanish cabinet
have given every countenance and assistance for
ulterior purposes, that may be surmised. The
Ecuador is an inland country, which can only be
reached across the territories of Venezuela or Chili,
or some other republic. So that General Flores'
attempt, and the Spanish government's patronage
of it, has set all the governments of South America
in alarm. The known schemes of Bermudez de
Castro and Paredes in Mexico, coupled with those
of Flores, and with the possession of Spain taken
by the French in the person of the Duke de Mont-
pensier, have stirred up the passions of the Cre-
oles; and the native Spaniards of the old world are
in danger of massacre and exile, all through the
nonsensical dreams and the machinations of the
Bourbonian monarchists.
Such views upon America are not rational
enough to excite our disquiet, or require our intºr-
ference. We mercly mention them to show the
extravagance of the monomania, which affects the
courts of Paris and Madrid, and which has given
birth to a purely dynastic policy, utterly regardless
of the interests, the jº or the liberties of
the people, whose throne and treasure are thus
Selfishly aimed at.
England has at this moment, no cause of quarrel
with the people of France, and just as little with
the people of Spain. If one nation chooses to run
counter to our policy or to rival us at sea, these are
natural contingencies, which we must meet with
patience, and overcome by wisdom. If Spain, of
her own free will, with a voluntary though mis-
taken view of her own interests, would proscribe
392
THE FOURTH ALTERNATIVE.
our commerce and exclude our trade, we may feel
angry at such ingratitude and real blindness, but
we cannot resent such acts on the part of a free
and independent nation. But when all this rivalry
and exclusion are evidently not the result of the
separate will of the population or government of
either—when they evidently spring from the dicta-
tion and aggressive policy of the stronger nation,
and from a kind of family compact, such as hath
before conspired for our destruction—then matters
become seriously altered. Then indeed we must
begin to look about us, and before us. If with no
quarrel or enmity betwixt us on the one hand, and
France and Spain on the other, we still find a cer-
tain family concentrating in its hands the force of
both to our detriment, this may not make us enter-
tain hostile feelings towards French and Spaniards,
but we are decidedly at war with the house of
Bourbon. Should Europe take the same view of
these things as England does—a concordance of
opinion most probable—then, we would not give
much for th9 prospects of the house of Bourbon.—
JExaminer, Oct. 10.
THE FOURTH ALTERNATIVE.
“WHAT is to be hoped, what to be done?” So
asks an able writer on foreign politics in the Daily
News; who, like most of his fellows in the London
journals, is just now somewhat put off a level con-
sideration by the excitement incidental to the Mont-
pensier marriage. What is to be done, ask those
who protest against the match ; as if it were
necessary, or even possible, to do something on all
occasions. . It does not appear to us that at any
stage of the business England could have done
much. There has been no infraction of treaty;
and as long as the Spanish sovereign was willing
to concur with the French sovereign in the arrange-
ment, England's position seems to have been one
of mere helplessness. The marriage may be “the
most untoward event that could have happened to
constitutional Europe,” but England had no legal
instrument by which to prevent it.
But the Daily News sticks to its question; re-
peating the words used by Lord Bolingbroke on a
similar occasion—
“What remained to be done? In the whole
nature of things there remained but three. To
abandon all care of the Spanish succession was one.
To compound with France on this succession was
another. And to prepare, like her, during the
interval of peace, to make an advantageous war
whenever the sovereign of Spain should die, was a
third.” -
There is now, says our contemporary, no
greater choice of alternatives; and he proceeds to
discuss them seriatim. The first–to abandon all
care of the Spanish succession [in other words, to
do nothing]—is too great a concession of power
over the commerce of the Peninsula, and even of
the Mediterranean; it is an abandonment of mar-
kets impossible for England. The second alterna-
tive—compromise—is no longer possible : Lord
Aberdeen lost the opportunity; and, moreover,
there are no longer the Indies and Low Countries
-“a wide empire to carve.” There remains
then the third alternative—to prepare for war: and
here, you would suppose, ty Daily News must
ſº
* thé
repose its restless soul; having arrived at it .
exhaustive process of testing all other alsº most
Oh, no : “this, perhaps,” says he, “* ºlam.
impossible of all.” “Heaven avert *.
ties 1’’ The English, too, “are a people ...; º
averse to war—to propose, or even to thin philippº
That is the very thing upon which Loulº
counted. ...!, we ".
Such is the fightful position to whiº there #
reduced ; something must, he done...ies;
nothing to do. So impossible a conflict of desp”
enough to turn the brain ; and in Yºe.
ration we hasten to suggest a fourth alº.jpg:
It is clear we cannot prevent iouis P cuſ!"
family aggrandizement; he manages it. has
ningly, so doucely. It is true that Sp" eithe:
vast dependencies to “carve,” nor Frº. e dill,
But there is the wide world. What is ºrial
culty which we encounter in our march 0 º
aggrandizement, but the jealousy of Franº.
could we not effect with her aid and cº.il/
There is, then, the fourth alternative, 9 ting *.
going along with Louis Philippe ; anti. iſ!
wishes, furthering all his projects, thº. him
more even than his hopes; and only requir; absor
to give us what will cost him, poor mº";
lutely nothing. º uſually
Let us require of him nothing but thiº. pº,
free trade between aii French and Engliº.ºnd
sessions, mutually free residence for Englis ow8.
French subjects in the territories of eithe...P. all
French countenance for British possessiº theſ”
that France does not want; surely all. lation.
modest and easy requirements. Those sº. moſ.
secured, let us be liberal, and help the age W all
arch, like the old king of a fairy tale, to en ..f the
his sons. It can be done with a strok”
pen. ..., briº
Give him, for Joinville and his Brazil."pººl;
Mexico, Central America, and all down ºſted
so securing a solid southern boundary tº 1 ge0 ſº
States—that huge moving bog in politiº. with
phy; and endowing Brazil, for the first tº:
a quiet frontier. Give him, for the Duº jáleaſ.
ensier, even Spain, Madeira, and the ; siſ.
sles; allowing to Don Francisco and imalſº
comfortable subsistence. Give him, for him!, ſº
Algeria, with Morocco and Egypt. gº is º
Nemours, after he shall have performed l ºath .
of regent, the reversion of Italy on thº...ºledº
Pius the Ninth. His daughter is alread. ſºlº.
Belgium. Perhaps, if he has an eye on ingº;
for the Comte d’Eu, some Germaſ...w *
might be available ; or otherwise º º fol
require nothing but that the little boy .g th&
low the example of Colonel Selves; wº.
trade of the Black Sea unmolested, R.
spectable neighbor, the Slavonian Prºject.
Central Europe a friend, Circassia.”damº Adº.
Madagascar or Polynesia—perhaps M* bº.
laide might have a fancy for eith. r 10
Would any other relation of his that *P :1ed
Choo ! *. WC diſi.
When France and England should . uſic.
the world, hereafter, they might sett ojº.
eventualities between ; having by that tº. ſea.
better how to do so. We should havº % out!”ſº
the result. At all events, the lull wº. 3C9 ſ:0
our time : we should be taking a loan 9 p
posterity.—Spectator, Oct. 17.
#
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.-No. 133–28 NOVEMBER, 1846.
From the Examiner.
"ºis of the Reign of King George the Second.
: () ORACE WALPole, youngest Son of Sir
th ert Walpole, Earl of Orford. Edited from
.9riginal MSS., with a Preface and Notes,
. §º late Lord Holland. Three vols. Col-
sº Şay of Horace Walpole what Wordsworth
Th. 9f Rob Roy. He “came an age too soon.”
rank . of Robert Walpole, he had hereditary
*com . the politicians of the day. Acute and
as . ished, he was as capable of giving counsel
+ phy. of his contemporaries. . But he wanted
ºft.* rºbustness, and a persistent power of
ºnce . He never achieved the directing influ-
bit."ºr his fellows which it was his great am-
Nº. have attained. . He never led: he only
Pushe i. The old revolution houses continually
Flore f im into the back-ground. They had not
º, the genius of leadership than he but they
Th ir ° blood of the Cavendishes and Russells.
"... Would ...tiºn was a few generations older. He
behi. d ºve been well content even to have stayed
ºf the the scenes, could he have pulled the strings
too." Puppets who figured on the stage; but here,
Pushi ° was shouldered out by such pertinacious
# §. folk as Chancellor Legge, and such
Rj.ous unscrupulous fellows as unblushing
li. So he had nothing for it but to revenge
. Ajº f by writing down his opinion of them all.
*gs l Was exquisite revenge. You see the work-
tº..." it, transparently enough, through, almost
he § Page of the Memoirs. So engaged, he feels
. ºw. what not one of them could have done
him."; and the gratified sense of superiority keeps
º º: long tranquil ; but again the recollection of
from ºlºged claims revisits him, and gall drops
º ; "is pen.
too ... repeat that Horace Walpole came an age
ºnflu . If he had lived in a time when the full
was "º of the art he most highly possessed, yet
erall."ºt ashamed to avow, had come to be gen-
*knowledged, he would have been a happier
hat an invaluable writer of , leading
i. he would have made With his social
On, entitling him to a smattering at least of
- - Political secrets; with the run of the offices
f ‘abali 's party was in, and of the canvassing and
"g conclaves when it was out; with ready
"ºss to seize just enough of the great ques-
at agitate society, to enable him to dis-
: "telligently about them, and give him lean-
"preh e popular sides with amply sufficient
hit $nsion. of the characters of popular leaders,
j final exquisite sketches, bitter or plausible, of
that W *lly, with an epigrammatic nicety of touch
º always have given point and attractive-
ºys. is writing:—why, Horace Walpole, in
the Se * have transferred the war of politics from
. . beg. ... and the salons to the press, would have
lust spensable to his party. His usefulness
lºgº. compelled acknowledgment, and the
beſ. ºn would have kept him a happier and
ºpered Iſld II.
es.” he could but confide his thoughts to
- * Living age. vol. xi. 25
to
hate.
foolscap, as Midas' wife did hers to the reeds.
These Memoirs of the last Ten Years of the Reign
of George II., like those lately published of the
early years of the reign of George III., begun,
often laid aside, and still resumed, are the eſort of
a man to convince himself, and perhaps others, that
he is wiser and abler than those who yet will not
(for some reason or other) place themselves under
his guidance. He is perpetually thinking a vast
deal more about Horace Walpole than about the
events or heroes of his history. There are at least
half a dozen proems and perorations in the book,
principally devoted to an exposition of the charac-
ter and views of Horace Walpole, and of his pecu-
liar and specific objects in beginning and carrying
on his historic sketches. On the occasion of one
debate in the commons, he reports his own not very
important speech, at greater length than any other
speech given in the Memoirs; and then subjoins an
apology for doing it, of at least equal length, in
which he explains and accounts for certain pas-
sages omitted in the report | The book, in short,
was intended to show the world “what a man
they had rejected in Henbane Dwining.”
Horace had wit enough at the same time to
remember that such an appeal against the practical
judgment of his contemporaries was likely enough
to make him look ridiculous. He addressed it,
therefore, to posterity. Nay, even about its re-
ception by Prince Posterity he had misgivings.
His testamentary disposal of the MSS. in both
sets of Memoirs looks extremely like the act of a
sensible man who feels himself strongly inclined
to do a very foolish act, and therefore, though he
cannot bring himself wholly to relinquish it, puts
it in the power of wiser people to frustrate his
intentions.
To the fact that Horace Walpole, while com-
piling these and the later Memoirs, was thinking
more about himself than his subject, we attribute
their inferiority in the portraiture of his age to most
of his other writings. At no time do we look to
him for a correct estimate of either principles or
men. . But we find in him, when at his best, not
only the subjects about which the acute and intelli-
gent men of his time most liked to converse, but
the way in which they talked of them. They are
a living example of the comparatively refined and
elevated portion of public opinion in Walpole's
age. They are themselves a fact, a phenomenon.
Thus men thought, and felt, and spoke, when
George the Second was king. In his always
delightful Letters, thrown off as the humor seized
him, the brocaded coats and hooped petticoats again
glitter and rustle amongst us. The wits and the
wigs are alive again. The men and Women of the
day are informed with as much vitality as before
the day had passed, whether they are on their way
to Ranelagh or St. James'. . But, speaking com-
paratively, the ambition to do all this still better
in the Memoirs, has ended in something stiff and
conventional, which the Letters have not. They
have nothing to equal Lady Caroline Petersham
looking “gloriously jolly” with her_hat cocked
over a punch-bowl at Vauxhall. The formal
sketches of the Duke of Bedford in the Mcmoirs
394 WALPOLE's MEMOIRs of rhE REIGN of GeoRGE II.
cannot compare with the Duchess' card-parties in
the Letters, or with the scene in Bedford House
during the Gordon riots. The Duke of Cumber-
land by Walpole the historian, is much less inter-
esting than the same antiquated hero catching his
death of cold on the stairs of Almacks, by Wal-
pole, the letter-writer. Even in this matter of
political intrigue, the fragmentary notices of “all
the 'Cues” in the letters, lets us more completely
into the secret than the narrative historical.
The particular book before us has been so long
familiar to Walpole's readers, that it is not
necessary to give any outline of its contents, before
proceeding to borrow from it some of those ex-
tracts which seem to us always fresh and amusing.
The present edition is a transcript of that of the
late Lord Holland, with occasional changes and
inaccuracies which we regret to see ; with omissions
(such as of the mottoes to the chapters, all of
which, being not the least characteristic feature of
the book, were of course carefully preserved by
Lord Holland) quite unjustifiable; and with a
studied avoidance of any allusion to the edition that
preceded it, which is perfectly incomprehensible to
us. One would rather have expected the projectors
of an octavo edition to have distinctly rested its
claim to support on its manifest superiority in con-
venience to the lumbering quartos it replaces. But
be this as it may, we are glad to have the edition
before us. It completes, in uniform size and shape,
the writings of Walpole; and is provided with
what we sadly miss in the George the Third Me-
!noirs, an excellent index.
In turning over the pages for extract, we were
amused by a case of privilege, (the notes of debates
and other matters in parliament supply many a gap
in our parliamentary history,) in which the house
appears to have caught a Tartar.
“A considerable officer was Lord Tyrawley, too
old to give jealousy to Lord George, and who,
having been neglected by the Duke of Newcastle,
had treated the latter with a contempt which, be-
sides his attaching himself to Fox, had assured an
entire stop to his own further advancement. Lord
Tyrawley had a thorough knowledge of the world,
though less of his own country than of others. He
had long been minister in Portugal, where he grew
into such favor, that the late king, to keep him
there, would have appointed him his general. He
had a great deal of humor, and occasional good
breeding, but not to the prejudice of his natural
temper, which was imperiously blunt, haughty, and
contemptuous, with an undaunted portion of spirit.
Accustomed to the despotism of Portugal, Muscovy,
and the army, he had little, reverence for parlia:
ments, and always spoke of them as the French do
of the long robe. He even affected not to know
where the house of commons was. He was just
returned from Gibraltar, where he had ordered
great additions to the works, with no more economy
than governors are apt to do, who think themselves
above being responsible. Lord George Sackville
caught at this dissipation, and privately instigated
Sir John Philipps to censure the expense. To
their great surprise Lord Tyrawley demanded to be
heard at the bar of the house in his own defence.
ay was named. Lord Tyrawley drew up a
memorial, which he proposed to read to the house;
and which in the mean time he did read to every-
body else. It was conceived in bitter terms against
Lord George, and attacked him roundly on having
avoided all foreign command. This alarmed.
Lord George got the day of hearing adjourned for
3
near a fortnight; but Lord Tyrawley yº
man to recede from his point; and ord Ge".
having underhand procured the report 0 b
who surveyed the works at Gibraltar, tobº is
before the house, without mentioning whº f this
Mr. Fox laid open the unhandsome darkness 0 t
conduct, and Lord Tyrawley himself appº. ittee;
the bar. As the hearing was before the COII] nS
high words were avoided, which must hº ºe-
had the speaker, who was not wont to suffer Oſt
spect to the house, been in the chair. i. h:1
Tyrawley made good by his behavior all .
been taken for vapor before he appeared tº: form:
treated the house with great freedom, *.g.
with still greater; and leaning on the bar, ( er his
he was alſowed a chair,) he browbeat Skº. arror
censor, who stood on his left hand, with **"...m.
gant humor, that the very lawyers thoug"...l.
selves outdone in their own style of woº. rawl
prit. He read his memorial, which was W* frank.
and somewhat softened, with great art º haſ
ness, and assumed more merit to himself
had been charged with blame. Such toºd to
tempted few hunters. Lord George wº affai’
wave the sport; and the house dismissed mad
with perfect satisfaction in the innocence º red tº
who dared to do wrong more than they “ .
censure him.” oints
Qur other extracts shall be principally 9” p º
which still excite interest among us.
WALPOLE's Five GREAT MEN.
in in
“Thinly, very thinly, were great men º
my remembrance : I can pretend to havº . Wal;
five ; the Duke of Cumberland, Sir Rºº.
pole, Lord Granville, Lord Mansfield, and rately:
have expatiated on all their characters sº. in
and yet I am inclined to say a few words i sam?
the light of comparison. It is by setting "...s of
characters in different oppositions and P'. bº
view, that nearer acquaintance with ther" .
struck out. h6 five.”
“Lord Granville was most a genius of th ască.
he conceived, knew, expressed whatever hº P.cſo
The state of Europé and the state of literºid,
equally familiar to him. His eloquence... aſ
and flowed from a source of wit, granºwº;
knowledge. So far from premeditated, "...g.:
no reflection to chasten it. It was enterºjous,
was sublime, it was hyperbole, it was " ed from
according as the profusion of ideas ..or, but
him. He embraced systems like a leg.ia.
was capable of none of the detail of a *... h;
•orStº ".
Sir Robert Walpole was much the re.jſ.
knew mankind, not their writings; h9. jthe
their interests, not their systems; he intº "as bº.
happiness, not their º: Whateº.” Mans,
yond common sense he disregarded. ...ſº, hº
field, without the clevation of Lord Grº". accº.
great powers of eloquence. It was 2. "ining: r
rate understanding, and, yet capable of º ſº
whatever it was applied to. He was º d to º
vice as Pitt, more unaffected, and foº Duke #
vince, even where Pitt had dazzled. Th". wi.
Cumberland had most expressive sº...iii.;
that connection between his sense and . oul!
that you must mortify his pride befº y Bº:
call out the radiance of his understanº. short.
placed at the head of armies without "...isgr.
apprenticeship, no wonder he miscar.” w fall.
to have no other master than one's ‘...side. *
Fitt's was an unfinished greatness. c may
how much of it depended on his wo"
waLPoLE's MEMOIRs of THE REIGN OF GEORGE II.
395
most ſº w sº º *
Passi gall his an artificial greatness; but his
pen °n for ſame and the grandeur of his ideas com-
ho Sated for his defects. He aspired to redeem the
givi Of his country, and to place it in a point of
In j aw to nations. . His ambition was to be the
an illustrious man of the first country in Europe;
no." thought that the eminence of glory could
ū. Sullied by the steps to it being passed irreg-
gen 7. He wished to aggrandize Britain in
ijl, but thought not of obliging or benefiting
"...iduals.
Sir td Granville you loved till you knew him;
Woul obert Walpole the more you knew him : you
him d have loved the duke, if you had not feared
M. sºilt liked the dignity of despotism; Lord
jeld the reality; yet the latter would have
Woul the cause of power, without sharing it: Pitt
lºan º have set the world free, if he might not com-
jº, Lord Granville would have preferred
i. right if he had not thought it more conven-
ery o wrong; Sir Robert Walpole meant to
ū. mankind, though he knew how little they
...] it; and this principle is at once the most
"rious in oneself and to the world.”
*HE ELDER PITT AND THE ELDER Fox.
** {{ in.
ters ºtt was undoubtedly one of the greatest mas-
§nazi Ornamental eloquence. His language was
hi...gly fine and flowing; his voice admirable;
CO ºlion most expressive ; his figure genteel and
he ...ling, Bitter satire was his forte; when
is...}. ridicule, which was very seldom, he
ed happily; when he attempted to reason,
y ut where he chiefly shone, was in ex-
is own conduct: having waded through
notorious apostasy in politics, he treated
an impudent confidence, that made, all
ºns upon him poor and spiritless, when
In y any other man. Out of the house of
t 'nºns he was far from being this shining charac-
§, is conversation was affected and unnatural,
* co *nner not engaging, nor his talents adapted to
Wojºy; where ministers must court, if they
ºš be courted. -
and .%, with a great hesitation in his elocution;
thes." "arrenness of expression, had conquered
§ised ºpediments and the prejudices they had
tea."gainst his speaking, by a vehemence of
the .g. and closeness of argument, that beat all
and *ors of the time. His spirit, his steadiness,
Whic "manity procured him strong attachments,
! he !!he more jealous he grew of Pitt, the more
£it "ltivate. F. always spoke to the question ;
Piº to the passions; Fox, to carry the questiºn :
the § raise himself; Fox pointed out, Pitt lashed
likjºrs of his antagonists; Pitt's talents were
hini. : make him soonest, Fox's to keep him first
* , On .”
his § notice of the death and character of
ter. º ºr's great opponent, Bolingbroke, is a mas-
• * of artful detraction.
"cted"; it being master of no talents to, have
Sºuth the second part, when little more than a
him...', overturning such a ministry, and stem-
indº."º a tide of glory, as Lord Godolphin's
Ali. Pºke of Marlborough's Were there no
§. after his ºn frºm banishment, in hold-
..for jº * power as Sir Robert Walpole's at bay
P0s;
it "lºst
With
refle Ct
Word
€S
ºgs
In
º, *ny years, even when excluded from the
‘‘the i. 9pportunity of exerting his eloquence in
* ...se of parliament 1 Was there no triumph
‘’”g chiefly contributed to the fall of that
+
* -
A.
minister Was there no glory in directing the
councils and operations of such men as Sir William
Windham, Lord Bath, and Lord Granville And
was there no art in persuading the self-ſondest and
greatest of poets, that the writer of the Craftsman
was a more exalted genius than the author of the
Dunciad 4 Has he shown no address in palliating
the exploded treaty of Utrecht 4, Has he not, in
his letter on that event, contrived to make asser-
tions and hopotheses almost balance stubborn facts!
To cover his own guilt, has he not diverted our
attention towards pity for the great enemy, in
whose service he betrayed his own country?
“On the other hand, what infamy to have sold
the conqueror to the conquered ' What ingratitude
in laboring the ruin of a minister, who had repeal-
ed his sentence of banishment ' What repeated
treasons to the queen, whom he served; to the pre-
tender, who had received and countenanced him ;
to the late king, who had recalled him ' What
ineffectual arts to acquire the confidence of the late
king, by means of the Duchess of Kendal, and of
the present king, Lady Suffolk! What unwearied
ambition, even at seventy years of age, in laying a
plan of future power in the favor of the prince of
Wales | What deficiency in the very parts that
had given success to the opposition, to have left
him alone excluded from reaping the harvest of so
many labors' What blackness in disclosing the
dirtiness of the pope, who had defied him And
what philosophy was that which had been initiated
in the ruin of the Catalans; had employed its
meridian in laboring the restoration of popery and
arbitrary power; and busied the end of its career,
first in planning factions in the pretender's court,
by the scheme of the father's resigning his claim
to the son'; and then in sowing the seeds of divis-
ion between a king and a prince, who had pardoncú
all his treasons !
“Sir Robert Walpole and Lord Bolingbroke had
set out rivals at school, lived a life of competition,
and died much in the same manner, provoked at
being killed by empirics; but with the same differ-
ºnce in their manner of dying as had appeared in
the temper of their lives: the first with a calmness
that was habitual philosophy; the other with a
rage that his affected philosophy could not disguise.
The one had seen his early ambition dashed with
imprisonment, from which he had shot into the
sphere of his rival, who was exiled, sentenced, re-
called , while Walpole rose gradually to the height
of temperate power, maintaincd it by the force of
his single talents against Bolingbroke, assisted by
all the considerable geniuses of England; and when
driven from it at last, resigned it without a stain or
a censure, and retired to a private life, without an
attempt to reëstablish himself—almost without a
regret for what he had lost. The other, unquiet,
unsteady, shocked to owe his return to his enemy,
more shocked to find his return was not to power,
incapable of tasting the retirement which he made
delightful to all who partook it, died at last with
the mortification of owing his greatºst reputation
to the studies he had cultivated to distress his an-
tagonist. Both were beloved in private life; Sir
Robert from the humanity and frankness of his
nature; Bolingbroke from his politeness of turn
and elegance of understanding. Both were fond
of women; Walpole with little delicacy; Boling-
broke to enjoy the delicacy of pleasure. Both
were extravagant; and the patriot who accused,
and the minister who had been accused of rapine,
396
WALPOLE's MEMOIRs of THE REIGN of GEORGE II.
died poor or in debt. Walpole was more amiable
in his virtues; Bolingbroke more agreeable in his
vices.”
CHIEF JUSTICE WILLES.
“Lord Chief Justice Willes was designed for
Chancellor. He had been raised by Sir Robert
Walpole, though always brow-beaten by haughty
Yorke, and hated by the Pelhams, for that very at-
tachment to their own patron. As Willes' nature
was more open, he returned their aversion with
little reserve. He was not wont to disguise any
of his passions. That for gaming was notorious ;
for women, unbounded. There was a remarkable
story current of a grave person's coming to reprove
the scandal he gave, and to tell him that the world
talked of one of his maid-servants being with child.
Willes said, “What is that to me !” The monitor
answered, “Oh but they say that it is by your
lordship.” “And what is that to you !” He had
great quickness of wit, and a merit that would
atone for many foibles, his severity to, and dis-
couragement of, that pest of society, attorneys :
hence his court was deserted by them ; and all the
business they could transport carried into the chan-
cory, where Yorke's filial piety would not refuse
an asylum to his father's profession.”
THE Torture of DAMIENs—Louis XV.’s ATTEMPTED
Mły RDERER.
“Damiens, the criminal, appeared clearly to be
mad. He had been footman to several persons,
had fled for a robbery, had returned to Paris from a
dark and restless habit of mind ; and from some
preposterous avidity of horrid fame, and from one
of those wonderful contradictions of the human
mind, a man aspired to renown that had descended
to theft. Yet in this dreadful complication of guilt
and frenzy, there was room for compassion. The
unfortunate wretch was sensible of the predomi-
nance of his black temperament; and the very
morning of the assassination, asked for a surgeon
to let him blood; and to the last gasp of being,
persisted that he should not have committed his
crime, if he had been blooded. What the misera-
ble man suffered is not to be described. When first
seized, and carried into the guard-chamber, the
Garde-des-Sceaux and the Duc d’Ayen ordered the
tongs to be heated, and pieces of flesh torn from
his legs, to make him declare his accomplices.
The industrious art used to preserve his life was
not less than the refinement of the torture by which
they meaned to take it, away. The inventions to
form the bed on which he lay, (as the wounds on
his leg prevented his standing,) that his health
might in no shape be affected, equalled what a re-
fining tyrant would have sought to indulge his own
luxury.
“When carried to his dungeon, Damiens was
wrapped up in mattresses, lest despair might tempt
him to dash his brains out—but his madness was
no longer precipitate. He even sported, horridly
sported, with indicating variety of innocent persons
as his accomplices; and sometimes, more harm-
lessly, with playing the fool with his judges. In
no instance he sunk either under terror or anguish.
The very morning on which he was to endure “the
question,’ when told of it, he said with the coolest
intrepidity, “La journée sera rude'—after it, insisted
on wine with his water, saying, “Il faut ici de la
force.’ And at the accomplishment of his tragedy,
studied and prolonged on the precedent of Ravail-
lac's, he supported all with unrelaxed firmness;
of the thoughts of other men : he shou
ich
and even unremitted torture of four lº
succeeded to his being two hours and a hº entary
the question, forced from him but some º: s 2
yells—a lamentable spectacle ; and Pº ps
blameable one.” .
THE onATons of walpole's D***
- onC8
“After so long a dose of genius, ther” al
f uſ.”
appeared near thirty men, of whom one . rly,
doubtedly a real orator, a few were most º: ter.
many very able, not one was a despicab!” *śies
Pitt, Fox, Murray, Hume Campbell, Con-
Townshend, Lord George Sackville, Hº. Ø
way, Legge, Sir George Lyttleton, Oswald. on, tº
Grenville, Lord Egmont, Nugent, Dodding! Ack.
Lord Advocate of Scotland, Lord Strºng", "Lee,
ford, Elliot, Lord Barrington, Sir Georg" ºrd
Martin, Dr. Hay, Northey, Potter, Elºp sh" '
Hillsborough, Lord Duplin, and Sir Françº ºrces,
wood ; these men, perhaps, in their sever” encº
comprehended all the various powers of 9..." wit,
art, reasoning, satire, learning, persuas.” for
business, spirit, and plain common Seº, pitt:
quence as an art was but little studied but } but *
the beauties of language were a little, an", his
little more cultivated, except by him º
family. 3. very -
“Northey saw clearly, but it was for hºurd
little way. Lord Strange was the mº...his
man that ever existed, with a very clear hed ancº
distinctions were seized as rapidly as othº..." ad:
positions. Nugent's assertions would hºly
everybody angry, if they had not made ºscd,
laugh; but he had a debonnaire jollity that . rava’’
and though a bombast speaker, was rat cre. ents:
gant from his vociferation, than from hisº. and
which were often very solid. Dr. Hay ...tº
manner resembled Lord Granville's, not b” jdoſ”
Lord Granville was novelty itself; Dr. Jºjoſë
said anything new ; his speeches were tº lº.
wit
have opened a debate. Oswald overflowed º
torrent of sense and logic : Doddington Y. gen:
searching for wit; and what was surpriº'along
erally found it. Oswald hurried arguſ.nga.
with him ; Doddington teased it to *...* º
him. Sir George Lyttelton, and Lºgº.g. aſ
opposite in their manners; the latter.” ggº
pointed ; the former diffuse and majestiº... to Sir
speeches seemed the heads and chaptº
George Lyttelton's dissertations. Iºnes
aimed at nothing but understanding bº.
explaining it. Sir Francis Dashwood, .
to know, and who cultivated a roughſles; º
affected to know no more than what he h" € Grcſ.
from an unadorned understanding. Geº. sers."
ville and Hume Campbell were tragic *.periº.
very different kinds; the latter far the *Camp,
Grenville's were tautologous lamentatiº.' 3.
bell's bold reprehensions. Had they be. haſ
in a conspiracy, Grenville, like Brutus, *. ... hiº
struck and wept ; Campbell would havº kers nº f
for weeping. The six other chief SP". oper'ſ
from their ages and rank in the house, .
thrown into two classes. ded : 1.
“Mr. Conway soothed and pers”. C a.
George Sackville informed and convin. 6 d
Townshend astonished; but was top 5%. s e.
suade, and too bold to convince. º jg
to speak only because he thought his º
be of service; Lord George becaus? irº,
others misled, or were misled ; Charles rS
neither caring whether himself or ot"
and
le
ºt
COLLEGE
CELIBACY. 397
t *
º ºnly spoko to show how well he could
- fle. ad cause, or demolish a good one. It was
in."..." with him, as soon as he had done speak-
la to run to the opposite side of the house, and
had §. those he had attacked, at those who
Second ended. One loved the first, one feared the
tute of One admired the last without the least mix-
whi." “steem. Mr. Conway had a cold reserve,
With Seemed only to veil goodness; Lord George,
hi." Fankness in his speech, had a mystery in
- 3. which was far from inviting. Charles
that end had such openness in all his behavior,
duct * Seemed to think duplicity the simplest con-
att, 'É. made the innocence of others look like
Whe at what superiority does integrity contract,
in. ºven uniformity of acting could exalt, so
*ppea ºn above the most conspicuous talents that
Wººd in so rhetorical an age? Mr. Townshend
e.haps the only man who had ever genius
tent; ! to preserve reason and argument in a tor-
"" epigrams, satire and antithesis.”
§ Con
WHAT WALPOLE THOUGHT OF SMOLLETT.
di s: February was tried a criminal of a still
la i. complexion. Dr. Smollett was convicted
() king's bench of publishing scurrilous abuse
* thiral Knollys in the Critical Review. Smol-
be...” a worthless man, and only mentioned here
Ştor * author of a History of England, of the
Šm. in which posterity ought to be warned.
lie lett was bred a sea-surgeon, and turned author.
With ºte a tragedy, and sent it to Lord Lyttelton,
tº "Whom he was not acquainted. Lord Lyttel-
...” caring to point out its defects, civilly
; him to try comedy. He wrote one, and
-- T. d the same lord to récommend it to the stage.
ºr excused, himself, but pººl, i.
fºr... be acted, to do all the service in his power
šu. author. Smollett's return was drawing an
R. portrait of Lord Lyttelton in Roderick
ºt., a novel; of which sort he published twº
*g. His next attempt was on the History of
Šell. º: a work in which he engaged for book-
at. And finished, though four volumes in quarto;
floº." Years; yet an easy task, as being pilfered
ºf histories. Accordingly, it was lº
thº. till it came down to the present time; then,
host 'Sompiled from the libels of the age and the
- lºy materials, yet being heightened by
ºtes al ºnvectives, strong Jacobitism, and the worst
§."ºtion of the Duke of Cumberland's
‘. Fls, *...in Scotland, the sale was prodigious.
sºld. Housand copies of that trash were instantly
foºd’ While at the same time the University of Ox-
iii.ºured to print but two thousand of that
lion º work, Lord Clarendon's life A reflec-
- ºppº the age sad to mention, yet too true to be
, i.ed! Smollett's work was again printed,
Prihºn tasted ; it was adorned with wretched
bot j.ºpt two or three by Strange, who could
º."* his admirable graver to the service of the
it e Cause.
Šiljºtt then engaged in a monthly magazine,
ºd." Critical Review, the scope of which was
šić. ºny work that appeared favorable to the
\hat . * of the revolution. Nor was he single in
j. The Scotch in the heart of London
that. "a dictatorial power of reviling every book
Sajºred the Stuarts, or upheld the revolution
When *ocation they ought to have remembered
While ºne tide rolled back upon them. Smollett,
º *i. Prison, undertook a new magazine ; and
. . *ding the notoriety of his disaffection,
. }
&dvi
obtained the king’s patent for it by the interest of
Mr. Pitt, to whom he had dedicated his history.
In the following reign he was hired to write a
scurrilous paper, called the Briton, against that
very patron, Mr. Pitt.”
That last extract is one of Horace's abounding
instances of flagrant party and personal injustice.
It is worth observing, perhaps, before we close the
volumes, that they contain evidence of a hatred to
the Scotch, matured and full-grown before George
the Second's death, which it has been too much
the fashion exclusively to attribute to Churchill,
Wilkes, and Junius. These writers simply gave
voice to a feeling which had been sometime rank-
ling at the heart of society.
-nº-
From the Britannia.
COL.I., EGE CELIBACY.
ENGLAND is now in the crisis of Protestantism.
Since the time when the Scriptures were first put
into her hands, there never was greater peril of her
religion. This is no question of discipline, of prop-
erty, or of prelacy. Whether the establishment
shall live or die is no longer the consideration ; the
most essential point is the very existence of that
pure Protestantism, which is only another name for
pure Christianity.
Popery is making every advance which can be
made by combined artifice and activity, by public
faction and by private intrigue. We see it alike
forcing itself on the feebleness of tottering cabinets,
and exciting the passions of the people, offering to
the ambitious the bribe of parliament, and to the
mean the patronage of office, and, by alternate vio-
lence and servility, always making a forward step to
ultimate supremacy.
How, then, is this advance to be resisted There
can be but one effectual expedient—the adoption of
religious truth in its simplicity, sincerity, and power.
The German Reformation was incomplete. All
its leaders had been Romish priests, and they all
brought with them a remnant of their original super-
stition. Educated in the ceremonial of the mass
and the doctrines of the cloister, they must have
been more than men to have wholly extricated their
minds from the prejudices of their early life. The
reformers were extraordinary men, still they were
but men; and our higher knowledge of the spirit of
Christianity grieves over the Popish attachment to
ceremonial, the occasional persecution, and the
enforced celibacy which they suffered to disfigure
the glorious church of the Reformation: ... -
The importance of the two great universities of
England is amply and universally acknowledged.
The education of the chief part of public and pro-
fessional life depends on them. They have the
power of impressing their feelings upon every ºug-
cessive generation. Their offices and honors, their -
learning and antiquity, their connection with the
national history, and their possessiºn of eminent
members, at the present hour; qualify them for
holding the highest rank in the intellectual state of
the empire. * tº , s:
Our respect for the two great universities is une-
quiyocal, but that respect only urges us the more
distinctly to mark the points in which reformation
must add to their utility, must invigorate their
means of public service, and entitle them to a
larger share of national gratitude.
Whether Oxford owes its primal existence to .
Edward the Confessor, to Alfred, or to Odin, in
his first expedition from the Caucasus, there can
39S
SCHISM AMONG THE GERMAN WATER DOCTORS.
be no question that it was monkish once, and is
monkish, still. Whether Cambridge drew the
breath of its nostrils from Sigebert, with the help
of his chaplain, or learned its primer from the
Abbot of Croyland and his brethren of the twelfth
century, it is equally beyond question that it was
monkish once, and is monkish still. They are
now both Protestant in name; why should they
not be Protestant in reality? Why should any
one rag of monkery cling to great national institu-
tions entrusted with the education, the character,
and almost with the religion, of a Protestant peo-
ple? Why should we hear of the revival of the
gloomiest, most fatal, and most unscriptural heresy
in the world? Why should we be told of ceremo-
nials unauthorized by Protestantism : of opinions
totally hostile to the religion of the land ; of
shrine, vigils, fasts, legends, in the very courts
through which the Reformation walked, like a
descended angel, in light, broke the chains from
the spiritual captives, and bade them follow to
liberty
At once we ask, why should the fellows of those
colleges be laid under the heaviest yoke that
oppressed even the voluntary slaves of Rome?
W. should clerical celibacy be a law in con-
ferring the highest honor of the universities?
We are aware of the old arguments, that celi-
bacy is essential to literary diligence, that it is of
importance to collegiate discipline, and, above all,
that the rule of giving up fellowships on marriage
is essential to the succession of candidates.
The answer to them all is obvious. No man
ever toils in his study with such ardor as the man
who has wife and children to share the fruit of his
toil—no man is fitter to enforce discipline with
effect than the man who has learned the art of
tempering authority with kindness in the bosom of
his family. And, with reference to the chief
objection, the succession of candidates might be
provided for simply by rendering the fellowships
(with some special exceptions) tenable for only a
term of years.
The present evils are self-evident. We shall
first take the principle. , Compulsory celibacy is
against that original impulse of nature to which the
first blessing was given by the Creator in the first,
purest, and noblest state of man, and by which the
world was to be sustained. Why is man to set his
own wisdom against the wisdom of Heaven? Or
what right has any living being, merely for the
convenience of living in comparative and selfish
case for life, to cast away the high privilege of
i. existence to immortal souls, and muſict of
their being the children whom God had endued him
with the faculties of bringing into the world? Of
course marriage may not be for all. It may be
unwise in many men to marry, and it is unwise in
any man who has not a rational prospect of being
able to provide a maintenance for his family. 13ut
those are matters of personal consideration alone.
We are now not speaking of the man, but of the
ordinance; not of the rational being weighing his
means against his wishes, but of the harsh and cul-
pable restriction which utterly prohibits his obe-
dience to a pure impulse of his nature, and his
share in the primal blessing of that ineffable wis-
dom which alone knows what is best, wisest, and
hº for its creatures.
he practical effect of this º is unques-
tionably to produce great misery. By the present
Iſl
rotation of livings, a fellow of a college gaſ sº
obtain a benefice equivalent to the emolum.
the higher orders of fellowships under .
years. But affections are awakened long lly dº
this cycle is run out. There is gener” ity.
attachment, followed by an “engagement 19 ". al
as soon as the living shall fall. Thus, Y.
purity and with all mutual affection, the º äre
ment goes lingering on until youth an º
gone, and the rational prospect of happ., the
passed away between the decayed maide. . ;I
superannuated old bachelor. Of course "...ºf
instances where the hope of the benefice lº * high
aside for marriage; as where the naºs.
heart and honest feeling prefers a life of 5°.
exertion in literature or the professions.”
young wife to cheer him on his way, to tº.
nant life and routine indulgence of the .ca
room and his solitary fireside. Every one."...ge
instances of those protracted and wretched eng ºst
ments; and every one who has seen th9"...evi.
acknowledge them to be among the unhº %ie
dences of monkish restraint on the nobles' * *
passions. To
But there are still worse consequence”; eſt
those we can scarcely more than alludº, jii.
can be no conceivable doubt that evil of the # ask,
est kind is frequently the result. Again .*
can the legislation be justifiable which aids" hat.”
tion by worldliness? Or can we wonder ct in
monkish restriction should produce its º thé
monkish profligacy? It is notorious that ".
great Romish countries the most honorablº iſing
Society are disregarded with the most 5
impunity; that the confessional has only : not
the scandals of private life, even where -
create new sources of those scandals; anº...line,
monasteries, with all their formality of roſp
were frequently the scene of transae. us!
which the honester mind revolts, and W.
not stain the Protestant page.
º
*
—-"
5.”
Schism anosc The German water Dºº
We learn from a hydropathic patient on . 3.
can rely, now in Silesia, under Preissnitz, *...is
sect has sprung up in that district, which ...top.
system directly opposite to that of the grea' d’of giy
thist of Grafenberg. The new party, instº § im
ing the copious libations of cold water, prºjenº
the original system, recommend a total ºre ºf
from the drinking of water, and effect theº.
long-continued thirst They so far follow r
as to keep their patients, for a series of hou {} jentº
day, wrapt in wet blankets or cloths; but thº P.ateſ,
are rigidly restrained from the drinking %ices'
and are restricted in their diet to such a few . rink.
stale bread daily as they can swallow with. 3.
On two days of each week only, they are à and aſt
cup of soup and a small piece of animal mº. e con.
kept on that routine for many weeks. Fihe moś
quence of this treatment is, that patients 9% ºn a ſº
robust habit are soon reduced to skeleton; tº atmº.
desperate cases, it is said that the new t beſ.
effects a change of system that is for the . fatal .
ficial, whilst in most other instances it º ..
the unhappy invalids. Indeed, we º:
the whole, that there are not any well-dº. II] ºffic;
cases of cures being effected by either sy. ict º
would not have taken place by temperº ... gulº'
exercise, and by the remedies prescribe ... "
medical practice.—Scotsman. .
new.
S
SIXTEENTH MIEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. 399
“o
* . .
From the Athenæum.
sº
*TEENTH MEETING OF THE BIRITISH ASSOCI-
A
*N For THE ADVANCEMENT of science.
(Continued from page 365 of the Living Age
TUESDAY, sept. 15.
SECTION B.—CHEMISTRY.
| us YN the Corrosion of Iron Rails in and out of
- jºin
jectar." R. Mallett.—The researches on this sub-
mad * Still in progress—experiments are being
* upon six different lines of railway. The
al facts already ascertained are:—1st. That
b. *s a real difference in the rate of corrosion
et tº Tº a º:
*. the rails in use and out of use :—that this
Cu º to be connected with their peculiar mole-
tion Condition so induced. 2d. The determina-
*Whi * the complex conditions as to magnetism,
i. aſſect rails some time in use, producing both
e
tail hº and permanent magnetism in the rails, each
f."g magnetic with polarity, and having from
"Sight separate poles each.
: Hunt stated his confirmation of the experi-
i. ºf Ritter—that magnetism had the power of
§
Sch.
* Ina
i.
"thm
in
... on railways.
O
tº l b
- 10 § ust
Čctin
ferrei". iron from corrosion :-to which he re-
the protecting influence exerted on the rails
* the Extent to which fluoride of Calcium
- ë le in Water at 60°,” by Dr. Wilson.
th . the Coloring Matter of Madder,” by Dr.
*. --This report detailed a series of re-
te.es into the composition of the coloring mat-
di... madder; the result of which has been the
• * ,
ºlno, "Very of many curious properties in the color-
eſſ ºdy Alizarine. These have been carefully
t jºi by Dr. Schunk, and the combinations
*... it effects with the metallic oxides. Dr.
ºk has also discovered two other coloring
3. i.S in madder, which are capable of imparting
º!y red color to mordanted cloth.
natº the Application of the Principles of a
l - º
- i. system of Organic Chemistry to the Expla;
P. ºf the Phenomena occurring in the Diseased
"o Tuber,” by Dr. Kemp.–The object of the
dut Or is
the fol to urge the consideration of his views on
Pebt owing grounds:—1st. That, on the 24th of
Ph.ºry last, he announced to the Cambridge
‘ion. Sophical Society, as one of the main deduc-
{l º
* from his analyses, that the nature of the mor-
ahººtion in the potato tuber consists in an
34 ºn tendency to premature germination.
prº the truth, of this deduction has been
gro. to the very letter by the progress of the
*UW
ion º of the tuber subsequently; and that atten-
ley, ºs drawn to the subject by Professor Lind:
A..." the Gardeners' Chronicle, on the 1st of
jºimply on the grounds that this tendency
Nº.ture germination had become a matter of
it. 3d. That, by the application of the
ºf whºstem of organic chemistry, the outlines
this. ich were brought before the last meeting of
i.ºiation, it was in his power to establish an
*.ht principle, which had baffled the genius
i.ºrces of the commission appointed by gov-
, S. to investigate the subject.
imp. remarks followed, which all bore on the
ing."ge of autumn planting. Numerous strik-
!ºes ºnces were adduced in which healthy pota-
- "#. 3. . grown from diseased tubers planted
*utumn.
Rem. * Inquiries into the Extent, Causes, and
* of Fungi destructive in Agriculture,” by
J. Prideaux-1st. Extent.—Decandolle's theory
of injurious excretions having been opposed by
many arguments and experiments, particularly
those recently published by Dr. Daubeny, that of
Liebig, of specific exhaustion of the soil by plants
of one species, leaving it fit for another which re-
quired different ingredients, had been generally
substituted. Some, however, had taken a middle
course, and supposed plants to breed animalcules,
which they left in the soil, and which would feed
upon other plants of the same species, but not upon
those of different ones. The writer also, unsatis-
fied with the theory of specific exhaustion of inor-
ganic ingredients, from the occasional unaccounta-
ble efficacy of ashes and soot, and the inconsistent
effects of inorganic manures, had investigated the
organic residues on the soil—after wheat, barley,
turnips, and potatoes; compared them with the
premature decay of wheat (where too often culti-
vated) in patches, expanding from centres, like
fairy rings, and with the notoriety of fungus in the
potato disease ; and had thence been led to inquire
how far such fungous parasites might be the gen-
eral representatives of Decandolle's supposed injuri-
ous excretions. To what extent this may be true,
the microscope will best decide, by examining the
roots and contiguous soil of plants after harvest,
especially those which have ripened seeds.—2d.
Causes.—Fungi and mucors were supposed to bear
somewhat the same relation to vegetable, as mites
and the like to animal, life—a sort of debased or
degraded vitality, produced when the organizing
vital power was not enough predominant over the
disorganizing tendency to decomposition, to eſſect
due assimilation of the nutritious matter presented,
but still sufficiently so to prevent decomposition
or decay. The constant struggle between the
organizing vital force and the decomposing power
of chemistry was described, and instances were
adduced to show that the invigoration of the vital
force by solar light and abundance of proper
nourishment, enabled it effectually to repress the
decomposing action ; whilst, on the contrary,
gloom, warm damp, and stagnant electrical air,
assisted the disorganizing force, and often produced
predatory fungi, which mignt thus be considered a
sort of retarded disorganization. So ripening
plants, as their vital powers decay, might generate
such parasites: which would explain how they
weaken the soil so much more than green crops, in
proportion to the contents of their ashes. Such
fungi, though not the cause of discase or decay, are
effectual promoters of both, and probably the chief
means of infection, where that also exists.-3d.
Pemedics.—If further investigation prove fungi thus
generated to produce such generally injurious
effects, the remedies will be of practical importance,
These should be cheap and antiseptic, as well as
destructive to fungi. Sulphate of copper with salt,
which had been successfully used for seed pota-
toes, was too costly for spreading ºver the soil.
Fresh lime, the general destroyer of noxious ver-
min, roots and seeds, would probably answer till
rendered inert by carbonic acid. , Salt, which
appeared more promising, he had found, in some
experiments, rather promote than destroy fungi.
Lime and salt digested together would climinate
caustic soda, a very active destroyer; and soda
ash, with or without lime, would have a somewhat
like effect, and ammoniacal gas liquor is perhaps a
still more destructive application. But none of
these alkalies can be regarded as antiseptic ; and
400
SIXTEEN TH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
the ammonia, when neutralized in the soil, unight
even promote disorganizing fermentation, where
already, too strong : and therefore, though they
might do, after seed crops, more antiseptic dress-
ings must be used where there is putrescent
tendency. Chloride of lime, in solution, he had
found useless on diseased potatoes; the powder
had been said to answer better, but either would
sºon be rendered inactive in the soil by the humous
ntºtters. Sulphuric acid diluted might succeed
where farmers had the means of applying it; and
#lum, which is of easy application, is a cheap and
}ºwerful antiseptic. Dressings of this kind, in-
‘nded to kill the fungi, and check the dis-
organizing action, would be turned under in the
rst ploughing after harvest, independent of the
tisual manure for nourishing and exciting vital
à (*! 100.
“On the Electrization of Needles in Different
Media,” by Professor C. Matteucci:—Professor
Jiatteucci has found that needles electrized in air,
i: oil, or in water, were differently affected by
the current—the magnetism varying with the
nature of the medium in which the needles were
placed. The materials employed were the oil of
turpentine, olive oil, alcohol and water—and also
plates of mica. The discharge of a Leyden jar
was then passed near the needles suspended in
these fluids, and the amount of magnetization
ascertained.
“On the Influence which finely-divided Platina
exerts on the Electrodes of a Voltameter,” by Dr.
Robinson.
“On the Difference in the Physiological Actions
of the Yellow and Red Prussiates as an evidence
of their containing dissimilar radicals,” by Dr.
Letheby.
“Notice of a Gas. Furnace for Organic Analy-
sis,” by Dr. Percy.—This was an ingenious
arrangement, by which gas, burnt, mixed with air,
through wire gauze, was substituted for char-
coal. Its advantages are its extreme cleanliness,
and the power which the operator possesses of reg-
ulating, at will, the heat—which is not º
in the ordinary furnace for organic analysis with
charcoal.
t
f
SECTION C.--Geology.
“On the Fishes of the London Clay,” by M.
Agassiz. * -
* Notice of the coal of India, being an Analysis
of a Report communicated to the Indian Govern-
ment on this subject,” by Prof. Ansted.
“On the Muschet Band, commonly called the
Black-band Ironstone of the Coal-field of Scotland,”
by Mr. Bald,—This band of irºnstone was discov-
ered, about forty years ago, by Mr. David Muschet,
of the Calder Iron-works, near Glasgow. It had
been frequently passed through; but was thrown
away as rubbish till Mr. Muschet ascertained its
value—when extensive mines were opened for
working it. Two bands of this ironstone are found
in the great coal-fields of Lanark—one 14 inches
thick; the other, which is 73 fathoms lower, is 16
inches thick. The ironstone of the Muschet band
is much more easily reducible than the ordinary dry
ironstone—and requires less fuel. In Scotland it
appears to be coëxtensive with the coal formation.
In South Wales, also, it is found; but there is lit-
tle of it in England or Ireland. Fiſty years ago
there were only five iron-works in Scotland, compris-
ing about ſifteen blast furnaces, which, together,
- are
produced 540 tons of iron per week. . Thº.
now 100 blast furnaces in action, º
12,000 tons per week, or 624,000 tons, ºp.
—the value of which, at £3 per ton, is £1.9% dis-
This great increase Mr. Bald attributed to the tro-
covery of the Muschet ironstone, and to th9 1ſ1
duction of the hot-blast. He also mention;
Mr. Muschet, who is now in his eighty-sixth iroſl;
has published a volume on the manufacture of ir re
containing an analysis of every ironstone . a!
he could obtain; and he trusted his labors W9. ligh
least, be recognized in scientific societies, all.
the pecuniary advantage arising from his dº
ies had fallen into other hands. :... " b J.
“On a new species of Hypanthrocrinite, y
Buckman.
“On Graphic Granite,” by M. Jobert.
Prof. Owen communicated notices of S0
sil Mammalia of South America, which .
under his observation since the publication,” Mr.
descriptions of the fossil mammalia collected -
Darwin.
the yº”
me Foº.
ad coſº.
SECTION O.—Zoology AND BotANY.
t-
“On the cultivation of Silk in England.”ſº
ter was received from Mrs. Whitby, of Newla th&
near Lymington, Hants, wherein she gº
Association the result of her experiments,
ty
hibite
ten years ago on her own estate; and exhib all
specimens of raw and manufactured silk, will.
which produº -
à
3.
details. Mrs. Whitby began by planting jºi. *
sorts of mulberry trees; and finds the Dwai'i.
lippine by far the best—as producing mor? le ai
and, from the facility with which its cutting.
struck, being more easily propagated thanº "...ge
She finds that, by procuring the eggs of lº. 3
Italian sort or four changes, she obtains as #.C
proportion, and as good a quality of silk as ". €
in Italy or France. The testimony of severd!
nent manufacturers in London, Manches. ted
Coventry, attest this. Mrs. Whitby has P. jani
to the queen twenty yards of rich and .
damask, manufactured from silk raised at New rable
After making allowance for occasional unº oney
seasons, and labor, machinery, outlay of ...ish,
&c., it will bºundia and laid out ºf .
ing food for this valuable caterpillar will alſº
large profit. tional
Mr. Ogilby thought this a subject of ...try
importance. The producing silk in this men':
had hitherto been only pursued as an an. y of
Mrs. Whitby had demonstrated the possibi
# * t; - I -
obtaining a sufficient quantity of food at ºiſ
time—which had hitherto been the great. he pºº.
of growing silk in this country. He hoped,
duction of silk would be adopted in Irelanº.
value of the silk brought to this country wº was
462,000,000 annually. Mrs. Whitby's " foreig.
worth as much in the market as the bº
silks—Mr. Monckton Milnes, inquired if tº
multicaulis would grow in all parts of this it!”
—and whether anything would grow . gro.
Prof. Balfour thought that this species m}.
over all England. He thought some 9... wo
might be discovered on which the silk."...g:
live as well as the mulberry. This plant."...ſal
to an order which contained a milky jºije, 0.
the plants, such as the lettuce, and milk. s º
which the worm had been fed contai. milky
juice.—Dr. Lankester thought it was nº t it was,
juice alone that the silk-worm require".
well known that the species of silk-w"
ſortſ”
* ,
nt
ther i. .
in accuº
.
*
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
401
$ . to one kind of food would not partake of
ſe Other, Thus, the silk-worm of India would not
ed on the mulberry, nor the silk-worm of Italy on
i. Jºjube, and other plants on which the Indian
pa "Worm fed.—Mr. Patterson referred to some
flººrs read by Mr. Felkin, of Nottingham, before
silk i SSociation, on the º of the growth of
i." In India;-in which Mr. Felkin had stated that,
's own experiments, worms that had been fed
*tuge died rapidly, even after their food was
"...ºd for mulberry leaves,
in Servations on the true Nature of the Tendrils
hº Cucumber,” by Dr. Bell Salter.
9n the Crustacea found by Mr. M'Andrew and
p § § p
* E. Forbes in their Cruises round the Coast,”
"Prof. Bei.
On the Hybernation of Snails,” by Mr. Ran-
ºf rom the author's observations on the habits
Helic hortensis, he concluded: 1. That snails
°rnate. 2. That in their state of hybernation
W. undergo less torpor than some other animals
i. hybernate. 3. That they are destructive to
... as well as to plants. º
of M the Egg-purse and Embryo of a Species
jobatus,” by J. Couch-The author com-
t ced by stating that the egg-purse was found in
jº, 1845, in the refuse of a trawl-boat by Mr.
F. and was obtained a few miles south of
is k °y, in Cornwall. After mentioning how little
"ºwn of the egg-cases of the rays and sharks,
.."...ely described it; and showed, the differ-
() etween it and others—particularly dwelling
° Structure of the surface, it being reticulated,
jºs, all the other egg-purses are smooth. In
°gg-purse was a living young fish, which
On 1
kin
0
ſº to belong to the genus Myliobatus, of Cu-
jºcharacterized by having the pectoral expan-
di. Şeparated from the head. hese, from the
lfect; g &
s.tion of the wings, have been fancifully called
.*gles. Ruysch—whose figures are, for the
Part, copies from preceding authors without
St
bei
lno, improvements on the originals, but who, at
§
sº figure 9, has given one tolerably chage.
T.", remarks that it has been called “Sea
Steat. from the form of the head resembling that
f...e5 and the comparison seems appropriate,
eral the elevated head with a protuberant and lat-
Vivi °ye. The same author says, that this fish is
j *Qus;—an assertion which the foregoing ac-
ºt shows to be incorrect.
W. ºn the Marine Zoology of Cornwall,” by C.
|Peach. * sº
hi . E. Forbes made some remarks on the Echi-
lo §hibited by Mr. Peach. One appeared to him
bi.” new species, but it would be necessary to
S. ºe specimen to ascertain the point.
on. Carpenter gave an account of his researches
res. microscopic character of shells, and also the
tor of his attempts at representing natural his-
. i *jects by means of photography.
and collections of Researches into the Natural
ci...ºnomic IIistory of Certain, Species of the
ºds, Corregoni, and Salmonidea,” by Dr. R.
b. -The author stated that his object was to
the Ş before the Association, and afterwards before
the i “ademy of Sciences of Paris, a brief view of
, the jºiries made by himself and his brother into
fis º atural history of certain important gregarious
'da.” that the food of the Wen-
His discover i.
* Wengis, of Lochmaben, consisted exclu-
25%
sively of the minute, or rather microscopic Ento-
mostraca inhabiting the lakes of Lochmaben, was
first communicated to the Royal Society of Edin-
burgh. This discovery, which at the time ap-
peared to the author and to a few others of the
highest importance in natural history science, had,
in his opinion, been misunderstood by the public,
and by most naturalists to whom he had spoken;
—they adhering to the old opinion that certain
fishes, to be afterwards spoken of, preyed on the
Entomostraca merely occasionally; at other times
on small shell-fish, animalcules, minute or small
fishes, &c., just as they could get them ; which
opinions the author endeavored to show were con-
trary to the facts. After discovering that fishes so
numerous, so productive and of such a size as the
Wendace, subsisted solely on one description of
food, the Entomostraca—a sort of food over which
man can exercise little control, especially in the
ocean—the author knowing that, up to his time,
the real food of the herring and of several other
species of fish had never been discovered, prose-
cuted his inquiries into this important branch.
The result was the discovery that, whilst the Wen-
dace lives exclusively on the Entomostraca, the
same may be said of the herring ;-that is of most
of its varieties. Dr. Knox gave an outline of a
Superior kind of trout, which he thinks has not
been described by naturalists: he calls it “The
Estuary Trout”—brackish waters being the local-
ity.it prefers. Should it prove, on future inquiry,
that the brackish water is the limit to its usual, or
natural range, it may furnish a means of deciding
on some difficult legal questions. As regards the
celebrated questions, raised by the Drumlanrig
experiments, to which his first memoir gave, as he
believes, the exciting cause, Dr. Knox thinks it
not proved that the salmon smolt—that is the
young salmon—ever remains longer in the rivers
than a few weeks after rising from the gravel; and
thinks that the opinions founded on the Drumlanrig
experiments are in this respect erroneous. 2d. As
regards the question of the parr, no new fact was
added to its previous history by these experiments;
the parr markings, which may be again made visi-
ble on scraping off the scales of the smolt, was a
fact well known to anglers; who at the close of
the day found it difficult to say which were true
parr and which salmon smolts. Mr. Scrope first
gave a beautiful drawing of this fact. 3d. For at
least a hundred years the opinion that the part was
the young of the salmon prevailed universally in
Annandale. 4th. Willoughby had proved that the
salmon egg may be impregnated by the milt of the
parr; an experiment curious enough physiological-
ly, but otherwise of no practical importance. 5th.
Mr. Hogg and a great many others had marked
the spring parr, and found that they returned to
the rivers full-grown salmon. Thus no new fact
was added to the natural history of the salmon by
the Drumlanrig experiments. The author declined
giving a decided opinion as to the real nature of
the true parr; but, so far as his observations had
yet gone, he believes that there is a fish which ma
be called the true parr, hitherto cºnfounded with
many other species having parr markings; and that
this true parr may ultimately prove a hybrid be-
tween the salmon or salmon trout and certain spe-
cies of river trout.
402
SIXTEENTH MEETING OF THE BRITſSH Association.
MONDAY.
Section G.-Mechanics.
“On the Comparative Value of the different
kinds of Gas Meters now in use,” by Mr. J.
Sharp.
Mr. M. Ricardo exhibited a model of his ma-
chine for registering the velocity of railway trains.
The object of it is to furnish the railway compa-
nies with a record of the work done by each train,
and the measure in which it has been done. By
this means they would be often enabled, in case of
any accident, to assign correctly the nature and
cause of the accident; and so prevent its recur-
rence. He also showed the work of a machine
for registering the resistance of trains. Some
discussion ensued, and several questions were put
by the president as to the nature of the machine,
which appeared to be satisfactorily answered by the
inventor.
“On the Law which governs the Resistance to
the Motion of Railway Trains at High Velocities,”
by Mr. Scott Russell.—Having on former occasions
communicated the results of experimental research-
cs concerning the resistance experienced by floating
bodies moving along the surface of water at high
relocities, I have thought it not an inappropriate
sequel, to communicate the general result of a long
series of experiments, made partly by committees
of this association, and partly by myself. The sub-
ject of the resistance which requires to be overcome
in order to give motion to trains at high velocities
has been matter of great uncertainty, some dispute,
and the cause of several grave errors in practical
engineering. Some six years ago a committee of the
association was appointed to make experiments on
this subject, and these experiments were at the time
ºn valuable addition to our knowledge. They showed
that the resistance at such velocities as 36 miles an
hour was much greater than had been supposed—
at least double, "The committee, however, in con-
cluding their labors, stated that they were not able
to deduce from them any law, or semblance of a
law; that the resistance increased with the velocity
—but it did not appear to do so according to any
simple function of the velocity, neither as the vé-
locity directly, nor as the square of the velocity.
‘Since that time the question has been a quastio ver-
ata among practical men and mathematicians. A
paper read at the Royal Society last winter comes
to the same conclusion as the old committee of the
British Association, viz., that no law is manifested
in the experiments—of which at high velocities the
results are quite anomalous. The consequences of
crrors on such a point have bºome now so serious,
especially where velocities of 50 or 60 miles an hour
are attempted, that it has been reckoned desirable
that the question should be, iſ pºssible, thoroughly
sesolved. For this purpose I have undertaken a
series of practical experiments, on a large scale,
with railway trains of a great Våriety of size and
weight, and at velocities as high as 61 miles an
hour. They were made on the Southwestern,
London and Brighton, Southeastern, Sheffield and
Manchester, and Croydon Atmospheric Railways.
have combined with these, experiments formerly
made by the British Association, and some by Mr.
Harding on the broad gauge; and it is the result
of this great variety of facts which I wish to lay
before the section. The experiments themselves
are arranged in the following table :-
–T
No. Uniform Resistance Resistance by
of , |yelocity main. * bylin lbs. per $9"
###"; "|"º:
I 10 8’40 9:30
2 14 12-60 13.90
3 14 12' 60 13.9%
4 29 16.50 15-70
5 31 23-30 25:40
6 31 18-20 16:30
7 32 22:50 27.20
8 33 22:50 22-70
9 33 15'68 16-90
10 33 15-96 17:00
11 34 I6'60 17.30
12 34 16.95 17:30
13 34 17-70 17:30
14 34 23-30 27.20
15 34 25.00 23: 10
16 35 22:50 26-10
17 36 22 50 22:40
18 36 22:40 21.50
19 37 17.50 18:20
20 37 25.00 28:40
21 39 30.00 31:00
22 41 22.99 19-60
23 41 26-78 19-60
24 45 21.70 21:00
25 46 23-10 21:30
.26 46 30-31 31-00
27 47 33.70 33:10
28 50 32.90 36.30
29 51 26-40 23:00
30 53 41-70 42-10
31 61 52-60 54.80


C-
These experiments show the great amouſ." º 6
sistance at high velocities; but they also show any
apparent anomaly of the results. We have.”
higher velocities than others with much lower
sistances. These are the difficulties in the W*. of
any simple and apparent solution. The me! º
investigation I have adopted is this—I have ‘.m.
all the results of experiments, and remº. eX*
them, in the first instance, all the question. the
periments. I found it necessary to discard"
experiments made with accelerating velocitº, e.
to retain only such as were made on uni *
locities, in the same circumstances, over *
space ; most of my own experiments :
steady uniform velocity over from one milº
I have also selected those which were mº', 'in-
from the action of wind—an element of mº" eſ.
portance. By thus weeding out the expº.i.
and taking only the most unquestionable, §
fied the subject very materially. Those ble
remain are given in the table. In this tº d the
weight of each train in tons is shown; *.
number of pounds of force required to kº
ton weight of that train in motion at a giº" speñ.
ber of miles per hour is shown by actual %
ment. The analysis of those experiº S 0.
as follows:–I take the fiction of the ax.
wheels as an ascertained quantity, equal tº ill This
conditioned carriages to Gib. perton of trºved by
I conceive we may consider to have been Pºſt.
all experiments of friction, including th9*.*.csist’
Morin, the latest and best, to be a sourcº fictio"
ance constant at aii velocities. This I cal t of 1%.
proper, and I consider it as the first cle... of
sistance. Friction proper, the first 9%
resistance—or
The Devil's PATROL. 403
• {1] R1 = C m, water. He quite agreed with him as to the nature
where C = 6lb., and m = the mass of the of the first two elements of resistance forming two
train in tons weight. terms of the formula. He also agreed, to a certain
The second element of resistance is the resistance|extent, to the * ºf the third element, which
"f the air to the front of the train. This has been |Mr. Russell represented by the term B m v. But
ºriously estimated, and somewhat erroneously. he hoped the experiments would be extended; and
*e persons have taken for it Smeaton's tables that this term, instead of appearing as it now did,
ºf the force of the wind. But such a table gives a would be analyzed into some further elements.
ºuantity quite in j for these tables were |He had paid, sºme.º.ºly to this sub-
"ade from the force of the wind upon a thin plate, jºct; and had stated his º.º. the committee of
.."ase where the minus pressºre behind is added tº the hºuses of parliamen. before which he had been
plus pressure before the plate; whereas, in the examined ºn the atmºsphºriº º and he cºn-
9 of the railway train, there is a solid body, ceived that there existed a term of Jesistance due
ºse third dimension extends the whole length |" the imbedding of the wheel in the rail, which
the tº. "...ejjiakºn, nº the j. would be of some such form as Bºº. There
the force of the wind, but a table of the resist. Would also, hº thought, be another term due to the
nee of air aliated from the height due to the resistance of the spokes of the whee! and another
ºlocity, which ſhave found to represent most ac, due to the adhesion of air to the sides, consisting
ºrately thºsis.nce of huids tº bodies passing ºf twº terms ºne increasing as ", and another as
through tijnjiaº j, this as the j}*... These, with axle furniture, rolling frišiºn,
§sential element in the resistance to railway trains. and the other elements he mentioned, would be
Resistic. of the air, the second element:— found to be concealed under the present aggregate
2] 2 B v m.; and he sincerely hoped these researches
R2 = A p wº, would not cease until the analyses were thus ren-
where A = the area in square feet of the dered complete.—Mr. Scott Russell concurred in
front of the train, and p = weight of a the views of Dr. Robinson, and would not fail to
column of air, whºse base isºquare ſº prosecute the subject. He thought it of especial
and whose length is the height due to the importance from this fact, that the element, or group
velocity of one mile an hour; v being the of elements, represented by B v m, was large, and,
A velocity of the train. practically, very important; but it was also one
ſter having deducted from the results of the ex- which the skill of the engineer might very much
...ents the sum of these two resistances, I have diminish, by attending to the construction of the
jº a large amount still unaccounted for; and I permanent way and the improvement of the car-
ent this quantity to be not only large, but depend: riages.
also on the velocity. The question which I
ºw submit to the section is the determination of THE DEVIL's PATRol.
9 nature and cause of this third element of resist- # * g
"ce. The third element of resistance appears by ON a shiny night, when the stars were bright,
- She experiments to increase very nearly as the ve- The Devil patrolling had gone,
} °ity; simply, that is, it amounts at 10 miles an To visit his large preserves upon earth,
ºur to abºut 3 ib., at 30 miles an hour to 10 lb., And see how his game got on.
"d at 60 miles an 'hour to 20 lb. per ton. It is, *
jore, proportioned to the mass or weight of Through copse and through cover, up hill and
Cºls
Wh
* train and to the velocity jointly. Other resist- P down dale,
"es due to velocity, or third element:— roceeded the Evil One; § *
3 Ra = B m v Aſ under his right arm he bore his long tail,
3 = D in v, is * s a gentleman carries his gun.
where 3 lb., m the weight of the train in tons, g g
and v its velocity in miles an hour. And pray what was the fiend's attire?—
Whence the total resistance (R) to any train of 9h, it was that of a sporting 'squire :
...Weight moving with any velocity is to be ob-|His shooting jacket was velveteen, , , , ,
"ed from the formula And his gaiters were brown, and his waistcoat
[4] R = R --R,--Rs = Ap vº-H B m v-H C m. green.
º results of this formula are shown in the last He saw a man seized and sent to gaol,
...m. of the table; and from the close manner in A For snaring a cock pheasant : f ;
s hich they follow the experiments through their nd the Devil was pleased ; for, says he,
"rious and apparently anomalous results, they They'll make $ 3
ºy be regarded as an approximation to the truth A felon of yonder peasant.
s ...ſliciently close for all practical purposes. The
ho # * * | A keeper, in a game-affra
º question discussed was the nature of this fº . shot #. . through—
. . element—resistance. The author attributed ||.. Hah!” cried the Devil, “ that 's the way t
...inly to the concussions, oscillations, friefions on shoºnjiaº-makes two.”
trai exures to which all the portions both of the d
- . and permanent way are subject, at high ve- |As he passed the county gaol, he saw
#. . * * A doomed man in his celf.
Whi * Robinson observed that this was a subject on Ho, ho " the Devil roared, “I’m glad
W
W º We had been for some time, very much in To find that my game laws tell.”
O --
had b
Would
Sistan
0
h
f accurate information; and he was glad it º
een taken up by Mr. Scott Russell; who And when he beheld each rich €State
he hoped, throw as much light on the re- Over-stocked by preservation,
ce to railway trains as he had already done “All this,” the Devil exclaimed, elate,
° resistance to ships moving through the “Is the fruit of my instigation.”
404
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
From the Quarterly Review.
1. Du Projet de Jortifier Paris; ou, Eramen d'un
Système Général de Défense, Par un ancien
Officier Supérieur d'Artillerie. Paris, 1839.
2. Réponse à l'Auteur de l'Ouvrage intitulé “Du
Projet de fortifier Paris,” &c. Par le Lieu-
tenant-Général de Génie, Wte. Rogniat.
Paris, 1840.
3. Rapport de la Commission chargée d'examiner le
Projet de Loi relatif aur Fortifications de
Paris. 1841.
4. Etudes sur les Fortifications de Paris, considé-
rées politiquement et militairement. Par M.
Arago, Député des Pyrénées Orientales.
Paris, 1843.
5. Rapport de la Commission chargée d'craminer le
Projet de Loi relatif a l'Armement des Forti-
fications de Paris. 1845.
TIIE conversion of the greatest city of continen-
tal Europe into a fortress far exceeding in magni-
tude any that the world has yet seen, is an event
of too much consequence not to have attracted uni-
versal attention. In ordinary cases the object for
which fortifications are constructed is clearly de-
fined, and the intention undoubted; but it is by no
means so in the present instance. The avowed
object is defence against foreign enemies; but out
of France, at least, it has always been the preva-
lent belief that Louis Philippe contemplated from
the first a very different sort of danger; and the
latter theory is consistent with the whole course of
his policy, which, like Bonaparte's, has invariably
tended to repress that revolutionary spirit to which
he owed his crown. We do not now, however,
propose to enter into the political questions involved
in this subject, or to dwell on the consequences
which usually result from the overthrow of estab-
lished governments by popular violence.
Though the first emotion of the people of France
after the restoration was joy at their deliverance
from a grinding despotism, a certain degree of sore-
ness soon began to be felt at the idea of their coun-
try being occupied by foreign troops, and a gov-
ernment imposed on them, in some measure, by
strangers. It was, no doubt, with a view to soothe
such feelings in the people as well as among the
military, that, immediately after the withdrawal of
the armies of occupation, a Commission of National
Defence was instituted by Marshal Gouvion St.
Cyr. As a part of the general system recommend-
ed by this commission, (which continued till 1822,)
it was proposed to fortify Paris and Lyons—the
former with detached forts sufficiently far from the
city to render it safe from bºmbardment, in addi-
tion to which the “mur d'octroi” was to be
strengthened so as to render it safe against a
“coup de main.” This project, however, when at
length matured and discussed in its details, was re-
jected in toto by the council during, the administra-
tion of M. Clermont Tonnère ; and from that time
the subject was not revived till after the overthrow
of the elder Bourbons. There seemed, indeed, no
sort of reason to renew it. Secure from any ap-
prehension on the score of foreign aggression, the
public mind was directed to the cultivation of the
arts of peace, and the national prosperity was rap-
idly recovering from the rude shocks it had sus-
tained during the revolution and the empire. But
the events of July, 1830, wrought a considerable
change in the direction of men's minds, and a most
important and indeed vital difference in the views
which might be taken of the fortification of Paris.
In 1830, after the elevation of Louis Pliº
the subject was taken up by Marshal Soult, 3%
referred to the committee on fortifications; * d
consequence of their report the chamber gº;
in the following session, five millions of fºº il-
the fortifications of Paris, and three and a half ".
lions for those of Lyons. A second repº! lº
made in 1832, and the chamber voted a furt 6
sum of two and a half millions for Paris, *f;
million seven hundred thousand for Lyons. ...
views of the committee seem to have been ".
the same as those of the commission of 1818-1.
and they also recommended detached forts, and 1 tC
conversion of the “mur d'octroi” into an “ en.
de sûreté.” The sums voted were accorº.
expended; but, as regarded Paris, instead of º:
manent fortifications, a system of field-defencº
extending from St. Denis on the left to Nogen: i.
Marne on the right, was adopted by order of M
shal Soult.
Up to this time the fortifications had not attºº YS
general notice, and the votes for their e.
passed without much discussion. In 1833 mat O
did not proceed so quietly. On the proposiº"
take a vote for four millions of francs, to be,”
cially applied to the fortifications of Paris an
ons, the commission charged with examining
war budget reported that fifty millions would.”
probability be necessary to complete the wor is i0
ready commenced; and without giving any ºp.
as to the expediency of the general measure, '. th-
considered that it should not be proceeded in .
out a special law. The result was a “pro” 0
loi” which provided that thirty-five milliº ºf
francs should be devoted to the constructiº" ci-
works for the defence of Paris—and upon * * º f
fied scale and plan. This project, however.'.
came to a discussion. Such was the exciº.
resulting from the jealous suspicions of the º:
ians, who now believed the restriction of th. *
erty to be the sole object in view, that the gº. 0ſ;
ment were glad to yield to the increasing.”
and get rid of the whole affair by a side-wºrtiff.
The people had thus decided against the ſoſ eir
cations—the government had acquiesced.”
decision—and though military men contº.on,
discuss it as a professional subject of spee.
the question seemed set at rest. It is.” ablo
however, that the king only waited for a fa"At
moment to revive it. He waited seven year.” with
length, in 1840, the excitement connected 0I*
events in the Levant afforded the wished-ſor ºf 16
tunity. In July the signature of the quº Sue
treaty set all France in a ferment. There *...to
the foolish affair of ſlags at the Mauritius, "... an
landing of Louis Napoleon at Boulogne ...out
English steamer. Finally, in September º ed
was bombarded ; and the laurels which were º in
by the British on the Syrian shores, th9% soil,
truth the crop was but small on that barº"
drove our jealous neighbors well nigh franºr ſer-
The nation had now arrived at that pitch," cncy
vor which fitted it to entertain with compº was
any proposition of a warlike character...a im.
considered right that France should assº. rest
posing attitude, to intimate clearly that, h6
of Europe were disposed to abandon hº." S ll
confident against the world in arms. Pºº.
been the case during the whole revolutio": .
ways, when most aggressive, affected tº ‘...ion
defensive attitude, and the question of fort. of
followed as a matter of course. The *. tſ)
fortifying Paris on a great scale would “
cted
y-
6
all
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
405
ºw that the government were prepared for the
.*st, if invasion should be attempted, and the
*mºur propre” of the people was flattered by the
§§itude of the scheme. It thus occurred that
* Thiers, who was then at the head of the ad-
inistration, though the leader of the popular par-
º "ecame the promoter of a measure which had
.* denounced as adverse to public liberty. Hav-
| eaded the popular movement in favor of war,
Would have been difficult for him to refuse con-
"trence in a measure which was generally believed
** adopted in accordance with that movement.
. he stopped short at that particular juncture,
; Wºuld have disappointed his own followers and
RS ended Louis Philippe; and the popularity as well
i. e royal favor which he would thereby have
ºusi have been transferred to his political
nº the 17th of September an “ Ordonnance du
i. was published, declaring the urgency of for-
Wºng Paris, and decreeing that the works should
* immediately commenced; and an extraordinary
edit of six millions, subject to the approbation of
§ chambers, was opened on account of the minis-
. of public works, to be applied to these fortifica-
"s. Thus far were the aspirations of the war
Fººty to have effect, but no further. This measure
*"g fairly set afloat, with every prospect of a
*Perous issue, there was no further object to be
*ined by keeping up the war excitement, and a
lºl policy was reverted to. In October, short-
i. 'efore the opening of the session of the cham-
**, the ministry were changed, Marshal Soult
ºming president of the council with the war de-
ºtment, while M. Guizot took that of foreign
*lts. But the new and conservative ministry
Yº quite as friendly to the ſortification of Paris
i. eir turbulent predecessors had been. Soult
i. always advocated it as a measure of military
*ſence; it was he who had proposed it, though
. * much smaller scale, in 1830. In December
* marshal brought under the notice of the cham-
of deputies the resolution which the ministers
come to with respect to the capital. The mode
ºposed was very nearly that which has since
ºn carried into effect; and its vast extent and
C
. . compared to what was rejected in 1833, are
º remarkable. Then the “mur d'octroi,” a
i.” wall already in existence, about, fifteen
t is in circuit, was to be merely loop-holed and
i."gthened; and beyond it, at distances varying
We a mile to a mile and a half, detached forts
i. to be built, each capable of containing a thou-
Jºhen. The whole expense, after the most
. computation, was estimated at thirty-five
...is of francs, (£1,400,000.) At present there
...is a continuous rampart more than seventy feet
hi. faced with a wall upwards of thirty, feet
t;" and a ditch in front of it twenty feet deep,
ty. ole circuit of which measures nearly twen-
°ºr miles. Outside this, at distances varying
teau $ne to three miles, are (exclusive of the Châ-
host de Vincennes) fifteen detached forts, of the
Woul Perfect construction, the smallest of which
i. d hold four thousand men. The whole ex-
É.is, in 1841, estimated at one hundred and
"...illions of francs, (£5,600,000.)
sº enormously increased scale may perhaps be
hili ed., for on the supposition that Louis
foun º: to avert suspicion from his real motives,
Princi necessary to carry out to its full extent the
*Ple originally announced of rendering Paris
secure against the attacks of combined Europe.
The project was, in the usual course, referred to a
committee, at the head of which was M. Thiers;
and in January following they produced a volu-
minous and elaborate, report, which, as might have
been expected, was highly favorable to the meas-
ure. Being thus, supported by the leader of the
opposition as well as by the ministry, it did not
appear as a party question, and therefore had not to
encounter party opposition. Lengthened debates
ensued, in which much ability was displayed on both
sides, and on the 1st of February, a considerable
majority of the deputies adopted the project. . In
the chamber of peers the commission proposed an
amendment to the effect that the “enceinte con-
tinue,” instead of being an earthen rampart, should
be merely a wall strong enough to resist a sudden
assault (à l'abri d'un coup de main.) But the
project was adopted by a large majority.
uring these debates the greatest efforts were
made to rouse the people. They were told that
chains were rapidly forging to bind them forever;
that when once the bastilles were erected they
would become the slaves of a military despotism,
and that now or never was the moment for strenu-
ous exertion: but no one raised a finger. The
days of émeutes were gone by ; several of a threaten-
ing character had been suppressed with promptitude
and vigor. Personal dangers had only tried the
king's spirit to confirm his power. Moreover, by
some means or other, all the leading men of the
contending political parties had become successively
implicated in his majesty's favorite measure, and
there was no longer one among them who could
decently or effectively resist it. The result has
been that these stupendous works, greater than the
fabled wall of Babylon, have been accomplished
with little complaint and surprising celerity.
The armament voted in 1845 is on a correspond-
ing scale. It is to consist of 2,188 pieces of heavy
ordnance and 120 field guns, with proportionate
material of all kinds. The powder magazines, all
of which are in the forts, are to contain 4,400,000
pounds of powder. The cost of the armament was
estimated at fourteen millions of francs (560,000l.)
In deference to a growing feeling of jealousy of the
fortifications, which had extended even among
those who voted for them in 1841, and seemed
likely to endanger the whole scheme, the govern-
ment proposed, by way of compromise, that the
armament should be deposited at Bourges in readi-
ness for war. The discussion on this project
turned chiefly on a guaranty that the fortifications
should not be armed till the necessity should arise;
and it ended by the addition of a clause which pro-
vides that the armament shall not be brought to
Paris except in case of war. An amendment, to
the effect that the ſortifications should not be
armed except in virtue of a special law, was
rejected. * *
That the ſortifications of Paris give to the exccu-
tive government the power of controlling with ease
the most formidable insurrectionary movement of
its inhabitants, is beyond all doubt. Those who
therefore object to them arº, however, by no means
agreed in opinion as to the mode in which they
might be made instrumental in effecting that object;
and many suppose that it would be accomplished by
turning the artillery of the forts against the city and
bombarding it. However improbable it appears to
us that any government would venture on so strong
a measure as that of laying the capital in ruins, the
400
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
idea has been so much insisted on, and by some
whose opinions are entitled to respect, that we
must offer a few remarks on it.
M. Arago says (p. 21) he has proved, that the
garrisons of the detached forts would be able to
cover Paris, “la totalité de Paris,” with shots and
shells, even if the range of cannon and mortars
were limited to 4000 metres. How so extraor-
dinary a mistake as this could have occurred we are
at a loss to imagine. Only two forts, those of the
Bicêtre and Montronge, are at much less than that
distance from the mur d'octroi. The nearest is the
Bicêtre ; and if a circle were described from that
with a radius of 4000 metres, its circumference
would be found to cut the mur d'octroi near the
Barrière de l'Enfer; and being continued would
just include the Observatoire, the church of St.
Médard in the Rue Mouffetard, and the Hospice de
la Salpêtrière, and would leave the mur d'octroi at
the Barrière de la Gare. The portion of Paris
included between this curve and that part of the
mur d'octroi extending from the Barrière de
l'Enfer to that of la Gare, is nearly all that comes
within 4000 metres of any of the ſorts.
The range of incendiary projectiles, however,
exceeds that distance. The ten-inch gun, intro-
duced into our service by General Millar,” has
thrown a shell as far as 5000 yards, or 4600
metres; and this we believe to be very nearly the
utmost range, with hollow missiles, of any piece of
artillery hitherto invented. With these guns the
portion of Paris to the south which might be
reached from the forts, would be limited by a line
drawn from the Ecole Militaire to the Pont d’Aus-
terlitz, and from thence just clear of the Place du
Trône. To the east another portion would come
within their range, the limit of which would be a
line drawn from the Barrière du Trône to the
western angle of the hospital of St. Louis, and con-
tinued to meet the mur d'octroi a little to the west-
ward of the Barrière de St. Denis. These two
portions together amount to about one third of the
whole space within the mur d'octroi; but as hardly
one tenth of them is occupied by houses, we may
safely say that not more than one twentieth of the
habitations of Paris are exposed to be seriously
injured by the actual fire of the forts.
In M. Arago’s work we find it asserted that on
several different occasions pieces of artillery have
been used which projected shells as far as 6000
metres.” Among the instances mentioned, the only
one with which we are acquainted is that of the
mortars cast at Seville, and afterwards employed
against Cadiz by Marshal, Soult, in 1811. The
pieces used on that occasion, of which one now
stands in St. James' Park near the Treasury, were
of the sort invented in 1805 by M. de Villantrois, a
colonel in the French artillery, to meet the wishes
of Napoleon, who required that artillery should be
constructed to throw shells to great distances, for
the purpose of keeping off British cruisers. “It
was,” says Salas, “with this species of gun that
the French attempted to bombard Cadiz in 1811,
and succeeded—in making much noise.'t The
cxtent of their range, however, was at the time,
* The invention of these guns we believe to be due to
General Paixhans, who, aware of the enormously destruc-
tive effect of shells on woodwork, intended them to be
used on board ship for the purpose of firing large shells
with nearly the same precision as solid shot. See his
‘Nouvelle Force Maritime,” Paris, 1822.
+ Prontuario de Artilleria por Don Ramon de Salas.
Madrid, 1833.
and still is, considered enormous. Some of º
shells, fired from Fort Napoleon on the Cabezuel”,
passed quite over Cadiz and fell into the sea bºy º
it to the north, and, we believe, also to the so";
of Fort St. Cathorine. They must have rangº s
therefore, no less than 6200 yards, or 5070 m.
—upwards of three miles and a half! This, lº.
ever, was the extreme : their mean range mº) h6
considered to have extended about as far * .
square of San Antonio, the distance of which ".
Fort Napoleon is 5800 yards or 5300 metres: Il-
the shells then used could hardly be called in:
diary projectiles. To extend their range they.”
half filled with leaden bullets, leaving room º
more than just sufficient powder to burst lº.
Owing to their long ſlight their effects were º:
uncertain, and they generally exploded either hig
in the air or after having buried themselves * º
ground. Even when their explosion was F. 6
accurate they did but little damage. Onc of
very first fell and burst in the house occupied
the commanding officer of the British aii.
Colonel Duncan. The concussion of its explº"
merely broke some windows, and the house º
tinued to be occupied as before. Altogethe,"
more than half a dozen people were injurº.
them, and it literally became an amusement 10 h
inhabitants of Cadiz to watch their flight thro"8
the air.” t
It does not require much science to know tha
the distance to which it is possible to proj”,
body of given magnitude will increase with .
weight—that a solid shot admits of being thº
further than a hollow shell of the same diame” {5
a leaden ball further than an iron one. Solid slº. ©
are not incendiary projectiles, and the dº;
which they are capable of doing to a town, . Je-
thrown from great distances at high angles of º
vation, is so small that it never would be wº
while to employ, them in that manner, a
utmost distance that we know of to which º
flight of a congreve rocket has extended, is s 25
yards. We believe no incendiary projectilº .
ever ranged much further than 4600 metres:
the greatest range which British artillery has ‘.
attained was from the 56-pounder invented.".
Monk, which at an angle of elevation of 32° 5°"
shot 5720 yards, or three miles and a quail. to
may appear at first sight that there is no liml in-
the range of projectiles, and that it might ..
creased to any extent by increasing the chaº.
powder and the size of the shot or shell; but ;
is not the case, for it is not found that the yº.
imparted to the projectile increases in anything. der.
the same proportion with the charge of Pº mě
Beyond a certain extent the reverse has." i.
instances, been found to be the case, and the .
for it is simple enough. It arises from the '' almö
mass of gunpowder not taking fire at the i.
instant of time, the consequence of which 15 j,
portion of it is blown out of the piece unig.
and the effect of this superfluous portion is ºf
to diminish than increase the force of the *
, i. 2, Hé"
* It was stated by M. Allard, who presented º:
port on the armament of Paris to the chamº sº
ties, that only one such gun was cast at Seville #Il This
ployed against Cadiz, and that it no longer ... sºille,
is a mistake. There were twenty-seven cast º he four.
two of which were never bored, and remain, i. ten 3
dery. Of the twenty-five employed against Gºd. We
still there, and one is in St. James' Park in Lon ... were
have been informed that the remaining ſour”
taken away by the French in 1823.
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
407
º charge. Until, therefore, some new power
all be introduced into the practice of artillery, we
..ºntinue to disregard assertions as to what
$orists say might be done, and adhere to our
Present creed that incendiary projectiles cannot be
*de to range much further than 4600 metres, nor
*lid iron shots much beyond 5720 yards.
ough the threat of a bombardment would
Pºbably have due weight with the refractory
ºulace, the fortifications afford other means of
jºg them in subjection; and these so effective,
*...the necessity for openly employing force need
*dly ever arise. On the first manifestation of
*Content, the troops in the forts might be in-
**ased without making any show of preparation.
* 4000 men would be but a moderate average for
* garrisons of the forts, of which there are six-
** a force might thus be drawn round Paris of
!"t less than 60,000. These troops, all removed
*in free intercourse with the citizens, would be
"le liable to the seductions which have in fact
i. the main cause of everything that has been
le ed a victory of the people; and, what is not
. important, a mutinous or rebellious concert
.g the military bodies themselves would be
*dly possible.
l the avenues being commanded, the inhabit-
might soon be made to feel that they were
nly prisoners, but in absolute dependence for
łstence on their gaolers. The pressure might
**ightened or relaxed according to circumstances.
i.it a strict system of passports might be en-
fººd—then the gates closed—finally the supplies
light be interrupted. These measures might be
..ied into effect with the greater rigor, as it
ºuld be unnecessary to keep the º strength
of the troops within the forts. On the contrary,
}*h fort would serve as a base from whence de-
... ments might be pushed to occupy positions
. to, or, if needful, even within the precincts of
* city. If some extreme excitement should lead
* populace to attack the troops, and if by any
..ºle they were to succeed so far as to drive
ºn out of the enceinte, it would avail them noth-
§. long as the forts remained unconquered.
in ut in fact there never ought to be any diſficulty
... pressing a revolt in a large town where the
thorities can command the services of a strong
º of troops and a competent general. . Let us
cit **oment suppose the whole population of a
wº, like Paris in arms against the government,
ski leaders possessing even the greatest military
ill. Incapable of forming themselves into a
*Geuvring force, and without artillery, the insur-
*ts would not venture into contact with the reg-
\ i troops out of the city or in the open spaces
ants
hot o
Šubsi
Within its circumference. They would erect barri-
§ and, availing themselves of the advantages
*ich the occupation of the houses would give
. over troops in the street, would stand, on the
i.e. Let us suppose these barricades, URIl-
i. those of 1830, which the troops in no one
...tº failed to surmount, to be really formidable
.* which the barricades of June, 1832,
i.º Louis Philippe himself were. So far they
§ it be successful and bid defiance to the govern-
j But what is to prevent the troops from
.g. counter-barricades, and also standing on
In *ſensive! It is not likely that any govern-
outbº eserving of the name, would wait till an
jºk actually occurred, as in 1830; but even at
ire °isis, if the handful of soldiery had been
*d with ordinary prudence, affairs would, in
all human probability, have turned out very differ.
ently. After a series of false movements and
blunders, (see Q. R., vol. xliv.,) the only effect of
which was to encourage the insurgents, the troops,
though unconquered, were withdrawn, leaving the
sceptre of France to whoever should have the bold-
ness to grasp it.
That such would ever be the result under an en-
ergetic government, with the troops undebauched,
we do not believe. In case of an insurrection be-
ing anticipated, there would be no diſficulty in
deciding beforehand on the different points which
it would be advisable to occupy for the purpose of
cutting off the communications and blockading the
city, or such parts of it as should be known to con-
tain the chief strength of the disaffected. All the
necessary preparations might be quietly made, so
that the people should know nothing of what was
intended to be done, till, having risen in rebellion,
they would suddenly find themselves hemmed in on
every side.
But, though the forts would give decisive advan-
tages to the troops in any encounter with the inhab-
itants, it is not on this that the power derived from
the new system principally depends. Its source
will be found in the accumulation of military
strength in and around the capital, the almost nec-
essary consequence of the great military establish-
ments just created. Have barracks for 60,000
men been built at a vast expense to remain unoc-
cupied ? Are the thirty-three powder magazines,
so well constructed, so dry—so fit to hold powder—
to be turned to no account In short, the capital
of France is a vast fortress—the largest in the
world ; and the air of a fortress is not a congenial
atmosphere for liberty. We are not surprised,
therefore, that the prospect of the French legisla-
ture having to deliberate in all future times in the
midst of such a gigantic garrison should have star-
tled its members, including even some of those
who originally voted for the royal project; but it
was needless to stipulate that the works should not
be armed with artillery except in case of war, for
when domestic foes are to be resisted it will be
done, as we have already shown, not by heavy ar-
tillery but by troops. They should rather have
provided against the forts being garrisoned. But
then it must be owned that it would be infinitely
more dangerous to intrust these formidable works
to any other keeping than that of the executive
government. M. Joly, on the 5th May, 1845, said
that the only object of the fortifications, was to
“fortify power”—and such will certainly be their
effect whatever may have been their object. M.
Duchatel, minister of the interior, replied, on the
6th—and the admission made in this reply is re-
markable—that they were intended to “fortify
order, which is as necessary to liberty, as to power,
and without which there is no desirable, liberty.”
In how far M. Duchatel's notions of liberty may
coincide with the usual Parisian theories on that
subject, we shall not now, stop tº inquire. It is
evident that the physical force of the Parisian pop-
ulace, so apparently omnipotent in all the phases
of the revolution down to 1830, will be hencefor-
ward nullified ; the ultimate power vested in the
army—the stability of the government dependent
simply on the fidelity of the troops. As the Lon-
don ºf Examiner” truly and wittily said some years
ago, they were flattered with the promise of a
cuirass, and they have got a strait-waistcoat. We
sincerely hope no outbreak of insanity may bring
the fact to the test. But it is time to look at the
40S
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
fortifications with reference to the avowed purposes
of their erection.
We are satisfied that in an ordinary war, in which
there should be no question as to the right to the
throne of France, the capture of Paris, supposing
it to be unfortified, would be no otherwise an object
with a hostile power than as a circumstance of
triumph and an opportunity of obtaining supplies
and raising contributions—in a word, that it would
have no material influence on the military results
of the war. In the ordinary course of strategies
Paris would never be attacked till the armies of
France had been so defeated and broken that the
mere possession of the capital would be a matter
of little comparative importance. True, it has
been twice occupied by foreign armies; but these
were in neither case hostile armies. - Professing
friendship, and no wish but to assist the legitimate
authority, they came and were received as deliver-
ers and benefactors; and the periods of their occu-
pation were as tranquil, as happy, as free, and as
brilliant days as that city ever saw. The vanity
of the people has been since acted upon to consider
the “occupation” with bitterness; but a proper
sentiment of patriotism would see, and did at the
time see, in all the circumstances of “he case, a
friendly consideration for the feelings and a true
appreciation of the interests of the French nation,
and that the one unprincipled disturber of the peace
of the world, and at that time the object of their
own bitter execration,” being got rid of, the foreign
armies were no longer enemies and invaders, but
allies and guests. Our opinion of the magnum opus
of Louis Philippe, therefore, is, that there never
was so vast and so expensive a work which was
less likely to prove serviceable with reference to
the avowed object of its author. This, however,
by no means implies that in our notion the fortifica-
tions do not render the occupation of Paris by a
foreign army more difficult. Quite the contrary.
We believe that they would render a capture by.
regular siege nearly impossible; but our view is,
that the efficacy of these works as defences will
never be brought to the test, for the question of the
military safety of France must be decided long be-
fore any invader could think of attacking the capi-
tal, and decided probably by events in which she
should have no share.
Still, this “monster” fortress is a grand military
curiosity, and as such is well worth examining;--
the more so as the mode of the construction, that
of a line of detached forts beyond an “enceinte
continue” though not altogether new in theory, is,
as a regular system, new in practice, and one, too,
which has already been largely adopted by other
nations, who, however, have applied it not to their
capitals, but to frontier towns. -
}. is our belief that the works at Paris, while
they fully answer what we suppose, to be their
original purpose of putting the capital in a cage,
will stand the severest criticism if considered with
reference to their ostensible and possible eventual
object of resisting a hostile siege. This we shall
now endeavor to show, and also, that field-works,
the use of which in the present case has been ad-
vocated by respectable authorities, are not capable
of being applied with advantage to the fortification
* It was only by the interference of the Allied Com-
manders that the population of Paris were prevented in
1815 from pulling down Bonaparte's statue from the col-
lunu in the Place Vendôme, which they were about to do
in a violent and clumsy way that would have endangered
the limbs and lives of the operators.
three years of the Peninsular war, the total nº.
of large towns. But there are some preliminº
points on which our non-military readers may per
haps thank us for a few observations. These art:
—the nature and extent of the wants of an ar",
in the field, and the means usually resorted tº .
supplying them ; the difference between thº. fort,
fication of a permanent nature, usually applied 1ſl
making towns defensible, and that of a slig.
description, having generally for its temporary objec
the strengthening of positions occupied by armies
in the field ; and the mode of attacking each 0
these two sorts of fortification. º
When a man is required to be capable of v.
mitting exertion for a lengthened period, to endur
the march by day, the watch by night, and ".
ready at all times to act with energy, it is cled
that his physical powers must be well suppor".
Every man must have his meals wherever he ".
be. Fifty thousand men would be of little us?”.
much more than a day without fifty thousand *
tions. Courage, resolution, the greatest nº.
energy, would avail them little; their arms wº.
fall from their relaxed grasp, and their nerveles
limbs refuse to support them. It is true thº' tº:
bust and hardy individuals have often proved tº
selves capable of continued exertion for conside.
ble periods of time, with but uncertain and scam!
supplies of food; but such deficiencies tell ſe”.
fully on the general's means, by diminishing no
merely the spirit but the actual numbers 0
men. The proportion of sick, always considerablº
is sure to increase in the ratio of the hardships *.
dured ; and formidable armies have melted away
nothing under their influence, in incredibly sh"
spaces of time. }
If it is of vital consequence to preserve the health
of those who are well, it is scarcely less import” f
that prompt and constant care should be take".
the sick. It is evident that the slightest indisp9=}
tion must render a soldier unable to perform .
duty when that requires him to walk twenty or .
haps thirty miles in a day, with twenty pou" i.
weight on his back, besides his musket and an.
nition, which together weigh seventeen poº"
more; and to be ready to fight at any mome.
the day or night. The most trifling accident O
the line of march, such as blistering his foº" hć
straining his ankle, may throw him out 0 t t
ranks, and days may elapse before he is again fit lit
join. From want of timely medical attention sº
indisposition becomes serious illness, and scº.
illness soon ends in death. When inadequate |.
vision is made for the sick as they leave their ſº.
very few ever rejoin them; and even the ordinº
infirmities to which human nature is liable caus" .
incessant and copious drain on the effective strº k
of the forces. When, on the contrary, the s:
find ready assistance and relief, every halt made ;
the army enables numbers to rejoin their corpº. r-
the diminution of force becomes much less cº.
able. The number of those who perish in bº.
or afterwards from wounds, is small compº" st
those who die from other causes. During the }a
of deaths in the British army amounted annually º
about 16 per cent. of the whole force. Qf .
only 4 per cent, died in battle, or of wounds Y §
proved fatal soon after. The number of *.
in hospital usually averaged about one fourº" t 0
whole. In less than three years and a half. º; 0
a force the average strength of which was ſº. 6
men, nearly 34,000 died, and of these only ar
fourth fell by the sword; and this enormous *
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
409
!ality occurred among a body of men all of whom,
short time previously, must have been in the
*althiest vigor of youth or prime of manhood; so
t * it required the annual sacrifice of 6400 able-
9died men to keep in the field a working force of
*... than 50,000.” If such was the amount of
Su bring and waste of life, when every expedient
Was adopted that foresight could suggest to provide
Proper food and raiment, and every other attainable
*Infort both in sickness and health, what must it be
Yhen these precautions are neglected? Of such
ºglect and its terrible and execrable consequences,
ºpoleon's campaigns of 1812 and 1813 afford
§morable examples. From want of proper sup-
Pics alone, the French troops perished literally by
undreds of thousands.
n order to provide for troops in the field, it is
"sual to establish magazines as near the seat of war
* may be consistent with perfect security. As the
*my ºpenetrates into the enemy's country, the
*ticles are gradually sent forward, and stores are
*cumulated wherever convenience combined with
ºſely may render it expedient. As the more
advanced magazines become exhausted, they are
*pplied from those in rear, which in their turn are
§plenished from the original source. To protect
le, convoys during their transit they are escorted
y bodies of troops whose strength must of course
°pend on the danger apprehended ; and for the
§fety of the magazines, garrisons are left in the
°rtified towns or other places of security where
°y have been established. There also provision is
ºlde for the sick and wounded, who, according as
By recover or become hopelessly disabled, are sent
ºward to the army, or back to their own country.
us a chain of communication is kept up between
in army and its home; and this is technically called
ºts line of operations; while the position of the
ºriginal accumulation of stores is called the base of
*perations. In the field, when active operations
*re in progress, the arrangements of the commis:
Šariat must be accommodated to the changes of
Position. Droves of cattle, and trains of wagons
ºntaining provisions, follow within a short distance
She movements of the army. At every halt the
$ommissariat of each division establish their dépôt
* its rear. From these a dépôt for each brigade is
Supplied, from whence the quarter-master of each
*šiment claims his proportion.
hatever supplies can be obtained in the country
9ccupied by the army, are of course collected for 1tS
se; but when the force is large, the great additional
demand for food must soon render the supply of
lat article comparatively scanty; and a large army
§ºn seldom, except under circumstances to which
Ye shall presently advert, remain for any length of
ºne concentrated in a hostile country, independent
% the resources derived from its own base of opera-
!ons. From this it is clear that the maintenance of
& line of operations is usually of the last impor-
nee. When it is broken, not only is the military
*tivity of an army paralyzed, but its very existence
§§§d in jeopardy. tº
. . . . his rule, though general, is not, however, of
... . tº: this particular there is a remarkable difference
§en the land and sea-services...The channel fleet,
§. cºnsisted of twenty-four sail of the line with
...tº, &c., on its return to Torbay in September, 1800,
. *, four months' cruise, sent only sixteen men to
;"| The average mortality in the navy in the
. . . [S10, 11, and 12, was only 33 per cent, i since 1830
i.not been more than 1.4 per cent, which is less
*n the general average among men of the same age on
t
shore.
26
CXXXIII. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI.
universal application. The possession of a large
city may place at the command of an invading army
such ample resources as to render it independent of
any other; and this can hardly fail to occur when
the population of the city outnumbers the invading
forces to any great extent. The supplies of food
and other necessaries, which have been for ages
daily ſlowing in at every gate from the surrounding
country, have but to be increased, and that perhaps
in no very great proportion, to aſſord suſficient for
the use of the invaders, who, with the citizens at
their mercy, have only to insist on being first served.
Clothing can usually be obtained in abundance, and
on such occasions large subsidies of money have
frequently been extorted. Were the invaded nation
to cut off supplies from the invaders, they would
starve their own city.
Many of our readers will probably remember, when
in the course of their early travels they approached
one of the fortresses celebrated in modern history,
feeling some disappointment at its not presenting
that formidable appearance which they had antici-
pated. Instead of frowning battlements and massive
towers, they beheld nothing but verdant slopes and
grassy mounds of slight elevation, raised, an inex-
perienced person might suppose, for no other pur-
pose than suburban embellishment. They may
remember too, how, after passing through the outer
defences, their first feeling of disappointment gave
way to astonishment at the vast size and extent of
the component parts of the fortification; the high
walls, which till that moment had been concealed
ſrom their view—the ditch or moat of a depth and
width surpassing all expectation—and as they
crossed it, the formidable rows of artillery placed
apparently for the express purpose of defending
the particular entrance they were approaching.
Since the invention of cannon the embattled
towers of the middle ages have fallen into disuse;—
they are now either restored or imitated only as
objects of picturesque beauty. Even when gunnery
was in its infancy, and the details of its cumbrous
machinery of the rudest description, it was often
enough to place a few guns in battery against a
walled town to induce its surrender without dis-
honor to the defenders; so sure were the thickest
walls to crumble down under the shock of their
fire. Still high walls continued to be absolutely
necessary to the security of fortresses; as, but for
such an obstacle, an enterprising besieger might
avail himself of the darkness of night to penetrate
at some unguarded point; but it became a problem
how to screen them from an enemy's artillery, at
least till he should have arrived quite close to them:
—and this has been solved by modern fortification.
The ramparts are huge banks of earth, and they
are rendered inaccessible from withºut by, having
their exterior faced with retaining walls of brick or
stone. As the rampart rises directly from the inner
edge of the ditch, the height of its retaining wall is
comprehended between its summit and the bottom
of the ditch; and the ditch is usually of such depth
that more than half the wall is sunk below the
general surface of the ground, and of course con-
cealed from the view of any one not close to the
outer edge of the ditch. That portion of the wall
which extends above the level of the country, is
covered by raising the ground outside the ditch.
To enable the garrison to command this elevated
portion the ramparts are raised somewhat above the
walls with which they are faced; and all this upper
part consists of earth, which, when its exterior is
made with a considerable slope, is not nearly so
410
f0RTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
liable to injury from artillery fire as masonry; for
when cannon-shot strike a bank of earth they
merely º themselves in it, and do but little
damage. Instead of the slight parapet walls of the
middle ages, sufficient to protect the defenders from
archery, parapets are now huge banks of earth
twenty feet thick. Thus military architecture,
more perhaps than any other accompaniment of
war, has lost what it once possessed of picturesque
cffect.
Though the complicated details of modern fortifi-
cations, whether seen in reality or in maps of towns,
Seem highly perplexing to the uninitiated, the
general principles on which they are regulated are
extremely simple. The chief conditions to fulfil
are—that no walls shall be seen from any part of
the neighborhood within such a distance as to admit
of being battered by artillery; that the principal
wall at least, enclosing the town, shall be of such
height as to render the chance of an enemy's enter-
ing by surprise altogether hopeless; and that the
whole surrounding country within range of the can-
non of the fortress shall be everywhere open to its
fire, so that an enemy shall not be able to approach
it in any directºon, or remain anywhere near it,
without being exposed to almost certain destruction.
The mode of ensuring the fulfilment of the first of
these conditions we have already noticed, and our
readers will perceive no difficulty as to the other
two. Besides all this, fortresses are usually further
strengthened by the addition, beyond the principal
ditch, of a second line of defensive works, with
deep ditches, scarcely less formidable than the main
enclosure itself; and the whole works are so
arranged and mutually adapted to each other, that
every part of the ditch is commanded from some
point of the interior defences. It is this arrange-
ment, together with the variety of forms given to
the outworks, according to the various purposes for
which they are intended, which causes the complica-
tion of detail above alluded to.
It is apparent that to take a town thus fortified
and resolutely defended, must be a work of no
small difficulty; indeed, the siege of a large fortress
is, under the most favorable circumstances, an
undertaking of great magnitude; but when the
besieger is far from his resources, and dependent
for his various supplies on land carriage, slow and
cxpensive at best, and liable to interruptions of all
kinds, the amount of exertion necessary to bring it
to a successful conclusion becomes vastly increased.
The first object of the besiegers is to subdue the
artillery fire of the fortress sufficiently to admit of
their accomplishing the second—which is to place
a battery of cannon near enough to the edge of the
great ditch, to effect, in the wall of the main ram-
part, a breach through which they, may ultimately
force their way into the place. But it is evident
that the artillery cannot well come near enough
to operate with effect, without being themselves
exposed to the fire of the besieged; and, without
cover in the open country, they could hardly be
cxpected to prevail against enemies protected by
strong earthen parapets: the besiegers must, there-
fore, build similar parapets to protect their men
and guns. To do this, it is necessary to assemble
large parties of workmen, who require to be sup-
ported by an armed force strong enough to resist
any effort the garrison may make to interrupt the
labor; and both must be covered, at least during
day-light, from their enemy's fire.
5. fortress is surrounded by troops, of course
at a safe distance from its guns, during the day-
time, and the defenders are completely hem.
on all sides to prevent them from gaining ". m3
gence of what is passing without. The intº". p-
of the besiegers with respect to the side of thº i.
tress on which the attack is to be made, and .
day and hour of its commencement, are º;
concealed ; the garrison is, if possible, mysº.
by false demonstrations, on all these points,
wards evening, when the night is expected tº:
dark, two bodies of troops are quietly assemble g
one armed in the usual way for battle, ands.S
enough to repel, if necessary, the most vigoro
sortie of the garrison—the other without arº aſl
supplied merely with tools proper for breaking :
ground and throwing up earth. As evening
darkens into night the armed body silently ;
proaches the fortress, and is extended ready.
action just in front of the ground where the *.
is to be commenced. Close behind them com"
working party, who are arranged by the engº
in a row, occupying a long line curved inward”
as to be everywhere nearly equi-distant from. º
fortress. Every man then proceeds to exº.
his portion of the ground to a depth of about thre
feet, or half his height; and the earth oblº”
from the excavation he throws up on the side º
the fortress. Thus, before morning, a long tº t
has been made, with a great bank of earth in ſº
of it, in which the armed party take refuge, an.
where they may remain concealed from the g”
son and pretty well protected from its fire. &
To get backwards and forwards between their
camp or main position and this trench—whº
from its direction with respect to the fortification*
is called the first “parallel”—one or more trenº 6
are made by the same kind of operation and at i.
same time, in oblique directions, or with altern”
changes of direction forming zig-zags, so as º' . {}
admit of being seen into by the garrison. Th;
latter, from their leading towards the fortress, *
called “approaches.” During the day the trenº
are widened, till at nightfall they have attaliº.
width of ten or twelve feet, the bank in front bº.
thickened proportionably. In this manner fe
besiegers succeed in establishing a tolerably *
position—near enough to admit of their lº
artillery acting against the fortress with eſſe”
and at the same time a road by which they º
bring it there without its being interrupted by th
garrison. The next thing to be done is to º:
by the same kind of process, earthen parapolº .
their batteries close to the parallel—and whe
these are completed, the heavy artillery is bro";
forward and distributed in the different batter.
from one extreme to the other of the besiegº.
line, so that their fire may converge on that part 9
the fortress where the breach is to be made. a. 3.
Before undertaking a siege with anything like.
fair prospect of success, a commander must ".
provided artillery sufficient to overcome that of i. 6
place. When, therefore, after a day or twº
fire of the besiegers is less vigorously return.
the garrison, the former may approach much n°
to the fortifications with comparative impunit 35
second parallel is then made in the same man”. ad
the first, and zig-zag approaches, as before, * le re
from one to the other. In this manner, by all.
nate parallels and approaches, the trenchº i.
gradually extended towards the place; but." all
they arrive near enough to be within range of sº
arms, it becomes necessary to adopt a .
excavating them different from that above des” i.
which requires the troops to work in a row ; *
{}
S0
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
411
Sºng the whole trench at the same time would be
"Practicable under musketry fire. The method by
'flich they are thus extended is called the “sap”—
W lence the well-known name of “sappers”—and a
*Scription of this operation may not prove uninter-
ºsting, although we fear it will be difficult to divest
§ufficiently of technicalities.
is of importance to the besiegers to raise the
*nks of earth in front of their trenches as quickly
* possible to a height which will cover them from
their enemies’ fire. To facilitate this it is cus-
Smary to use a kind of baskets, of a cylindrical
*ºn, open at both ends, about three feet in length
*"d two in diameter, which, being placed on end in
* row and filled with earth, form a sort of wall
strong enough to resist musket, balls, and high
$nough to cover men in the trenches. They have
°sides the advantage of rendering the banks of
*rth firmer on the side next the trench, and also
*eeper, so as to afford more effectual cover, a mat-
§ of great consequence when near the place.
hese baskets, or “gabions,” are so essential to a
“Sieger's operations, that previous to the com-
*encement of a siege a vast store of them is always
Provided. Each sapper, when at work, to protect
"nself in front rolls before him a large gabion ren-
ºred musket-proof by being filled with facines
* e, fagots of sticks, about nine or ten inches in
*meter,) and for further safety he is generally
*med with a helmet and cuirass.
When within range of musketry fire, instead of
**king the whole trench at once, parties of sappers
adually extend the trenches and their parapets in
° required directions, in the following manner.
he sapper digs a small trench, and, as he ad-
Vances, places gabion after gabion, which he fills
With earth in succession. He is closely followed
y a second sapper, who enlarges the trench, and
throws the earth over the gabions; and a third and
ourth in succession, who enlarge the trench still
ºther, and strengthen the parapet with the earth
which they throw out. After them come the
Working parties of infantry, who complete the
‘renches and parapets to their full size. By this
leans the besiegers managé'to carry on their work
*en under fire, though the operation is one of
*ěat danger to the sappers.
s fast as the trenches and parapets are coin-
pleted they are occupied by marksmen, for the
jººse of subduing the fire of the fortress, and
lºssening the danger to the working parties. As
e besiegers advance, the parallel trenches are
hultiplied in all directions, and every individual
ºrksman of the garrison has many to contend
With While a heavy fire of musketry is thus
ºrought against the defenders, in addition to that
on the artillery, which continues to the last, the
ºppers ply their task and gradually but surely ad-
"ºnce, till at length their tortuous paths reach the
*dge of the great ditch or moat, and the walled
:*mparts are exposed to view. To effect breaches
these with battering-cannon is then a work of
!" great difficulty ; and though the besiegers dur-
"g their further progress may have to sustain
many a bloody conflict and suffer more than one
Severe repulse, success is almost sure at last, and
$ºnerally'too within a period which may be calcu-
§ed with tolerable accuracy. The increasing
ºpidation of the fortifications, caused by the be-
tºget; artillery, renders them daily less defensi-
9. The ruined ramparts open points of access to
the interior, and every hour increases the anxious
**ks of the defenders, while it decreases their
numbers and spirits. Meanwhile the besiegers
reach the ditch by means of subterranean, passages
which they make for that purpose; and if the gar-
rison, having fortified the breaches in the ramparts,
still persist in the defence, the sappers continue to
advance as before. Slowly, but not less certainly,
they extend their serpentine path across the ditch and
up the breaches till they reach the very last defences.
When this has occurred, further resistance is
generally considered hopeless, and the risking an
assault can hardly be justified, unless when there
is some probability of effectual succor arriving
within a given period of time." When a besieg-
er's troops have been irritated by the hardships and
difficulties of a long and obstinate resistance, it is
extremely difficult to exercise any control over
them at the moment of a successful assault. The
bonds of discipline are snapped, and it has not un-
frequently occurred that officers have fallen victims
to their humane endeavors to restrain their men
from violence. The almost unavoidable fate of a
town taken by storm should, most certainly, have
great weight with a commandant, in addition to
any purely military reasons which he may have for
not pushing matters to extremity.
The unprofessional reader will by this time have
formed some idea of the amount of force, and of
military stores and material, which a general must
have at his command before undertaking a siege.
He will understand that the armed force which
guards the trenches must not at any time be in
numbers much inferior to the garrison. Their
number is usually calculated at about three fourths
of the latter; for it never could be expected that
the whole garrison would sally forth at once, leav-
ing the fortress totally unguarded. As the guard
of the trenches, must be constantly on the alert, it
is necessary to relieve them every twenty-four
hours; and they should have at least two days'
rest for every one they are on duty. Thus the
besieger must have constantly in readiness three
times the number of men required for each guard.
Then the working parties should be relieved every
eight hours, and should have twenty-four hours'
rest for eight hours' work ; so that the whole num-
ber required for work must be four times as great
as the party actually working. Besides the duties
peculiar to the siege, there are many others which,
in every army, must at all times be provided for—
such as the guards to watch the approaches to the
camp or to keep order within it, the escorts for the
protection of the sick and wounded, or for convoys
of stores and provisions. In addition to the infan-
try and cavalry required for these purpºses, the
corps of sappers and miners and the artillery form
no small items in the numerical amºunt of a be:
sieging army. It is calculated that thirty thousand
men would he required for the siege of a regularly
fortified place, with a garrison of five thousand ;
and that, to besiege ten thousand, men, more than
fifty thousand should be employed; and these cal-
* This general principle has long been, and, in spite of
Napoleon and Carnot, still is, held to be right by most
military authorities. The circumstºs under which an
assault may be threatened are so various that much al-
lowance on:ht always to be made ſºr ºcculmandant who
has to deliberatc on them, particularly when he has no
certain information as to what is passing beyond the
walls of his fortress. Though it seems to be the simple,
straightforward duty of a sºldier to resist to the last, and
we usually jº with those who do so, yet all must
agree in condemning him who causes blood to be shed
without some prospect of benefit to the cause which he
upholds.
412
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
culations do not take into account the constant
drain oh the force caused by sickness and casual-
ties, for which a large allowance must generally be
made. The transport of the artillery to besiege
an inland fortress of any importance is of itself a
very serious operation; a battering-train of medium
size, with the necessary quantity of ammunition
for a siege, requires from ten to fifteen thousand
horses to draw it.
We now come to that slighter description of
fortification which is usually applied to strengthen
the positions of armies in the field. Instead of
vast rainparts faced by walls thirty feet high, with
ditches twenty feet deep and forty yards wide, the
defences of what are termed “field-works” consist
chiefly of earthen breastworks or parapets, eight or
nine feet in height, with ditches in front of them,
at the utmost twelve feet deep, and perhaps eigh-
teen feet wide. These are strengthened with
wooden palisades and other obstacles of a similar
description; and various expedients besides are
adopted to increase the difficulty of approach, and
its danger, of course, by detaining the assailants
for more or less time under the fire of the defend-
ers, who themselves are in comparative safely be-
hind their breastworks. By damming up a stream,
for instance, an inundation may be formed, which,
if even only a foot or two in depth, may prove of
great value to the defence; or steep rocky hills
may be scarped so as to render their ascent im-
practicable; or trees may be cut down and laid
closely together, with their branches towards the
enemy, so as to perplex the passage over ground
otherwise easy. The expedients are as various as
the circumstances of the locality; and the skill of
the engineer is never more tested than in an exten-
sive system of field-defences. These works are,
however, rarely if ever employed, except for in-
creasing the strength.of positions which already
possess considerable capabilities. The object is
most frequently to conſer advantages in a field of
battle on the weaker side, who, being constrained
to act on the defensive, usually retire to some po-
sition previously selected, and if possible fortified,
which an enemy cannot venture to pass by for
ſear of endangering his line of operations. Or,
when two armies are in presence of each other,
either side may raise such field-defences as the
time and the means they may happen to possess
will allow. Positions also occur which an enemy
must necessarily attack in order to reach a capital
city, or other point of vital, importance to the
safety of a nation, and which, not admitting of
being occupied by permanent fortifications, must
derive their strength from field-works. The cel-
ebrated lines before Lisbon, fortified by the Duke
of Wellington in 1810, were of this sort. It
would be a mistake, however, to suppose that
these defences, which Massena; though he remained
six months in front of them, did not even venturo
to attack, owed their strength solely to the artifi-
cial means employed; and when People reason on
the use of field-lines on other occasions, from their
complete success in this instance, We must bear
in mind the particular circumstances under which
they were applied. The ground was remarka-
bly strong, and presented peculiar facilities for
being further strengthened by field-works; and the
position was incapable of being turned, as its flanks
rested on the Tagus on one hand, and on the sea
on the other. Nevertheless, every critic but a
Frenchman must admire the boldness of that mili-
tary genius which, in defiance of the ordinary rules
of war, decided on occupying, with less than º
thousand men, a defensive line of twen).
miles ; neither can we withhold our admiral.
from the consummate skill which, exercised in t *
highest branch of the military engineer's arº Sū
ceeded in rendering the great barrier effectual. O
Experience has shown that field fortificatiº £
ground which offers no extraordinary advan; y
for defence do not afford anything like see";
when the disparity of force is considerable. ld-
example, Fort Picurina at Badajoz, a strong fie S-
work with a wet ditch, was taken at the firs' .
sault, when that town was besieged in 1812; .
in the same year the horn-work of St. Michael #.
fell on the first night of the siege of Burgos. . ble
storming by Lord Hill's corps of the formida !,
defences of the bridge over the Tagus at Almard”
an event of the same year, may also be qº.
although the principal works partook more of tº
permanent than the field character. Perhaps, .
deed, it affords even a better example than eithe
of the other, as it shows the danger which .
arise from trusting to field-fortifications, even " º
they are combined with permanent ones. The ſº
work attacked by Lord Hill on that occasion ".
Fort Napoleon, a strong field-redoubt, though º
it would appear, very skilfully constructed. It W.
stormed in a few minutes by the British troop.
though without the aid of artillery; and the garr;
son, retreating into the permanent tete du pont, wº.
so closely followed by their assailants that thes
entered pell-mell with them, and they had no chº
but to continue their retreat across the bridg”.
Thus the loss of the permanent defences of i.
bridge was chiefly owing to there being a fiel
work a little in advance of them. º
The mode of attacking field-works, when
possible to get at them, is simple enough. A. h6
centrated fire of field-artillery is directed on ".
part intended to be attacked, for the purpose .
breaking down palisades or other such obstacleº.
which depends the difficulty of access to the brº.
works. When it is supposed that this object :
effected, the troops rush forwards, preceded,
necessary, by parties" carrying short laddº,
fagots and haybags to throw into the ditch to ſ &
up, and they scramble over the defences as is
they can. When an attack of this sort succº º
and such an occurrence is by no means rare, it *.
perhaps but for a few minutes: and if not su.
ful at first, it may be repeated at very short int.
vals, and each time with improved chances, ow.
to the greater injury the works must have *
tained. ief
We have already shown that one of the chieſ.
difficulties which an invader has to encounter
much lessened while he holds possession of a argIſl
town within his enemy's frontier, for it gives !!
the command of the resources of the highlºº;
country, and relieves him from dependence º'.
line of operations. Hence an unfortified city.
when viewed in a military light, a weak point i.
the larger the city the greater the weakness. .
when such a place is fortified and garrisoned, n
only is the weak point protected, but a sº.
stumbling-block is thrown in the way of tº.
der, whom it places under the necessity, eith.”
undertaking a siege or of leaving behind .
ortion of his army to protect his communie.
"here can be no doubt, therefore, that fortify ry
any large city increases the power of resist. its
invasion, though the advantage diminishes "...;
distance from the frontier.
t is
º
in this way the fortiſi-
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
413
*tions of Paris cannot fail to have considerable
- effect, though not, we believe, to the extent which
9ir advocates claim for them. -
Fortified as Paris now is, it runs no chance of
§er being assailed unless in a war waged against
rance by the combined power of Europe. Let
*Suppose that disastrous reverses have reduced
° disposable force of France to one hundred thou-
*nd men, and that, pressed by superior numbers
Sº the north-eastern frontier, seventy thousand
Yere to retreat to Paris, and the remainder behind
the ſoire, leaving a large garrison in Lyons, which
*0 is now very strongly guarded with detached
9tts. If the invaders, having entered France on
° north-east, were to cndeavor to penetrate into
!8 western and southern provinces, their commu-
"cations would be liable to attack from Paris on
§e side, and from Lyons on the other. A siege
°, the latter city would only protract the war, and
§ve time for recruiting and organizing the national
9:ces. We will therefore suppose—contrary to
What we believe will ever be the case, but as an
'ypothesis—the enemy determined to make every
*ortion to gain possession of the capital, with the
ºpe of thereby bringing the war to a speedy con-
USion.
To reduce Paris by a blockade would be a hope-
less undertaking. The closest line that could be
ºwn around it, outside the forts, for such a pur-
!"se, would be not less than forty-five miles in
length. The forces spread over this extended line
Yould be liable to be attacked by a large army on
*y point, and at any moment of the day or night,
Yithout the least previous notice. As neither dis.
*nt marches nor complex movements would be
§ºcessary for such attacks, the regular troops might
be reinforced by large numbers of the National
lard. Fighting almost in presence of their
ſlends, the youth of Paris would have every in-
Stement to distinguish themselves; , and their
ºdor being unchecked by the hardships and fa-
'gues of military servitude, they would prove truly
ºrmidable opponents. It may safely be aſſirmed
that an army of seventy thousand men, blockaded
" Paris, might in a very short time be raised to a
undred thousand. The intervals between the
"tached forts afford every facility both for sudden
*"vance and for safe retreat. The ordinary ar-
*gement of the roads, too, would be highly
"favorable to a blockading force. The principal
ºnes, radiating in all directions from the common
$ºntre, would lead the French troops at once and
ºth ease to any point of their enemies' line;
hereas every movement of the latter to concen-
*ate their forces would have to be made by the
tºss-roads, and it so happens that those in the
ſeighborhood of Paris are bad and intricate. If,
§ addition to all this, we take into consideration
he difficulties of maintaining, for the period of
ºne necessary to reduce the city by starvation, a
"g line of operations through a hostile country, to
support the vast force required for a blockade, we b
ust own our conviction that such an undertaking
°ºld not succeed. º
'o besiege Paris would be scarcely less difficult.
Experiºn. has shown that the duration of a siege,
'ler ordinary circumstances, may be calculated
ºth some dégree of precision, according to the
Size of the place and the strength of its fortifica-
*ions; and the principle having been applied to the
'etached forts, it has been maintained that any one of
ºn might be taken by a regular siege in seven or
*ght days. It must be remembered, however, that
such calculations have always presumed the be-
siegers to have no other enemy to contend with
than the garrison of the place attacked. Now it
would very much alter the case, if, in addition to
its own garrison, perhaps three or four thousand
strong, a fort were to be, defended by a hundred
thousand men. This is altogether a novel case,
and we think gives rise to a curious military ques-
tion. The old maxims, “petite place, mauvaise
place,” and “place assiégée, place prise,” are here
no longer applicable. From the account which has
been given of a siege, our readers will understand
that, the whole operation being carried on within
range of the guns of the fortress, it is necessary
that the troops employed should be covered from
their fire; and this is done by posting them in long
trenches, mostly parallel to the fortifications, which
trenches are gradually extended towards the place
till they reach it. If the besiegers should be liable
at any moment to be attacked by fifty or sixty thou-
sand men, it follows that, to repel them, the guard
of the trenches should be at least as numerous;
but on the lowest calculation it would take about
ten miles of trench to hold such a force. Let any
one imagine an army of twenty thousand men
poured suddenly on each flank of a besieger. It
may be urged, indeed, that sufficient troops might
at all times be held in readiness, out of reach of
the guns of the place, to assist the guard of the
trenches if they should be attacked by greatly su-
perior numbers, so as to secure them from being
ultimately overpowered ; but in the mean time the
besiegers' works might be damaged to a great ex-
tent, their guns spiked, their magazines blown up.
Mischief might be done in a few minutes which
it would take days to repair. The ordinary mode
of carrying on a siege imperatively requires that
the guard of the trenches shall be strong enough to
ensure the defeat of any sortie which the garrison
can make ; and that guard must always be posted
quite close to the place for the protection of the
siege-works, of the parties employed in forwarding
them, and also of the artillery, both guns and
men. How a force capable of resisting such sor-
ties as we have mentioned could be so posted, and
at the same time covered from the fire of the place,
we are quite at a loss to imagine. In fact, it is
more than doubtful that the usual siege operations
would be at all applicable in such a case ; and any
others that might be resorted to must be matter for
conjecture, for no siege has ever yet taken place
under anything like similar circumstances. . In
whatever way the siege might be conducted, it
would at all events, by reason of the powerful
means of defence, be an operation of great magni-
tude. It would be necessary for an enemy to take
two or three of the forts before he could attack the
“enceinte;” and unless he were prepared for a
second siege it would be useless to commence the
first. The difficulties, too, with respect to the line
of operations, would, as in the case of a blockade,
e very great; for, in addition to the ordinary sup-
plies of an army, a large battering-train, with am-
munition and material for two Sieges, would be
required; and in case of failure there would be
much risk of these being sacrificed. In short, the
more we examine the difficulties which must attend
the attack of a large fortress like Paris with a per-
manent “enceinto continue” and an extensive sys-
tem of detached forts, and capable of accommodat-
ing, in addition to its own garrison, a large army,
the more we incline to the belief that they are in-
superable. Whether such a fortress would not be
414
FORTIFICATIONS OF PARIS.
more in the way of an invader if situated on the
frontier, like Cologne or Coblentz, instead of in the
interior like Paris, is another question.
It is always a matter for serious consideration,
what, in the event of a city being besieged, would
be the consequences to its inhabitants. Fortifying
large towns has generally been with much reason
objected to by the citizens. The advantages they
may derive from the fortifications are seldom such
as to make up for the consequences of a siege,
which, when the place is fortified in the ordinary
manner, are disastrous in the extreme. However
averse besiegers may be to injure private property,
or to hurt non-combatants, they cannot well help
doing both by the fire which they must direct on
the defences. Precision in the use of projectiles
cannot be confined within very narrow limits. The
highest perfection attainable in the use of artillery
must always be attended with numerous disturbing
causes beyond the artillerist's control, and indeed
quite imperceptible to him, though their effects are
sufficiently evident. Shot and shells grazing the
ground a little beyond or short of their mark usu-
ally proceed onwards by successive bounds, and
range many hundred yards further; being at the
same time liable to considerable lateral deflection as
they happen to glance from the objects against
which they strike in their course. The consequence
is that a besieger's fire cannot well produce any
serious impression on the massive works of the for-
tifications, without utterly destroying the slighter
buildings of the town to a great extent beyond
them. But the evils to which the citizens are thus
of necessity exposed are small compared to those
which the besiegers may voluntarily inflict. Though
the bombardment of a town does not necessarily
compel its surrender, it cannot fail, if carried into
effect with vigor, to do serious injury to it. The
destruction of the time-honored monuments of any
great city, of its churches, its public buildings,
would cause an irreparable loss to the civilized
world. When, therefore, as in the case of Cologne,
the safety of a nation requires that such a city
should be fortified, it is clearly essential that its
defences should be so arranged as to preclude all
risk of such disasters.
To secure a city from bombardment the fortifica-
tions must be at such a distance from it as to place
it beyond the reach of a besieger's artillery; to
effect this object by means of a continuous enclosure
would generally require one of such enormous extent
as to make the construction of such a work quite
out of the question. It can only be done, there-
fore, by means of detached works; and as these
leave intervals through which an enemy may easily
pass, the city would require the additional protec-
tion of a continuous enclosure within them. The
large circuit also, which a line of detached forts
may be made to occupy, must always greatly
increase the difficulties of a blockade. Among
those who have agreed on the expediency of forti.
fying Paris, the only question seemed for a long
time to be, which of the two was preferable, a
system of detached ſorts or a continuous rampart;
whereas both are essentially necessary in the con-
struction of such fortresses, the one to keep the
enemy's artillery at a distance, and the other to
secure the city from assault. The objections which
enerally exist to shutting up an army in a fortress
§. not apply in these cases. The intervals be-
tween the forts and the ample space which they en-
close afford the utmost facility for the movements
of large bodies of troops; so that an army occupy-
ing a place so fortified would have all the ſº
necessary for a manoeuvring force, combined W.
the security of a garrison.
The application of field-works to *
fortifications would give a totally different chara.
ter to their defensive capabilities, and would .
der them much less effective. The assis.
which a movable army can afford to the garºº.
of the fortifications, owes its efficacy principal'). d
the necessity under which an enemy would fin
himself of resorting to regular siege operatiº.
If the defenders exercise but moderate vigil.
every part of the fortress is secure against ass” o
Numbers, however multiplied, would afford.”
additional chance of success : a hundred thoº.
men would be as little likely to take one of
forts as a thousand. To attack, therefore, dº º
the defensive works, an enemy must regularly
siege them, and the enormous difficulty of doing S0
in face of a large movable force has already bº.
pointed out. On the other hand, all our experi
ence goes to prove that field-works, unless wº
the ground is naturally strong, are anything ".
secure ; and though they give great advantagº.
an army occupying a defensive position, the dispº.
ity of numbers for which they are capable of cºº
pensating is limited. Attacks on them do "".
necessarily occupy much time ; an assailant ".
therefore choose favorable moments; and when ".
line is extensive he may, by a false attack, draw
the principal strength of the defenders to one part
of it, and then direct a real one on some lºº.
guarded point before they have discovered lº.
mistake. The bare possibility of an enemy's ta alſº
the city by storm would give rise to frequent alarm.
which could not be otherwise than prejudicia
the defence. On the whole, it appears that." S
security aſſorded by field-works is so precariº
that they are but ill adapted to the fortifications °
a large city. - irmeS
The project of ſortifying Paris in modern tin.
is not new; there exists a short memoir on the s”
ject, written by Vauban in 1680, which, howe.
he seems to have drawn up more as a sugges”.
for consideration than as a direct proposal for pract.
cal use. He begins by pointing out the great .
portance of Paris to the rest of France, and.”
consequent expediency of providing for its sa ety:
He says, “It is impossible to take too many pre”.
tions to preserve it, and the more so that if an enº.
had forced our frontiers, beaten and dissipated .
armies, and at last penetrated the interior of-th t
kingdom, which is very difficult, I admit, but .
impossible, one cannot doubt that he would nº
every effort to render himself master of the capit”.
The city was then surrounded with old walls in .
imperfect state, which occupied the line of the P.
ent Boulevards. These were to be repaired “”
strengthened by the addition of an earthen raiº.
and parapet for artillery, and a deep ditch in ſº º
Beyond this “à la très grande portée de canon, -tC)
at a distance of 1000 to 1200 toises, he proposed sº
establish a continuous enclosure consisting of a º,
ular permancnt rampart with bastion fronts, on til
largest scale, with the addition of outworks, coº C-
way, and every detail of the most complete constru d
tion. This outer “enceinte” would have occº.
a line only a short distance beyond the Prº*.
“mur d'octroi,” but it would have been mº i.
tensive, as compared to the circumference of Pao”
in those days, than the present “enceinte contº. re
is to that of the existing city. Besides these ther.
were to be two citadels within the outer “encoin”
these kinds of
THE SONG OF
THE SWORD.
415
h
3.
A
#.
“lose to the river, and on opposite sides of it, one
*Qve and the other below the city. They were
° be pentagonal bastioned forts, something like
* present citadel of Antwerp ; and their principal
ºject was to be that of keeping the city in subjec-
* lest, being so fortified, “it might become for-
*dahle even to its master.”
bº hile France professes to take measures against
Sºng attacked, though no one has the least wish
*
* intention of assailing her, or indeed could gain
ºthing by doing so, her neighbors, taught by
*
id experience, have taken effectual precautions for
ºir own protection against that ever-daring and
"flammable nation. Ever since the war the sev-
§al German states have been busily engaged in
* erection of fortifications on a great scale, and
°y still continue the task with unabated dili-
§ence. Vast fortresses, guarded from bombard-
"ent by detached forts, have been constructed, not
** in former times, to contain mere garrisons insuffi-
§ent to check an invader, but as secure positions
* large armies, which it would be almost as
...Fºrous to besiege as to pass by: From Switzer.
*id to the sea an effectual barrier already exists
§ºlnst any encroachment from the west; and if it
Yould serve no purpose for the Germans to invade
i.e. it would be a hopeless undertaking for the
*ench to invade Germany. Thus fortification on a
*st scale, however formidable its aspect, may be
*fact conducive to peace—removing the temptation
‘... aggressive war by diminishing the probability
its success. While the astonishingly increasing
*ilities for travelling promote pacific intercourse
*hong the nations of Europe, effectual precautions
ºre yeing taken to prevent its interruption ; and
in our rapid and easy progress from city to city,
Yº are reminded by their massive defences how
ºfficult it would be to enter them on other than
"endly terms.
—l
d
From an English paper.
THE SONG OF THE SWORD.
A Parody on the “Song of the Shirt.”
WEARy, and wounded, and worn-
Wounded and ready to die,
A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn,
On the field of battle to lie.
The dead and dying alone
Could their presence and pity afford;
Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone,
He sang the Song of the Sword.
Fight! fight! fight ! *
hough a thousand fathers die;
Fight ! fight! fight !
Though thousands of children cry :
Fight | fight ! ſight !
Whilst mothers and wives lament;
And fight! fight! ſight!
Whilst millions of money are spent.
Fight! fight! fight! +:
Should the cause be foul or fair;
Though all that's gained is an empty name
And a tax too great to bear :
An empty name and a paltry fame,
And thousands lying dead;
. . . Whilst every glorious victory
Must raise the price of bread.
War !, war! war!
l'ire, and famine, and sword;
Desolate fields and desolate towns,
And thousands scattered abroad
With never a home and never a shed;
Whilst kingdoms perish and fall,
And hundreds of thousands are lying dead,
And all—for nothing at all.
Ah! why should such mortals as I
Kill those whom we never could hate
'T is obey your commander or die—
'T is the law of the Sword and the State.
For we are the veriest slaves
That ever had their birth;
For to please the whim of a tyrant's will
Is all our use upon earth.
War war ! war !
Musket, and powder, and ball;
Ah what do we fight so for 1
Ah! why have we battles at all!
'T is justice must be done, they say,
The nation's honor to keep :
Alas! that justice is so dear,
And human life so cheap !
"T is sad that a Christian land—
A professedly Christian state,
Should thus despise that high command—
So useful and so great—
Delivered by Christ himself on earth,
Our constant guide to be :
To “love our neighbors as ourselves
And bless our enemy.”
War I war war :
Misery, murder and crime,
Are all these blessings I’ve seen in thee
From my youth to the present time;
Misery, murder, and crime,
Crime, misery, murder, and woe ;
Ah! would I had known in my younger days,
In my hours of boyish glee, -
A tenth of its misery;
I now had been joining a happy band
Of wife and children dear,
And I had died in my native land,
lnstead of dying here.
Weary, and wounded, and worn—
Wounded, and ready to die,
A soldier they left all alone and forlorn,
On the field of battle to lie :
The dead and the dying alone
Could their presence and pity afford,
Whilst thus, with a sad and terrible tone,
(Oh would that those truths were more perfectly
known,)
He sang the Song of the Sword.
Void Bequests.—The annuities lately bequeathed
to the canine and feline species, under the will of the
late Mrs. Johnson, of Hampstead, are declared to be
void, upon the opinion of counsel being, taken, from
the bequests being made to these animals, and not to
persons in trust for them. The clause is in these
words:—“I give to my black dºg, Carlo, an annuity
of 30l. a year, during the dog's life, to be paid half.
yearly. Unto each of the cats, Blacky, Jemmy, and
Tom, I give an annuity of 101.3 year for the three
cats, to be paid half-yearly, Margaret Potson and
Harriet Holly, my mother's old servants, to take
charge of the dog and cats.” . The value of these an-
nuities will therefore lapse into the residue. The
testatrix was a single lady, and left personal prop-
erty to the amount of 25,000l.

‘A16 * *
THE BELLE.
revolving burners of Our Lady of the Light.
From Tait's Magazine.
THE BELLE.
The following is intended as a series of sketches
of but a small portion of such scenery and customs
as fell under the writer's notice at Oporto and its
neighborhood, some years since, and of which the
recollections are now revived and confirmed by a
visit to the same quarter. Of the few incidents
recorded, there are probably none which are not
true ; and of the characters, perhaps no feature
which was not taken from the life, somewhere or
other, though not among these particular scenes;
with one exception, which is noted in its place.
Characters and incidents are so intermingled and
transposed from their original relations, though, it
is hoped, without violation either of fact or proba-
bility, that scandal itself must be unusually ingen-
ious if it find a single line which can be offensively
applied to any individual. This is neither a novel
nor a romance, and least of all a satire. Thus
much the writer premises, in order that “The
Belle” may not be reproached for raising expec-
tations which are not realized, nor for indulging
in personal freedoms, which have been carefully
avoided.]
The Fox, near Oporto.
IN the autumn of 1835, a steamship, bound for
Portugal with passengers from Falmouth, after
encountering some heavy seas in the Bay of Bis-
cay, was “making short miles” in latitude 45,
when at daybreak the appearance of several gan-
nets, willocks, and sea-parrots, prepared the crew
for the welcome cry of land, which greeted them
soon after sunrise. Most of the passengers re-
mained all day on deck, eagerly gazing on the
bold and picturesque headlands and rocks, as the
vessel ran down the cóast of Galicia. Before sun-
set, they were off Vigo; and after a few hours
more, they stood off St. John Da Foz, at the
mouth of the harbor of Oporto, and beat about all
night in a pitching sea. On the following morn-
ing, the scene was enlivened by the view of several
merchant vessels from England, Newfoundland,
and other quarters, which had been for some days
lingering off the capricious bar of Oporto, and were
still wearing and tacking about, under a brisk
breeze, unable to get into the river. Numbers of
Portuguese fishing-boats, and little barks, and
yachts, and schooners, some few at anchor, and
dancing on their cables, but most of them scudding
hither and thither over a green and foaming sea,
added to the animation of the scene. Two fine
ships from South America, heavily laden, one from
Maranha,n and one from Para, were looming in
the distance. The land prospect was also striking,
especially on the right bank of the Douro, where
the suburb of Massarellos, and the villas and gardens
above it, and part of the city of Porto; overtopped
by the tall tower of the church of the Clerigos,
formed a rich picture, with a background of remote
hills. The people on board the steamer were
anxiously expecting a pilot, and a signal from the
little castle of the Foz. A pilot came off, and
gave them hopes of speedy admission i, but they
soon had the mortification to be warned off by a
gun from the castle; for the bar was still imprac-
ticable. The wind, however, somewhat abated,
and the steamer anchored off the village of Foz,
consoled through the night by the proximity of º
t
noon next day, the wind came round from the
north, the tide served, the red signal-flag *:
hoisted from the castle, and the pilot of the *. of a
lost no time in taking the lead of the little
vessels and small craft that now bore up º
for the bar. It was pleasant to see that sº
and tremulous machine, followed by whit” º,
after sail, before a stirring breeze, an un.
glorious sunny sky, making way with courag.
caution between the rocky shores, over mowd
sands, while guns from the fort were frequentº
and perhaps over busily, fired, to warn the ‘.
ing vessels not to press too closely on each ot tS
They were surrounded by sharp-prowed º !
filled with the dusky Portuguese boatmen, watc.
#:
* s ºr - lie º
ful to give aid if any accident should requº. 3
On the Cahedello sand, to the right, was days
zilian ship. that had been stranded a few. .
before, lying on her beam ends; an emphat” €
dence of the insecurity of the passage in tºº.
weather. The left shore was lined with.
tators. Strange buildings, strange phys.
mics, the roar of waters, and uproar of *.
interested and excited the most apathetic of
strangers.
Several of the passengers in the steamer
Portuguese constitutionalists, whom discret”.
necessity had kept aloof from their native º'.
while it was undergoing the severe ordeal 9. S
siege ; and who, now that the Pedroite party *.
in the ascendant, arrived in time to sing Dolº
Maria's hymn, and to make a merit of their patri
otic sufferings in exile. d
There were also some English merchants *.
their families, and others who had connection.” d
Oporto. Among the latter, was Mr. Forsyth, d
gentleman who was neither young nor old, º:
who had come to pass a few months in this part." 3.
the Peninsula, with or near one of his relatiº,
merchant of the place. Mr. Forsyth was.
rather had been, a man of the world, though nº.
a worldly man. He was one of the many, ".
have entered into social life with warm *.
bitious feelings, expecting from the world,”.
sympathy than it is willing, or perhaps able: in
bestow.” “Let not him that is deceived trus'',
vanity; for vanity shall be his recompº."
He had been in parliament, and disappointº ld
some loſty hopes, because he could not, or WOll
not, perceive that in resolving to be “an indº blic
dent member” of the senate, he was, as a P.
man, sowing his hopes of usefulness in the º
barren soil of English politics. Independen".
party is a very fine thing in theory ; in the E.
lish house of cominons, it is, or was, a solº.
Mr. Forsyth had other causes of disgust with:
world. He had been betrayed and conside.
injured in fortune by the friend he had most .
and trusted : a common case; but it is diſcº.
persuade any injured man that he is not the ".
injured man upon earth. He had been forced º
a chancery suit, an evil to which Job was no". C
jected. He had been compelled to give ".
answers to some two thousand questions and º: e
questions, barbed with every sort of imperiº.º
and many of them as reasonable as if he ha (
asked, whether he had not cut off his ow! ".
and carried it for a year in his pocket. Tº all
been vilified and belied to a prodigious exten! by ot
impudentiawyer; and in his indignation.º.
that the brawler had no interest in the 3.
his fees, no measure of truth but an allor.
brief, and that at the command of any º -
attorney who happened first to retain him he W0
werø
pen-
% Bra- º
r"
-:
* *-
matterbº . . .
THE BELLE.
417
have 1.
* *r .. lied as volubly on the other side, or on any
wº. Question. In short, Mr. Forsyth was a heart-
ºnan, and somewhat of a cynic.
the i. on its bluff and craggy hills, opposed by
With †: of Villa Nova and the Serra Convent,
‘ween e broad, many-colored Douro flowing be-
%mer' is at all times a striking object to the
than rom the seas, and was now more interesting
... *Ver, after its long siege, and still surrounded,
h..s, with the intrenched lines, and the now
º £SS batteries that had insulted it so long.
him.s.p. after receiving the visit of the
Sºme boat, &c., quickly glided up the river, and
nth to anchor off the unroofed convent of St.
glad "y. The deck was speedily crowded with
* || ū...itors; long estranged friends were ex-
and §g warm greetings. Mr. Forsyth, landed,
the º: conducted by his relative to the house of
gº.". in the city. The heat and bustle of a
Mr. tº herºia town were not, however, what
da jºyth had left London to seek; and in a
ºil. two, he retired to a house lent to him by his
the m "...at Foz, the village already mentioned, at
the º of the Douro, and three miles north of
in *ºhº is the village of Foz. Suppose,
of...; latitude 41, longitude 8, a ragged curve
tº ºs of sundry shades, from yellowish brown
ſiſte *k, varying in height from three or four, to
ſº." or twenty feet, and broken into a thousand
Qes.". the everlasting pressure of the Atlantic
S." on this salient portion of the Old World.
Sa pose, among these wave-rent rocks, many
slº.ººks, and little bays; within them a
tough." shore of soft, deep sand, surmounted by a
ºlt. ank, on which a village has been con-
of th ed, on a scheme as rude and irregular as that
Oti . rºcks it overlooks. What must have been
fa ºly a hamlet for fishermen, is now the
gal. 9|able sea-bathing place of the north of Portu-
§Inai futs and hovels of the meanest appearance
di.", unabashed by the taller and more commo-
for ºsidences that have sprung up among them
Whij reception of summer visitants. This village,
it...ºrs a considerable, extent of ground, is
b C ºcted by several ill-paved lanes, called streets,
hi.iesy ; and these are linked by others still
les..."er, winding up and down in eccentric care-
d j and wandering among garden walls. On
th."ºrate height, at the northern extremity of
tºº, is the lighthouse of Our Lady of the
ºicu, The broad, substantial church, is con-
te.ºls in the centre of the village, amidst a clus-
ton."ouses of all sizes. Below the church, on a
lit. * of land that projects into the sea, stands the
§. Sulle th of th
aſſ, "ſlºn fort that protects the mou G
gºi...ºnd domineers over the incoming and out.
ºf tº Shipping. The opposite shore, the left bank
Rej river, is a stiff ridge darkened with pine-
bank At its base are some huge gray stones. A
hai, of Sand, called the Cabedello, runs across the
the "... of which the mouth, between that bank and
the ... is therefore very narrow. Just without
80 º tance to the river, are many sunken, and
the sible rocks, with shifting sands among
. wº these form the bar of Oporto. East-
"ason: the fort, is an unfinished wall of strong
- big. 'X' checking the tide; and within it is a
ºne. ** of sand, where the fishermen make,
"Sails : *nd dry their nets, and bleach their wet
tºrsi." 3 sun. This is called the Lower Can-
Peasant. łetween, it and the Upper Cantereira, a
thinly planted walk along the river side
or,
for
towards Oporto, are two sloped causeways, flag-
ged, landing-places for the city-boats and the
fishermen's catrayas. *
This little scattered chaos of sombre rocks, yel-
low sands, white walls, and red-tiled roofs, of tene-
ments incongruously spread, or rather thrown as
if by chance, in clumps and patches, here huddled
in bunches, and there diffused in thin lines, is San
Joam da Foz—St John's of the mouth of the river.
Yet, even in its architecture, there are some things
that strike the eye of the stranger, as having a
character of elegance; particularly the stone
crosses that are seen above the various chapels and
oratories, and from some points of view, when the
eye comes upon them suddenly, have a singularly
mystical appearance : for instance, when they are
seen over a trellis of vines that hide the building to
which they belong, and show them, as it were,
self-poised in air. The stone fountains, too, with
their picturesque frequenters, to be noticed here-
after, are always pleasing objects.
At the back of the village, (town, it is entitled,)
are fields of grass, and rye, and maize, and dark
ping groves, so resinously fragrant after showers;
all these objects, and, above all, that grand, ever-
variable ocean, and the glorious sunny skies, and
the magic of the climate for the greater portion of
the year, might reconcile a reasonable English-
man to a sojourn here, if he had not brought too
much of the London fog in his heart, and if he
could get over petty disgusts, and fastidious hor-
rors of dirt and discomfort, greatly exaggerated by
travellers. *
To this place, then, came the solitary self-ex-
patriated Englishman ; and here, being a stranger
in the land, he expected to live for a while in
retirement absolutely unbroken but by the occa-
sional visits of the relative who had lent him his
house. Two men-servants, Galicians both, formed
his whole establishment. The house was a
modest, substantial building, not large, but more
than spacious for a bachelor-hermit ; moreover, it
was a comfortable dwelling ; for it had been Angli-
cized. Attached to it was a small garden, shut in
by high walls, with casements pierced in the wall
that fronted the sea ; within, were broad arbors of
vines trained along the walls on wood-work, rest-
ing on stone pillars. Except these vines, a few
fig trees, some splendid geraniums, some bulbous
sand-plants, which are weeds in Portugal, but
choice exotics in the greenhouses of England, some
rhododendrons, and fine roses, and other hardy
plants, there was nothing of ornamental horticul-
ture in this enclosure ; for tender plants are not
cultivated on this exposed part of the coast with
success adequate to the trouble they require. As
to the useful part of garden vegetation, there was
a goodly supply, especially of potatoes, immense
onions, (mild' and gentle giants) and cabbages.
Of the latter, few being required, the, many were
left, through the winter, to grow and luxuriate at
the expense of the soil, till they grew to a broad
and stately height of ten feet, and then flowered so
fairly in the early spring, that they were almost as
pleasant to look upon from the windows as the
orchards of Herefordshire from the green hills of
Malvern. They were like, a possé of British
judges and barristers in full wigs; and Mr. For-
syth, when the season for their extirpation arrived,
would by no means have desired the demolition of
this cabbage-tree wood; but it was removed to
make way for younger members of the same
family. In the centre of the square, was a tall
4.18 “… THE BELLE.
*’ ºf
flagstaff, on which occasionally waved the red-cross
flag of England, in signal of a birthday or a fête.
"rom the two windows in the western wall of
this garden, might be witnessed, every morning
during the season, a scene exceedingly picturesque
and very strange; for there was the bathing place.
On a sandy flat, flanked by dark and rugged
patches of rock, square tents are pitched; and
thus a compact hamlet is formed of poles and can-
vass, with strait spaces of pathway, necessary for
access to the tents, which are the dressing-rooms
for the bathers. Persons of all stations come
hither to bathe ; while idlers, male and female,
stand on the ledges of rocks and on the sands, and
gaze at them as they go into these mysterious
cabins, attired in their usual dresses, gay or sordid,
and as they come out again—the women clad to
the throat in coarse full robes of blue frieze, the
men in jackets and trousers of the same material.
Assistants, both men and women, who look like
cousin-germans to the Tritons, conduct the bathers
into the sea, and hold them while there, ducking
and sousing them in every big wave that comes
threatening and storming over them like a platoon
of soldiers firing with blank cartridge. The
bathers stand as the wave approaches, then “duck
the flash,” the wild water blusters over them ; then
they rise, and pant, and sob, clinging to their
guides. It is not unfrequent to see stout young
fellows thus led into the water by the bathing
women, and hugging them with all the tenacity of
girls afraid of being drowned. You have the blind,
the lame, and the halt, the young and handsome
of both sexes, the hale and the infirm, the old man,
and more haggard old woman, and the whimper-
ing cherub-child, all floundering in the waves
together, like the crew and passengers of a wreck.
Among these groups of ghastly old visages, and
swart young facés, illuminated by black ſlashing
eyes, may now and then be seen two or three fair
daughters of the north, English or German. The
sight of all these people thus grouped and huddled
together in or on the margin of a basin of the sea,
and so many of them aged and hideous, suggests
the idea of a pool of Bethesda, where the young
and the beautiful seem to have no business, but to
come in mere wantonness and frolic, unless they
are, as some of them might seem to be, the angels
whose presence gives virtue to the water, akin to
that angel who stirred the pool of the Five Porches
at Jerusalem. An English person just landed on
these shores, looks on, the scene with wonder and
distaste, and resolves that his wife or his daughters,
who probably are also, turning away from it as if
they questioned the decorum of the exhibition,
shall never be seen in such a situation. He and
they get accustomed to it, however; and the next,
or perhaps before the expiration of this very sea-
son, the fairest form that issues from the wave in a
saturated blue frieze garment, is that of his own
wife or daughter. *
Among the grim-visaged male natives who are
undergoing ablution, are several fierce-looking fel-
lows, whose preposterous length of beard gives
them the air of our London friends of the syna-
gogue, the old-clothes'-men of Monmouth street.
Some of these are western islanders, brought from
the Azores by Don Pedro ; others are Portuguese,
who have also fought and bled in the constitutional
cause, or who have neither bled nor fought, but
only wish to be considered heroes. These latter
hairy Orsons, with menacing mustachios, and such
* º iants,
grimly longitude of beard, tongue dougº,
pseudo-Samsons, whose strength is in thel º
would seem *
No worthy match d ‘.
For valor to assail, nor by the swººd
But by the barber's razor best subdued.
- W 0
Lo! yonder is one of these braggadº. s:
is especially grandiloquent about his feats." n-hº.
and when on that topic, he is a real Saº at
works such wonders with an ass's jaw. ...”.nds
his attitude of defiance to the sea, as * griſ
knee-deep in water, holding fast by . ad
she-guide, waiting for a wave. It cº" ºr
breaks over him in froth, bubbles ove id ſoſ
ble; he wrings his beard, and looks " | .
applause. efe!
Fº Englishmen bathe here. Thº, § a!
another, and certainly a better bathing"P ja;
the huts, about half a mile away. In this º
right; but the English here, as all **.cs,
over, are too exclusively English in the 3C6,
They even have, at this little watering. below'
separate and most inconvenient promen”. ap'
the light-house, a rough, uneven cause. b6
proached by a rougher road, which,”. air
smoothed at small cost. They get the º jerë,
there, it is true; but the Upper Cantereirº"...are
especially on Sunday evenings, the natiº.ºnoré
and gay, assemble by hundreds, is not only *ºng-
social, but a level public walk; whereas the beeſ'
lish praia, as it is called, might seem to hºles.
selected for them by their Portuguese shoem: ſé.
But let us return to the Portuguese bathing bering,
Carriages of various shapes, from the ". hai;
family coach to the trim little gaudy poºl.”
that looks to have been built “in the ye".ses,
drawn by oxen or mules, and rarely by In U
gay and painted litters, sedan chairs, wi. jºr
instead of men for bearers, and all alive ". .
gling bells, convey the wealthier bathers, *...the
to be seen, soon after daylight, crowded ".. and
on the bank, with servants and mulete.”their
numerous donkeys, that have also brº", ſh;
morning volaries to Neptune. Sunday jº
favorite day. The sands and the rocks arº". 3.
with groups of all classes; and there.” ould
group among them which a northern pain!”. sº
not seize with avidity as a subject for lº a. udes:
various and striking are the features, and * "...hat
and costumes, and so different from any ºngº
we are accustomed to in the north. Even jºir
of a Portuguese beggar are picturesquº; ºne
elaborate ostentation of wretchedness. Th” ºn
continues from dawn till about mid-day". ſº
that time till two o'clock, that is, in the º of
between the last mass and the usual dining" is.”
the richer class of visiters—this same P "...sº
sort of fashionable lounge, where well meſ
ladies sit in rows on wooden benches, an bove:
stand round them, or cluster on the rocks "...orial
and so they stare at each other for "...iſes º'
hours, saying little, but looking pins an . parº.
each other's hearts, from under parti-co Many a
sols, and brown or scarlet umbrellas. jedlý
subtle flirtation is carried on there, unstºp father”
or connived at by the guardian eldeº, “
mothers, and aunts. •. an :--
Do you sce that small, dapper "... cyes;
mud-colored complexion, and dark, sly, º tall.
He has just height enough to loºk."...jou.
friend's shoulder, and he has made that * *
* , t < .
• *
THE BELLE. . . . 419
!
Wit
§ his
love]."
wig-block, (his pao de cabelleira;) that is,
ing love over his friend's shoulder to that
sº enure coquette yonder, who now and then
Puts . d thrilling glance, which the tall block
Šlitor . to his own account, while the little
lig t ehind him is chuckling, with the double de-
flieſ ºf quizzing his friend, and flirting with that
*i. bride-elect. I have seen many a youth,
ſº. º! as Antinous and graceful as Pâris, whom
Would rather trust with the lady of my love, or
Sºme * young flower under my care, than that
ºf...all, bad, coffee-complexioned man—a man
sº .."? age, too; for he is a designing, and,
ſº to say, a successful libertine, a Lothario,
9m fans and white handkerchiefs are flut-
ne. With emotion. But he has agreeable man-
º talents that might be better employed
wº. heartless experiments upon the morality of
... It ". His name is Roderick Pinto.
that § at this bathing scene, so odd to a stranger,
$ii. * Forsyth was gazing, with but languid
|ays "y, on a brilliant Sunday morning, a few
ºru
§ mak
*ter his arrival, when one of the Galicians in-
°d him by the announcement of visitors. He
- p. prised, as he knew nobody, but was well-
'...'
Woul
§
*ht. th
t
he i. WaS
ed id
- O
CO
F
S -
*d, on returning to the house, to find there
8-9
. sº the most agreeable of his English fellow-
jºgers, who happened also to be among the
tº merchants of the place. So he soon found
the º was not to be a hermit even at the Foz; for
ºily of the best English residents, to re-
“e of e strangers, is most liberal when once the
§ is °rmality is broken. Letters of introduction
§ |ºlly requisite to produce this effect, but Mr.
thei 7th's steamboat companions kindly supplied
ily Place, the more cheerfully as one of his fam-
tye 3S already of their society; upon which, how-
tº would not have chosen to be thrown by
New d Vantage. “What sort of a man is your
ge.ºrived relation?” some would say to this
tºman ; and he would answer:—“A reserved,
whº character, in bad health and low spirits,
th...ishes only to be left alone.” A question to
"le point, put to his English fellow-voyagers,
sº. Produce a totally different answer. “What
\lub a man is this Mr. Forsyth?” “A lively,
ing.” person, whose great delight seems in play-
tomps with little children, and talking non-
9 their elders.” Which of these was the
answer? Both, yet neither. The fact
at “this Mr. Forsyth” was Democritus
and lieraclitus at home, and, perhaps,
C
Ott C
8
ºlt!
§§ * philosophical egotist in both characters.
Thº..."ghed in public and he mourned in solitude,
was a profound melancholy in his spirit; but
W it as a miser would a treasure, to be brood-
i. alone. He was both too proud and too
e.s to trouble the world with his sorrºws.
tºº.” beneath the surface of his smiles. The
hi. *y of children had always been a pleasure to
jºlly *nd now it was the only society in which he
scribe
leg
Was happy. His fondness for them was
d to his good nature; but it had, in truth;
jºigthened. by his experience of the cºld
he ; of his somewhile chérished adult world.
Rºllºwing touching passage, from Samuel
Quº. will help to explain my meaning —“In
jºy youth, while yet we live only among
...Wºlove, we love without restraint, and our
, 3. Çat *
§...ºverfloº, i. every look, word, and action.
Out al
i." we enter the world, and are repulsed by
º, forgotten by friends, we grow timid in
*oaches, even to those we love best. How
delightful to us, then, are the little caresses of
children All sincerity, all affection, they fly into
our arms; and then, and then only, we feel our
first confidence, our first pleasure.”
Next to the highest consolations of religion,
there is nothing so likely to restore the tone of a
mind that the experience of worldly hardness
has made nervous and suspicious, as intercourse
with children, not as their superior but as their
friend. With all their little faults, (which will,
probably, expand into great vices, if their growth
be not so managed as to turn them into virtues,)
children are the best specimens of human nature, in
its weakness and its strength. The presence of
the young and ingenuous, therefore, beguiles the
jealous misanthrope; and may, by degrees, reëpen
the rigid heart that had resolved to exclude the
milder feelings and the abused charities of life.
Mr. Forsyth, when his morning visitors left him,
was surprised that he should have felt so little dis-
satisfaction at this early inroad on his scheme of
self-seclusion. But they had chanced to bring
with them a charm that was the very “Open
Sesame” “ to the best feelings in a proud man's
bosom.” They had brought with them, from the
sands, at her own request, a child named Ellen
Leslie, his favorite playmate during the passage.
This girl, only about ten years old, was withdrawn
from a school in England, by her parents, at the
desire of an elder sister, who had undertaken to be
her teacher. The child had no beauty but that of
innocence and vivacity; but there was somethin
very endearing in her artless and somewhat pette
caressing manners, and her extreme eagerness to
hear wonderful stories, of which Mr. Forsyth re-
lated some scores to her while on board, probably
inventing most of them as they were called for.
She had, therefore, “a passion” for Mr. Forsyth,
and could hardly talk of any one else to her eldest
sister, May Leslie, who was already somewhat
jealous and prejudiced against a stranger who, as
she chose to think, had surreptitiously and intru-
sively appropriated so much of the good will of her
pet Ellen.
There was another reason for Mr. Forsyth's re-
signing himself without much reluctance, to the
visits of his neighbors. During the four or five
days that he had been at this place, he had found
his solitude anything but tranquillity. The three
first days, the 8th, the 9th, and the 10th of Septem-
ber, happening to be the anniversaries of the three
successive attacks in 1832, on the gallantly defended
convent of the Serra, he was kept awake, the great-
er part of the three nights, by the incessant explo-
Sion of fireworks. The Portuguese rejoice in noise,
and are absolute children in their love of rºckets.
If he fell into a slumber, soon after daylight he was
painfully awakened by dolorous sounds, shrill, and
terrible, that seemed the yells of Tartarus-these
were the supplications of some sturdy beggar, who
would rant on, without interruption, till the surly
voice of one of the Galician servants stopped him
with, “It cannot be, now !” the last word holding
out a sort of promise, and encouragement to come
again another day. The mendicant will go on for
an hour, till he receives alms or this answer, when
he retires. But another, and another, male or fe-
male, succeeds, and so they go on through the day,
canting, whining, squalling, screaming at your door
or within your porch, or on your staircase. . It is
of little use to close your outer door, for they make
no ceremony of knocking till it be opened. The
numbers who follow the profession by choice, and
420 * ,
THE BELLE.
the good and portly condition of many of them, are
a proof of the charitable disposition of the Portu-
guese, and their want of judgment in their mode of
provision for the poor; one of the hardest prob-
lems, however, in the political economy of most
countries, and no easy one in our own. We are
told that, before the suppression of monasteries in
Portugal, beggars were not so importunate at pri-
vate dwellings. I doubt this. They were fed at
the convent gates, it is true, but they did not, so far
as I recollect, the less pursue their avocation; and
as to the disgusting objects in the streets, who were
suffered to expose their infirmities, by way of en-
forcement of the Christian duty of alms-giving on
the passers-by, they were certainly more numerous
then than now, though they are not yet few.
Everybody knows that many of these mendicants,
to make themselves more striking objects of com-
passion, establish and cherish loathsome sores and
tumors, which they exhibit with revolting grossness.
Others, some blind, some pretending blindness, are
led about the streets, singing canticles with obstrep-
erous energy, far surpassing that of our own “ship-
wrecked sailors” who were never at sea, and who
are the sturdiest and noisiest of our street and high-
way prowlers. Others, whose legs or arms have
been twisted, in their infancy, into the most pitiable
contortions, for , the express purpose of making
them profitable curiosities of misery, are placed on
donkeys, and so ride, begging, through the villages
and towns—some are put into open boxes in the
streets—some left to crouch or stretch upon the
pavement. Watch one of these on a market-day,
when the country people are crowding into the city
—that good-humored, grinning idiot-boy, for in-
stance, who sits howling from morning till night,
near the British consul's door, and calling out, “I
Say!” to every Englishman that passes. Hardly a
peasant, man or -woman, goes by without giving
him some triſle, and not one without giving him a
good word. In that same spot he has almost
grown up, being brought to it early every morning
and not removed till evening ; and there he will,
probably, maintain his privileged position for years
iO COIſle.
Musical varieties, besides the incantations of the
beggars, were supplied through the course of the
day, by the cries of fish-women, of girls who vend
charcoal, of others who carry about uncured pork,
others with nunnery sweetmeats; some with
linen, some with wood-soled slippers, some with
fowls and turkeys, eggs or butter; some with
quails and red-legged partridges—of men with tal-
low candles in square deal boxes; brandy or vine-
gar in barrels; oil in tin canisters; all these shout-
ing, successively, within the threshold, or thump-
ing at the door, and none withdrawing without an
{111SWer.
Mr. Forsyth perceived that he had made a mis-
take in his choice of a hermitage. He submitted
to his fate, and his patience Was soon rewarded ;
these annoyances, so provoking at first, soon
ceased to trouble him, for habit made him almost
unconscious of them before he had resided a month
at the Foz. By degrees, he became acquainted
with almost all his countrymen and women in the
place, and there were so many among them who
possessed good qualities that he soon forgot that he
was to be an anchorite. He went wherever he was
invited ; and the climate favored him, for the
parties which he most enjoyed were in the open
air—boat-parties, and rides and picnics; rambles
in a pine-wood, and a dinner on the rocks, or on a
º th
vine-shaded terrace overlooking the river .. Of
sea; and generally followed by music.” º, of
dance, or all combined; and then a mory ºne,
sail, or gallop home. Home ! there he ...nº
and his spirits sank again under the coº" at h;
that he was, in fact, an alien in the lan". of all
had no home here—that there was not "...sº
those lively persons, by whom he had bºº"...ond
who really took the smallest interest in hiº.; his
the occasions on which he might cont” Then
share to the hilarity of a social hºuſ: d und?
he would, for a while, be self-involved *
proachable.
Rousing himself from one of these
he chose to go over the bar to fish ;
pose he hired the proper sort of boat, with
and tackle necessary for the pastinie; aſ ormiſſé.
bar he went, on a most beautifully placid . als0
€
Many of the large fishing-boats were º , th
S
Fº:
lonely. º:
fºr which C[l
ith the
Yeſ tlló
two or three pleasure-boats, allured to
smoothness of the water. To these Mr. indi
occupied with his sport, in which he had ". at
ferent success, paid no heed. There arº o coas'
this time of the year, heavy fogs upon tº wevº
as well as along the river; it is seldom, lº. také
that they come on with so little warning *.cned
the boatman unprepared. But it now º oped
that Mr. Forsyth suddenly found himself”. othing
in such a dense vapor that he could see ... was
whatever beyond his own boat. The W* C sheſ"
very tranquil, and he could hear, from th9 word”
men's boats, , without distinguishing the W ad 3
voices which, invisible as the speakers weſº iris
sort of preternatural effect, as if mysterio”, ong
of Sea and air were conversing together. familiº
those voices, however, were some of mor" t! hiſm
tone, for they were English, and very nea. nam.
— so near that he was startled to hear his º. *
mentioned in no flattering terms. º
says the proverb, “never hear any good *
selves.” None but mean persons can bº
and deliberate eaves-droppers; and such
likely to be talked of in terms of much: S
for though their eavesdropping propensit” S
escape detection, their characteristic me."...ispi,
not. So far the proverb not only is, but, º it 13.
ought to be true. But in the sense in whicſ
generally understood, it is a still greatºr S0. WC
those who are listened to than on those wh9.ion of
listen ; for it is founded on a broad assº. unl’
the general malignity of human nature, tº chatº.
versal propensity to scandal: so that the ºc, * *
hearer, however good and amiable he º th9.
according to the proverb, no better, 0 i imſº
deliberate eavesdropper. Yet proverbs º occº.
always true, and Mr. Forsyth, though an **wh9.
listener, proved no exception to the rule: ... in th9.
was the person so intent upon his fish"...iiſ;
boat that was near us just now before this". Jº
ſ i * ſl. -
came on 4 He seemed to be an English?” Mr.
# *
was a female voice that asked the ãº. ge.
Forsyth thought it a pleasing voice. An rcp icº;
tlemán, whom he recognized by his accº 'd licrº,
—“It is Mr. Forsyth, who has lately arº Forsy
“Ohiº rejoined the lady, it is that Nº.º.
whom I have heard of, is it? Some pºop jº. .
he is very disagreeable: I am sure hº."...wce"
thanks to the fog for dropping the ºr." ad nevº”.
us and him!” Mr. Forsyth thought hºlāgh,
heard a more unmusical voice in his life. à to jº.
in which more than one person appº Sl!!!, whº,
succeeded her flippant observation. Tº ... to bº
had been struggling for mastery, now beg -
THE BELLE. 421
f
§
$Yok
§
half-
+. the W
mig
hr
eil of
* thus
tlt hi
lin
ed fr
*gh the attenuated vapor to which he gave
ºilsparent glory; a sudden gust of air lifted
og, and discovered to Mr. Forsyth what
fancifully revealed, have seemed, to any
, as fair a vision as ever Grecian genius
Om the wave. Close beside him was the
hº.which were the persons whose short dialogue
cº"
; his
3sli
B
*
§
§led fro
d!
tou
º
fift
"Yaj
&nd
'Plais
80fth
SO
()
C-the
eslie
ºr fair
13i
d
PS
unluckily overheard, and the ungentle
had expressed so unfavorable an opinion
90ks was no other than Miss Leslie—May
sister of his little friend Ellen, and the
*9ng the English Portonians. This young
only a few months before, been emanci-
in a London “finishing school;” a Vanity-
M.”;9m which she came home a finished coquette.
was about nineteen ; in person tall,
i. ºld well formed. Her complexion was
her i.
nor florid, but of a pale settled brown;
t § was dark, her eyes gray, but large and
- § °ssive;
her."ut there was something in her carriage, in
"º, and in a certain play and curve of her rich,
that sometimes gave a singular air of audac-
Scornfulness to her expression. It was a face
her face oval, her features fine and reg-
ºn to which it was impossible to deny the
3 of b
eauty; but there was too often a want of
l Wol. *look of defiance, that the splenetic observer
ter.
Of
§:
*
th
len."
§ºi.
lºss
hat
§ she fi
§§
lt W
Wa
* Once remark with prejudice, while the bet-
*d would pronounce on it as an evidence only
|gh spirit and vivacity of youth and health.
rst came out, being new, her beauty had
in, a *ggerated; but her really handsome and strik-
.*rance had as yet lost none of its supremacy;
* Still the Belle, received admiration as if
With * her birthright, and treated her admirers
Strange mixture of affability and disdain.
3.
º
tº. Party seemed a little confused by their unex-
Proximity to the man with whose name they
Just been making so free. One of them had
ºjºnce of mind to greet him as if nothing had
& O *, and even to present him to Miss Leslie,
one of the group with whom he was not
She reddened at having been over-
ºne, h an ungracious personality; but the circum-
ºnſ
d $3
Was
%h
Cond,
\; SČe
: Conf emed rather to excite her resentment than
hi."ºuse her; and, while she slightly bowed to
*** was a curl of the lip which implied that
* formal compliment was conceded reluc-
e are apt to vindicate a first injustice by
that Mr. Forsyth looked at her with a stern-
did little' credit to his philosophy. He
ºiſie
Wiśions,
jºin O
ls
ſy tº dissº
h; had lSSati
true.
º, but
At lºw hatred is a tonic.s. .*
Änis º, time of the year, there were, so many
$nil;
§QS
tol,
ll
ºl
r
te
i
tha
3r, b
Payin
4||
‘. . .
il
*hess ti
d and morose, and she was proud and
Ie exchanged some civilities with her
and declining their invitation to dine
n the rocks near the huts, he returned
sfied; yet, perhaps, not altogether so;
*šperienced a sensation, no pleasant one, it
his jaded spirit wanted bracing, and
picnics among the English and their
t Mr. Forsyth had frequent opportuni-
lººting the young lady who had so gratui-
ºnºred him with her dislike at first sight;
efore she saw him. Her antipathy, so
°ing abated, seemed to increase at every
jº and she took no pains to conceal it; so
0n mother, a lady much respected in the place,
eff.'strated
§ºct.
- Šišl, [r.
ki
with her on her incivility, but without
*
Forsyth certainly took no pains to con-
ºr favor, for he indulged a malicious pleas-
g her in her own coin, though with a
lat only made the matter worse; and
their dislike quickly took a turn of active animosity,
not unamusing to some shrewd observers. On the
whole, the Belle had the best of the battle, and
might have finally conquered, had she not, too obvi-
ously, betrayed her delight whenever the man was
piqued. But she did not always escape untouched;
for Mr. Forsyth, though, in some respects, a far less
able tactician, in such small warfare, than his oppo-
ment, sometimes retaliated with a quiet effect that
was the more provoking for the composure of his
manner. He was more skilful in hiding his satis-
faction when his arrow of wit whizzed so near her
as to flutter the lady's serenity, than he was at con-
cealing his annoyance when her shaft struck home
and stung him. Mr. Forsyth had, perhaps, some
excuse for his malice. He was, in the first instance,
not the aggressor, but the aggrieved, and Miss Les-
lie had wounded him even more keenly than she
suspected or intended; she had estranged her little
sister, Ellen, from him completely. Her displeas-
ure at the child's fondness for a stranger had been
frequently expressed with more asperity than
enough, and Ellen no longer dared to go near Mr.
Forsyth ; and when she met him she was awkward
and abashed, and retreated or kept aloof. This was
intolerable ; it was an outrage on the very best and
most sensitive part of his nature.
About a league above the city, on the left bank
of the Douro, is the finely situated convent of Oli-
veira, now a quinta, or villa, which was yet, by per-
mission, as it was before the jolly monks were
ejected, a favorite place for summer parties from
Oporto. At a dance here, the gentleman who gave
the party, and who had often noticed, and, probably,
like others, been diverted by the mutual aversion of
the Belle and the Hermit, requested that the latter
would allow him to provide him with a partner to
complete one of the quadrille sets. Mr. Forsyth
endeavored to excuse himself, on the plea of hav-
ing long given up dancing; but he was overruled by
the friendly importunity of his host, and consented.
To his surprise, he was led up to Miss Leslie, and
named to her as requesting the honor of being her
partner. He would have made the best of what he
suspected of being a bad joke, if it was not a mis-
taken mangeuvre at peacemaking; but the young
lady looked at him with suppressed complacency,
and desired to be excused, as it was not her inten-
tion to stand up for that dance. Mr. Forsyth bowed
and turned away; and, in two minutes afterwards,
he ºbserved that she had stood up in that very qua-
drille, with Mr. Roderick Pinto, the Portuguese
Lothario, already mentioned, who, having witnessed
the lady's refusal of her countryman, hastened to
seize so fair an opportunity of trying the superiority
of his own attractions.
without hesitation, and was led to the dance by the
exulting native of the land. This was more than
Mr. Forsyth chose to bear: he could not remon-
strate with the lady, but he could check the elation
of the gentleman. He walked up to him, and
quietly requested him to give place, saying, ſ'.
loud enough to be heard by the lady, that Miss Les-
lie was his partner. Senhor Pinto appealed to her-
self, but she was much too astonished to assist
him; she stared haughtily and said nothing. Sen-
hor Pinto, who was well inclined to keep his
ground, then cast a scowling look at Mr. Forsyth;
but he saw something in the steady look which met
his that warned him to be prudent : he was not
without courage; on the contrary, he had rather
too much than too little ; but he felt it would be
folly to persist in the wrong about so trifling an
The damsel accepted him
422
THE BELLE.
affair; he shrugged up his shoulders, muttered
something about a supposed mistake, and gave
way. Mr. Forsyth and Miss Leslie danced
together! When the quadrille was finished, he led
her to a seat, and then placed himself by the side
of her mother, who had observed the whole thing,
and was much amused. She was a stately lady,
of somewhat cold manners; but she received him
with a gracious air, compressing her risible muscles
with difficulty, and making no allusion to what had
occurred. The daughter sat in mute and thought-
ful vexation. She had committed a capital error,
and her enemy had taken advantage of her false
position. He had made her ridiculous; and she
hated him more than ever; so at least she thought.
Senhor Pinto, too, whom she did not much admire
before, had rendered himself odious to her by the
facility with which he had resigned her. She was
roused from meditation by the approach of a gen-
tleman, singularly prepossessing in figure and
address. He was a Castilian, Don José Alvarez,
who had come to Oporto after the discomfiture of
Don Carlos, in whose suite he was said to have
arrived in Portugal, which was no recommendation
to the new authorities; but he was protected by the
friendship of Mr. Leslie, whose political bias was
known to be strongly in favor of “the Constitu-
tion,” but who had generosity enough to respect the
distress of a Carlist š. Miss Leslie resumed
her dancing at the request of Don José Alvarez,
and, for the rest of the day, she was more than
usually animated, appearing to be particularly
pleased by the attentions of her father's Spanish
friend. Senhor Pinto was also intimately acquainted
with the Spaniard, whom he now watched,
and occasionally rallied on the young lady's sup-
posed partiality; but there was a bitterness in his
raillery that betokened less gayety than chagrin ;
and the gloomy glances that he cast on Don Alvarez
and Mr. Forsyth showed that there was a hostile
feeling, to them both, rankling in his breast. Mr.
Forsyth did not perceive these dark looks, and Don
Alvarez was either too pleasantly occupied to observe
them, or too happy to trouble himself about them
if he did. The Spaniard was enamored of Miss
Leslie ; the Portuguese, a presumptuous egotist,
coveted her smiles as so many rays to be added to
the false lustre of his vain-glory. The Englishman,
a man of strong feelings stubbornly guarded,
admired her as a wily engineer does a comely,
hostile fortress which is likely to break his head,
and which he is resolved to humble, by mine
and battery, if he can ; or, as a boy admires his
aunt's tortoise-shell cat, that he delights to tease,
but not without first putting on his gloves.
Miss Leslie had many others admirers; indeed,
all the party-going men, of the place, native of
foreign, might be said to be admirers of her beauty,
though there were several who were anything but
flattered by her manners. . Among the most assid-
uous of those who seemed to have enlisted them-
selves under the banners of the proud Belle, was
a little active gentleman, whose name was Stubbs.
He was a reputable merchant; long established at
Oporto, but who combined with the readiest capac-
ity for mercantile affairs some tastes which are
supposed to be uncongenial with the labors of the
counting-house. He had been lately at New York,
where, at the age of forty-four, he had married a
Very, pretty young lady, whom, however, as he
found her rather froward, and as she had objected
to accompany him at once to Portugal, where his
business required his presence, he had left to pass
tivé
sº g :...as in her "...
her time among their mutual relations" º
state. Mr. Stubbs was an abstract P
who, having thus submitted to a pe...as oyº
tion from his bride before the honey”. :ll intº
absolutely forgot that he was married, dº st enuou”
his old-bachelor habits of general ” ment”.
flirtation. He was clever, paradoxic” ..., ñd
tive with men but not with ladies, *: †iviº
droll as a tumbler-pigeon, sensitive ut jeroº,
most well-natured, kind-hearted, *.* ry and
He was, consequently, in spite of his ". 000°
logic, a great favorite with almost . memº
Some few dry souls, envious of his acq us haſgº
perhaps, voted him a bore; and one sº. \\ ;
they brought against him, which he “” titions."
to refute, but confirmed by perpetual *: mer"
the offence alleged—he was a poet' adē thé
chants were startled when they firs' Iſl al enº.
discovery, for poetry and finance seem * nS s000
mies; but their good humor and good S
prevailed pretty generally in his fºº... ſo gº
rational on matters of business, and th. easily
his thirst for the waters of Helicon the º e C
as he was the poet of the ladies, wh9." º s
tained by his amatory effusions and . at hº
fickleness; for he not only forgot his . mad?
had already, since his return from Amº. Pº.
vows of unalterable devotion, which he,”"º,"
tonic, to almost every English lady, undº. int w83
his acquaintance. His simplicity on this P : hey
marvellous ; his innocent effrontery match 6
humored him, and praised his verses, and b fical'ſ
happy man. His small quaint person was Pºiſotº
attired, for he was a mortally bad dresse. sy
his white neckcloth in a very large, gluº
and powdered it plentifully with snuff. t undº
an old broad-brimmed Pennsylvanian h3 over his
which long lappets of straight hair flapſ: S hung
ears. His clothes, of ill-assorted º uloº
about him as if they had been made by **śwº
tailor, who scorned to take advantage." full:
and gave him liberal measure of cloth.
grown man. Mr. Stubbs was the º
gentleman whose attentions the admire M S
encouraged; except the handsome Spanº. . alwº
the only man in the place to whom she," º !.
gracious, never rude. With Don A); ... wi.
eyes were more eloquent than her tº. weſ'
Mr. Stubbs, both her eyes and her tº. to b0
eloquent, but the “looks and tones” sº wº.
at variance in their meaning : the .ºcvil º
honey-dev ; but “there was a laugh", 0ſ º
her eye,” which Mr. Stubbs delighted ...; º
mistook it for the reflection of his own inºr?
so in one sense it was; but he did not
for .
ſº
rigº hiº
the riddle. He was sure she was in lovº . i hº
but she had many rivals; he therefore." it pop
and he was magmāni peasſenough, toº, ". 1)00
Alvarez, to whom #. so little. * *
Alvarozº * the
Mr. Forsyth had one morning crossed in C*
that he might enjoy the fragrance of the ºl suſ);
after a heavy shower, succeeded by a P.; aſ:
He lounged among them for an hour'. art):
on his return towards his boat, he
who were established among the
of the Cabedello, where they were .
shaded from the now western sun by . .
The boatmen had brought planks.” k, to *
across two of the detached pieces of roe.
for a table and seats. The group W* !. ed .
and inviting; and Mr. Forsyth W*. d já nº
moment his approach was noticed, an
* ...,
pouſ"
oo::
huge gº.
dinº
about
theſ”
cryº
W.
mtéſ,
perceive ionº k
THE BELLE.
423
ºr
tº the invitation. His friends were there; but
Rex t; so was his enemy, May Leslie, and seated
ºlice . her was Roderick Pinto, the Lusian Love-
tº the toad at the ear of Eve. She seemed
ºn better humor with Pinto than on the former
jº; he talked much to her, and in a low tone,
obser * appeared to be keenly attentive to his
º.ºs. This might be gne of her caprices,
Mr . her mystifications. She did not bow to
‘tº Qiāyth. She had come to the resolution of
, this º him altogether. The wily Pinto observed
Civil ºth delight, and made a low rever fice, ** too
8xpr y half,” to the Englishman; while his dark
my ...ye eyes seemed to say, “You see I am in
#ht place now,” in allusion to “the notice to
Qus her, which Mr. Forsyth had so ceremoni-
*ckſ, given him at Oliveira. Mr. Forsyth, as he
Wººledged the salute, was for a moment struck
-- e singular expression of gratified malice on
8 countenance. He was not aware, or had
I...ºn, how sorely he had galled the Portuguese
i.e. Jest, gossip, feasting, flirting and laugh-
- §nt on amid the rest of the company; while
yº. assiduities to Miss Leslie were conducted
Shall ... it was bye-play; he was too cunning to
wº."ge the notice of those about him, before he
sº *re of his triumph; and though Miss Leslie
her "d to him attentively, there was something in
Wººner which did not altogether satisfy him.
º e bantered her on the disappointment she
Who *el on the absence of her friend Don Alvarez,
She º been expected, she pursed up her lips into
Whet, their disdains. He was puzzled; doubtful
Nº." it were meant as a rebuke to his imperti-
in."”, ºr as a disclaimer of partiality to the Castil-
§ When he ridiculed Mr. Forsyth, which he
has "ith a keen felicity of caricature that should
tyid jºke. her laughter, especially as º
ty."ly disliked the original, she cast down her
lin lººd looked serious, but without interrupting
0. A word.
wa." friends, the Portuguese of Oporto, by the
anj.” exceedingly clever in the art of quizzing,
that ºy fond, with all their politeness, of exercising
ite, ºnton or at the English; but few of them
th. ike Mr. Pinto, thoroughly ill-natured, and
*hool ºw are red-hot politicians of the French
- Sºng" the servum pecus of a Gallic breed,
ºnč *en to whom the horrors consequent on the
ºff. invasion are but as the dreams of their
lull . though their country has never been tran:
the i. Prosperous since. The Portuguese resisted
!hen º nobly; yet they could not have expelled
f. by the aid of the English: the obligation
ºn, or its motive misrepresented, and set
*: º selfishness; the Portuguese have
sil
sº Ca
º
ºrgºt
t
* O
º
:
|
heir liberty, such as:it is; their little long
tº *# and they
the English, and praise the French The
ºrin *rench republican principles were sown
the § the struggle, by the armies of Napoleon, and
hi.ch were so fºr conquerors after all. The
S. itterness. º
Cls."lor into, not assured of the effect of his sar-
siliº on Mr. Forsyth, changed the subject to 9ne
ºsi.” promising; but when he made Miss
her. beauty, and its power over himself, the
: “lº. his well-turned phrases—for he had been
rth is an independent monarchy;
ºshe . * Stonyhurst, and spoke English perfectly
* if: ºoked at him with proud self-complacency,
he'. * compliments were only her due. But
... O *.
wijºnally turned to glance at Mr. Forsyth,
* hoped he was mortifying; and he invariº
ably found, when his attention reverted to Miss
Leslie, that her large gray eyes were examining
his own skull with a curious expression of earnest-
ness and dismay, as if she were observing its shape
to find some mysterious bumps or organs of iniquity.
He did not like to be observed in that fashion. He
now altered his tactics, and instead of talking sar-
casm and gallantry, he spoke to her of England,
and of the happy days that he had passed there in his
boyhood, of the brave energy and candor of the
English character, and of the lofty standard of man-
ners and morals among the English ladies. Miss
Leslie, whose prepossessions in favor of her own
people, as a people, were strong, heard him with
pleasure, though she every now and then cast a
glance at his head, as if to discover whether some
bump there did not impeach the sincerity of his
tongue. At the moment when he began to assure
himself that he had enacted the amiable with suc-
cess, Don Alvarez appeared, and, after the usual
greetings, contrived to wedge himself just opposite
to Miss Leslie. Prom the instant of his arrival,
Senhor Pinto was eclipsed. The young lady
welcomed the Spaniard with a mantling blush and
a sweet smile, and the glosing speech and ominous
head of the Portuguese no longer drew her notice.
She spoke but little to Don Alvarez; perhaps
restrained by the presence, in his person, of a com-
manding interest; perhaps because she was as yet
far from fluent in the Portuguese, still less so in the
Spanish language, and Don Alvarez did not under-
stand English.
girl's reluctance to express herself in a foreign
tongue, for fear of “the dread laugh” of any of
the little world about her who might detect her
blunders. Besides, Monsieur D'Erlon, the French
consul, was there, and she might not like to trust
her French in the hearing of a Frenchman, though
he was a most frank and well-bred gentleman. So,
as is usual in such cases, the man and maiden dis-
coursed with their eyes, and May Leslie's were
radiant with intelligence, and the Spaniard's seemed
to reflect their intelligence and beauty. All this
was gall and wormwood to Pinto. Mr. Forsyth, as
he watched her for some minutes at a distance, felt
that even he might have been fascinated if she had
ever looked on him as she now looked on the envi-
able Castilian. She chanced to turn her face
towards Mr. Forsyth, and their eyes met. With
the instinctive quickness of woman where the effect
of her charms is concerned, she read him. rightly ;
she caught her enemy in the fact of admiring her
in spite of himself; she was softened for a moment,
and as she withdrew her eyes, she felt some little
compunction. Under the kindly impulse, Miss
Leslie was half-disposed to be amiable, and to make
him some atonement if possible, and looked again
that she might try to judge whether his offended
ride iikely to be placable: but Mr. Forsyth.
pride were likely to be placa he had escaped her &
enchantment. Strange inconsistency of a female
was no longer at the table;
tyrant in her teens ! She was more vexed by Mr.
Forsyth's disappearance at this instant, than pleased
by the presence of the Spaniard.
Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when all were
startled by screams from two or three children of
the party, who had been amusing themselves on the
rocks. Ellen Leslie, the sister of our heroine, had
perched herself on the smooth pinnacle of the
highest rock, and as she was balancing herself there
with the mock hardihood of a girl half-frightened,
she became giddy, and fell on the side where the
They might have conversed to- ... . .
gether in French, but she had all the recent school- * . .
*.
.*
§
** ,
424 THE BELLE.
stone was precipitous. . The accident might have
been serious to her, had not Mr. Forsyth, in steal-
ing away to his boat, which was close at hand,
observed her unsteady tenure of her high place, and
had he not, when she fell as he expected, caught
the child in his arms. She was not injured, but
Mr. Forsyth's right arm was severely wrenched.
Miss Leslie, in the anxiety about her sister, hardly
understood how she had escaped ; and, before her
confusion, and that of the rest of the party had
enabled the children to èxplain the matter, Mr.
Forsyth, accompanied by one or two gentlemen,
was half across the river on his way to the Foz.
All the company got into their boats and dispersed.
Miss Leslie was silent and pensive all the way
home : Mr. Forsyth had probably saved her sister
from some fatal hurt; he had done so just at the
time when her own better feelings were prompting
her to conduct herself less offensively towards him,
a stranger against whom she had adopted a ground-
less prejudice; how immediately had her returning
charity been rewarded ! But was it charity! and
had she deserved reward? Had she not rather
been softened by a feeling of indulged self-love,
when she perceived that her beauty had extorted
his homage in spite of his pride and her insolence?
Miss Leslie sighed as her conscience answered these
questions reproachfully. It was, perhaps, the first
time in her life that she had investigated her own
motives, and she was far from satisfied by the result
of her self-examination. But Mr. Forsyth was
gone : he had rendered an important service to her
family, and she had not even thanked him. What
an ungrateful, perverse creature must he think her!
And was she not so? She hardly dared to answer
herself. We are never in so fair a way of deserv-
ing and winning the respect of others, as when we
become severe censors of ourselves. Let us, there-
ſore, hope for Miss Leslie. But she is young,
lovely, high-spirited, and volatile. How shall such
vernal meditation ripen into fruit, when the first
gust of vanity may shake the blossom from the
tree ? t
The next day, the Leslies heard that Mr. For-
syth's shoulder had been dislocated by the shock
of their child's weight, though he had retired with-
out mentioning that he was hurt. The informant
was their friend and physician, Dr. J–, a gen-
tleman formerly an army surgeon, but for many
years past the favorite practitioner here; a most
modest, generous, unpretending man, highly skilful
and successful in his practice, the disinterested
friend of the poor, the healer of wounds in more
senses than one, and a bond of harmony to the so-
ciety of the place. This is a digression, but in
honor of a good man, who would have blushed at
praise, which it was the daily occupation of his
days and nights to merit. IIis life of beneficent
toil is closed. He is at rest in the English burial-
ground at Oporto, and his epitaph is graven deep-
est in the hearts of those who knew him best.
Under his able and gentle tendance, Mr. Forsyth
was likely to suffer as little as the case could per-
mit : but as Dr. J had not been called in for
several hours after the accident, the bone was not
restored to its socket without difficulty, and a good
deal of fever ensued. There were none whom this
report disquieted more than Miss Leslie, and she
testified her regret with a simple and dignified in-
genuousness. For once she was no coquette. If it
be true that despised love often turns to fury, it is
equally so that dislike, when once its injustice is
owned, not unfrequently resolves itself into the
€ reS5
opposite feeling. She could at first lº,
some emotion of impatience whenever * resent:
the cause of the disaster, came into her P hºrseſ
But the poor child was as much grieved º ce Mt.
and earnestly requested leave to go.”. resent,
Forsyth. This could not be grantº, ºg i.
but Ellen took every opportunity. of *. eveſ
quiries about her friend—“my frien
afterwards called him. Whenever any CS
flowers, especially the lovely Japan º sº ºted
brought from their city-garden, she alwºi May
the fairest, and sent them to Mr. Forsy”, ºfanº
Leslie forbade her to do so, on some su!". Mater
or fear, perhaps, that the gentleman º sug’
himself that they were sent by her, or at
estion. scº
g Mr. Forsyth recovered slowly, and the i: his
son was over before he was released
rooms. The Oporto families were, 9% d eavy
returning to the city; their furniture ... along
packages were to be seen on creaking .rū3 of
the road, while the water-girls, the agud cf
the Foz, who so lightly poised their #. to and
pitchers on their heads, as they used to . in slip "
fro with stately step, clattering their wº ſ mth;
pers while they bore the weight of walº.dies of
fountains, like the captive princesses aſſº. thé
the ante-Homeric age, or like the daugh". 1634;
patriarchs, were now carrying, on their hed ...and
of household lumber, with an erectness 9 º' pres'
facility of movement, worthy of admiratiº. port.
ently, there was not a single Oporto family y exha,
guese or English, in the place; and sº intº
later, not even a family from the win. aſteſ.
whose people, not coming to the sea-coºl at th:
the vintage, are among the latest lingereº 3. ané
Foz, and the neighboring villages 9 f ... Fº
Matozinhos. Almost all the human life. 9... see”
was departed. Not even a chestnut girl tº ... fit?
seated on a stone at a street corner, fami. and
in its clay vase, perforated with round ho W35 der
fixed on a wooden tripod, while her frº ...tº
lightfully cracking as it approached that P.sº
of roast which none but these out-of-door P
lar girls can give to the chestnut. blackº
The surly Brazilians, and their humble Gomè.
so numerous here till lately, were all go”he stº
too, was Mr. Forsyth's nearest neighbor, (S f the
dy Canon of Braga, who headed the nº.ſº
Minho against Don Pedro and his “Malhº and º
the islands.” for the glory of the Iº. uel; º;
altar, and of that angel on earth, Don Aſº ugº ol
gone was the Padré's portly brother, thº." poſt.
Conigo, with his old mountain cous". nd 2* º
Deodata, and her massy daughter, as r011 ... *
melon. •cek: ()
The delightful weather of the first...hº"
November, called the summer of St. Mºtº suſ’
anniversary is on the 11th of that month. S The
ceeded as usual by squally and heavy º roº
Bar, that had lately slumbered, awoke º high iſ]
* º * f-
of foaming rage, its white mane flutte‘...ºcr'.
W
air, while the south wind rushed down tºº. of
meet and battle with the steady, resolut” j
the tide. The rocks along the coast, *...*.
dark rocks, wore their pleasant wreath." m0 ent,
bles, that glittered in white contrast for " and theſ
and were shivered into gauze-like. Yap.'... to b6
fell and glided down the sands in rº" ºllow.
again rallied by the next reinforcement." crag.
and again to bubble and break agiº. e it, w;
The coast, as far as the eye could º. ºr "
fringed with spray, a broad fringe, and th9
fig6
. THE BELLE.
425
t ë D
Stran . was walled with foam. Sky and sea,
street, looked desolate. Mr. Forsyth
º much alone as he could ever have
'º be ; he heard few voices but those of
- º Wave ; and they, indeed, were over-bois-
the . He stood it welſ, however, for he revered
in jue music of the seas. His health daily
(i.” and his books were his never-failing
low. S uring the wet season, which was soon foſ-
in ... a climate such as we northerns know not
Wishe
'ln
*
t
fe."ºr. Then in dry weather, yet keen and
ºi. generally clearest when cold, he could
Ot # strength by scrambles among the rocks,
Sunil roll with dog and gun in search of snipe or
$ºming . degrees, sea, earth, and sky were re-
ºad; their cheerfulness and splendor ; not so
they J as quite to forget their brumal character—
lº. yet peevish or sullen sometimes. The
"f St. John's had managed to survive the
tity. *With fewer than half-a-dozen visits to the
in IO tº of them was on the occasion of the land-
to “ i. Lisbon of Don Pedro's heart, his bequest
ºut. faithful city.” No vulgar pageant was
is: *mn procession of its bearers and followers,
ºut. soldiers, seamen, and civilians, to the Lappa
Was ind its deposition in that building, which
$80 *rkened with black velvet, and other gor-
The h Śloomery, and lighted with blazing torches.
the ºt, in a silver vase, was laid at the foot of
§ºld' * altar on a table covered with cloth of
§ege * Soldier, one of the old Moustaches of the
ho. '*00d guard on each side. Nothing could be
of t ºpºsing than the spectacle of the installation
*çºin heart of the romantic emperor who fought
i", tyranny.
ºme Ir, Forsyth went seldom to the city, the city
§lle *ldomer to him. Only three or four persons
§§." him during the whole winter. He who
ğ. § Siberia, by choice, must not expect visits
§th. t. etersburgh. They sent him invitations
li. : §ºyeties; all were declined ; they took the
W. eft him to himself. tº º
j became then of the Leslies and all his
ºlk. n the mornings, the men walked and
than..." the Rua Nova dos Inglezes, their Ex-
Ot i. and worked away in their counting-houses,
ºr." their wine-lodges at Villa Nova, or their
h tº. customers, wherever their several lines
§ or ºss might call them: they lounged an idle
heir ºwo in the newspaper or billiard rooms.
Šiš.ºenings were passed in the amusements
Šiš §ºt of a constant interchange of dinner-
§. $ followed by their eternal cards, whist and
inn.ng the order of the night. The frequent
$ous §es at the Factory House were the sump:
Şı"ºinments. And the ladies, what did
*lies," the mornings, they passed their time as
§§ . y do in commercial towns, where men
º at their service from nine till four or
º . They, old and young, superintended
ºje affairs, worked at single-stitch and
he .. and embroidery, taught and scolded
ºft. fry, read a little and musicked a little,
.* Ologies, and excruciating Rossini; and
ū."rnoons, went out to gossip with their
} s: ºr tº visit their poor, or to take a walk
... i. the mºst tiresome gºt of reason.
0m º ladies, though fond of dancing,
, or to out, except for their souls health to
he bºy a visit to some very near neighbor;
*y's health, they rarely submit to the
!e nº... are not permitted to do so by custom.
cy.”tness
{. LIVING AGE.
US
WOL., XI. 27
of their small pretty feet may thus be.
preserved, but the beauty of their faces is too often
withered in youth. The English ladies, in the
same climate, preserve their beauty longer, though
they may somewhat enlarge their feet by freely
using them for the purpose for which feet were
given them, to walk with. Their evenings were
pretty often enlivened by dances at home, or among
their neighbors; for ecarté, whist, and boston were
not so inveterately the sedentary diseases of the
male of the land but that several young men, and a
few of the elders, might be collected for partners
at piano or fiddle call. Then there were balls at
the Portuguese club-room, the assembléa, and, now
and then, on a more ambitious scale, and admirably
arranged by the managers, a ball given by the
British Association at the Factory House to all the
principal Portuguese, and to most of the English
non-members who chose to accept the invitations;
for there were ins and outs at Oporto, two long con-
tending factions of yore ; but the rumors of their
wars have almost died away. So, in fine, tho win-
ter passed off, with the men and ladies at Oporto,
much in the same manner as winters pass else-
where among mercantile gentry; and for the Eng-
lish at Oporto it must be said, cum grano salis, and
notwithstanding some idle prejudices among them,
that their society was not to be surpassed for
social spirit and good fellowship by any other of
the kind.
But where was my heroine all this while? She
passed her day as most of those of her ago and sex
did, in “strenuous idleness” for the most part,
though Ellen's lessons gave her some worthy occu-
pation ; and wherever the gayety and grace of the
young were active in the evening dance, or passive
at the insipid tea-drink, there was May Leslie ;
and around or near her were Don Alvarez, the
handsome Spaniard, and Senhor Roderick Pinto,
the Lusian Lovelace, and Mr. Stubbs, her poot-
laureate, who called her his Young May-moon,
and Don Alvarez's May-thorn. Then there was
the lively Mr. Spence, who was much given to
punning ; and there was the smiling lady-killing
Mr. Fanshawe, whom she named “Attitude;” and
there was the grinning cynic Mr. Harbottle, whom
she never named at all; and many other young
men and youths, by whom she was more or less
admired. . . And Mr. Forsyth ! Did she never
speak of him? Often, for a month or two after his
accident; but never after he had recovered and still
preserved his solitude at the Foz. Absence, per-
haps, weakened the interest she felt about him
after his misadventure; perhaps she forgot that she
had ever felt the slightest concern, bad or good,
respecting him.
enhor Pinto, however, had not forgotten Mr.
Forsyth, nor the little misunderstanding between
them, about Miss Leslie's choice of a partner at
the Oliveira convent. That was the greatest affront
he had ever received in his life. Pinto was not a
man to forget or forgive an affront, howyer plausi.
bly he might conceal his resentment till he could
make it felt. But during the absence of Mr. For-
syth, no opportunity could occur, and his evil pas-
sions were diverted into another channel. A mutual
jealousy and detestation had, in the course of the
winter, sprung up between him and his quondam
friend, the Spaniard, and Miss Leslie was again the
cause. Both were assiduous in attentions to her;
and it had been latterly her inexplicable humor to
encourage them both, with such an even measure
of favor, that it was difficult to decide which of them
she preferred. The handsome Spaniard, therefore,
426 THE BELLE.
it would seem, had not gained ground during the . When first I placed it on my broW,
winter; had the subtle Portuguese then greatly The ladies, pretty dears, |
made up his lee-way? The latter would still occa- Admired its gloss, and said ashº"
, sionally detect Miss Leslie in examining his fea- Ishone above my (y)ears,
tures, or surveying his head, with a sort of serious weaſ,
curiosity that disconcerted him. On one occasion, Of late ’t was brown, and worsº for .
as he was leading her into a refreshment room after But so was I, its master: .
dancing, he stopped to speak to her mother, who Both it and I had lost our hair,
happened to be seated under a pier-glass. He soon And yet I loved my castor. ,
observed that Miss Leslie, without withdrawing her .
arm, had fallen back a little, and suspecting that she My brain and it each other knew,
was intent on her favorite consideration of his skull, % witnessed all my frolics;
he ascertained the fact by a sly quick glance at the But oh, 't was not a castor true.
mirror. He turned briskly round, and said to her, As Castor was to Pollux'
peewishly, “Miss Leslie, shall I send you a cast of
my head | You seem to think it a good phrenologi- Oh hat of mine, how could you gº
cal study.” You run-away deceiver!
She coolly replica, “I am much obliged to you, You must have been, to use me 5°
Senhor Pinto, for the offer: it is a present that The fur of female beaver.
would much gratify me, though I could not have had ſº
courage to beg such a favor.” My hat is gone; I weep to think
“A head for a heart then,” said the Portuguese, That I must wear a cap;
with a constrained air of gallantry. Alas! I cannot sleep a wink,
“You would make a bad bargain,” said the
young lady : “my heart would be no equivalent for
such a precious head. Excuse me, Senhor Pinto,
as you make conditions, I will generously decline
the cast.” *.
Pinto tried to look deprecating and tender, but
he only looked malignant in spite of his power of
face : there was something in her manner that wor-
ried him exceedingly.
“What is the matter, sir!” said Miss Leslie ;
“you seem disturbed.”
Because I’ve lost my nap. d
...t, goo".
These sublime verses were answered : §
humored irony by Miss Devon, a really dº"...cº.
and most amiable young lady, who h". ting his
shaken his allegiance to Miss º, by pain jmº
portrait in oil, as little as life, and much h".
than the original. b ſis;
The hat was, by chance, recovered º
Devon's brother, and sent to him with the *
s: * * is . lines : —
“Look at Don José Alvarez,” said Pinto, to give “I have b
a turn to the conversation. t º i i. 33
“What of him?” inquired Miss Leslie. The fur of female beaver.
wº ls ..". us: his eyes follow you every- These words are truly said, I º
TC, Sºil * sº ſº Caru,
*ife has very fine eyes,” answered the lady We questioned it of secrets n
** Verv.” observed Pi to. iv. º. and a . Of all the follies it had known:
fine . ... observed rinto, only; “ and a very It answered not a single wº.
{2 Il Gºtti. * * * º
“That is true,” rejoined Miss Leslie; “a very But its brown silence º kept,
model for a sculptor.” * §. º lſº . . it slept: believe”
$ 3. 5 y ſº uch truth and firmness, mls y
wº eat that fellow's heart,” muttered Pinto, Show it to be “ of female beaveſ.
“Indeed!” said Miss Leslie, gravely, and with tº. tº . . . º
a broad stare: “I did not know you were such an At !º with an "...iness lay,
epicure. I will sit down if you please,” and she Within,” it cried, “the ;
took a seat near her mother y º To turn your darkness into .re
t ſº g * * l º
Pinto retired to another part of the room, hating And . Its º: . : 5%
his friend the Spaniard more than ever; while the Wit º 1t, a d S º . ck to him”
Spaniard thought himself supplanted. But the º an sen . i.e.,
latter was of a ductile temper. A smile and a kind i. in . º: i. . cayer.”
word restored his º : he was again at her roves it to be ** Of leſſldie hºd
side ; while Pinto, Surly in a corner, chewed the * * … slie
cud of bitter fancy. y Mr. Stubbs was in ecstasics. Miss *:::::
On this night, which was dark and tempestuous, no chance against Miss Devon after rote”
WT
an important loss occurred to Mr. Stubbs, which week or two ºt least. . He sat down º, i.
enables me to introduce a specimen of his poetry in in assigned effusion of eight Tarº fickle w”
the pathetic department. The wind uncivilly flew To Miss, Sapphº, Devon. #."ham º:
away with his broad-brimmed hat, while hé was Stubbs' Happy Miss Devon ; º • 311 an.
going home; and as he chose, in spite of robbers ever, was not Sappho, but Mºjº. conſ.13
and rumors of robbers, to be unaccompanied by the many amatory stanzº that Mr. on t dout"
a Galician with a torch or lamp, he did not recover during her reign, were the following: ... ."
it. The next day he produced the following French signification of that word.
LAMENT. LA MARGUERITE- g . .
I had a hat, a peerless thing, Well art thou called La Marguerilº - . i.
The pride of beaver samples, A daisy or a pearl; is fit ºf
For, always true to church and king, In either sense the name 1 -
It guarded crown and temples. For so divine a girl.
THE BELLE.
427
Some prophet aptly gave that name
t the baptismal hour
9.her who sparkles like the gem,
hough modest as the flower.
Mi
sººn was, or pretended to be, in raptures
ºuch * compliment, and added some additional
OW
“wn º to Mr. Stubbs' portrait in oils, under his
§§ºintending eye. Mr. Stubbs, as has been
bijntimated, was a versatile genius, and among
his: ºmplishments he especially prided himself on
Witho * and judgment in the pictorial art—and not
*reason. The walls of his dining and draw-
Új were adorned with rare paintings, all
Which ted originals by unknown masters, and of
too he had detected the merit in the lumber-
gaſ." furniture-brokers, and in obscure omnium
*i.”stalls. But Mr. Stubbs was so frank and
tº that he could seldom conceal from the ven-
'. ºt. tapture at any discovery of a treasure; so
§. Was usually asked pretty high prices. But he
"...al, and délighted to rescue mérit from obscu-
ºt's sh * One occasion, he observed in a little bro-
Alcº. P, a mysterious-looking, time-worn perform-
l ºù. igh to a common eye would have seemed
$º else than a flagrant red patch on a black
ºf . To Mr. Stubbs, it seemed a very Turner
ºnes. “What is the subject of this pic-
: tº Of §. he to the shopkeeper. “It is an erup-
ºu..”unt Vesuvius,”, was the answer.--"To
Wit un. to be sure it is!” exclaimed Mr. Stubbs,
*ontrollable enthusiasm, “and a most mas-
-$
terly work it is, by Salvator Rosa—no, no, by
Schalchen. I see it, now ! What is the price!”
The honest man, though thus instructed of the
value of the article, asked only thirty moidores,
about thirty-four pounds. “No,” said Stubbs,
“I cannot afford so much ; will you take five-and-
twenty 1" “Well, sir, it is giving it away,”
replied the broker, after a little hesitation, “but you
shall have it.” *
The painting was bought and paid for, and sent
to a picture-cleaner, who was particularly enjoined
to bring it home to its new master on a certain day.
Mr. Stubbs invited several of his friends to dine
with him on that day, on purpose, as he told them,
to show them his prize. They arrived, but not the
picture. He was growing impatient for the won-
drous work of art which he was to exhibit; they
were growing impatient for their dinner. The
picture came at last; the covering was removgl,
and the painting turned out to be the portrait of a
boiled lobster. The guests were convulsed with
laughter. Mr. Stubbs was rather surprised.
“Well,” said he, “it is a very fine lobster, any
how. Let us go to dinner.” That painting was after-
wards put into a handsome gilt frame, and still adorns
the wall over the sideboard in Mr. Stubbs’ dining-
room; and opposite to it, over his dining-room mantel-
piece, is Miss Devon's portrait of his own good-
humored, comical countenance. Long may he live
to rejoice in them both !
[To be concluded.]
* THE WORLD A SEPULCHRE.
thens is the lone and still church-yard,
. W. Some sequestered glen,
ºre cotters sleep beneath the sward,
°mote from haunts of men;
There is the stone-paved burial-place,
e city's crowded bed
&aves, where rest full many a race;
A city of the dead!”
º are the wildernesses vast,
Hay ºre sand or snowy wreath
Tº o'er the weary pilgrim cast
he still repose of death.
! *re are the bowels of that land
Ing. *t opened at God’s word,
§ng I(orah and his band
"*en they defied the Lord.
T
"ºuteſ ºf deal,
W.ºwn with remains of War,
ë.millions yielded up their breath,
*shed by her “Iron Car.”
Tha...
º ls the fathomless blue sea,
- tº all its hidden things,
.9'er a goodly compan
3. * * Its . § y + p: y
* **nocking requiem sings.
* º strews its victims everywhere,
The º *Quntain, vale and wave;
+ "ºld 's a splendid sepulchre, ,
“Vast revolving grave
hº Tait.
* .
- - &
THE FIELD OF MORAT.
The morning sun was shining o'er
The small but patriot band,
Whose banners gleamed right merrily
On Morat's bloodless strand;
When thunder-like there rose a shout,
Loud-bursting to the sky,_
“For freedom and our mountain-homes
We'll conquer, or we’ll die!”
As fiercely sweeps the wild siroc
O'er Syria's burning plain,
So charge the Swiss in serried files,
Retiring, charge again!
In vain, Duke Charles, thy war-spears clash,
Thy banners ſlaunt the sky;
Yon patriot band no power can crush—
They fight for liberty
The morn had seen a stranger host
In numberless array;
The evening sun was sinking low,
And all had passed away. -
The numerous, but now grass-clad piles,
To distant times shall tell, , ,
How once, on Morat's fated plain,
The stranger tyrants fell.
Time, the resistless enemy,
The parent of decay,
Tºº of other fields
May haply blot away;.
But, #. º thy glorious fight
Shall unforgotten be;- .
* The watch-word of the patriot,
The glory of the free!
Tait.
428
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
From the Quarterly Review.
Socratis Scholastiri Ecclesiastica. Historia Libri
Septem et recensione Henrici Walesii. Oxonii.
1845. sº :
WE are indebted to the University press of Ox-
ford for the reprint of this important contribution to
ccclesiastical history. Socrates is justly entitled to
a high estimation. Pursuing the narrative from
the period with which Eusebius had closed, he es-
pecially applies himself to the varied fortunes of
the Church of Constantinople. In that city he had
been born and educated, and subsequently followed
the legal profession, and was thus peculiarly quali-
ſied to record the events of which the capital had
been the scene. It is not, - however, our pur-
pose to touch, in this article, on his ecclesiastical
details, but to avail ourselves of detached facts
which he presents in illustration of the domestic
condition of the seat of the eastern empire. We
do not wish to encroach on the province of the his-
torian, whether secular or religious, but to present
our readers with some sketches of the private life
of Constantinople, such as it was in the first
century of their capital and the fourth of the
Christian era. That city abounds in matter of the
deepest interest to all who speculate in the history
of man ; but few are aware of that domestic train-
ing and character of her citizens which hastened the
ruin of the Eastern Church and Empire. Many cir-
cumstances on which we most desire information
must be deduced rather from hints and allusions
than from distinct statements, and we often have to
pick from the venerable rebtkes of the ancient
pulpit orator and scriptural commentator, or from
petty prohibitions in the imperial code, what we
cannot collect from historians, who are either too
concise like Socrates, or too verbose and unphilo-
sophical, like Eusebius.
The foundation of Byzantium is assigned to the
third year of the 30th Olympiad, 657 B. c. Me-
gara and Argos had the good fortune to share in
the work, and long received all filial reverence
from their illustrious colony. It subsequently fell
into the hands of Darius, the Ionians, and Xerxes,
and reclaimed its dubious freedom or dependence
by the siege sustained from Pausanias and the
Lacedæmonians. But perhaps he rendered a more
important service, by the increased population
which he drew within its walls, and which entitled
him to the designation of its second founder. In
the rapid transfer of the supremacy from the Spar-
tans to the Athenians, and from the Athenians to
the Spartans, Byzantium apparently followed the
tide of conquest, but really availed itself of the op-
portunity to vindicate its liberty. Those surpassing
advantages of position which have attracted the
cupidity of modern rulers could not escape the
acute eye of Philip of Macedon. But Demosthenes
was on the watch; and the liberation of the citizens
from the siege which Philip waged against them
was one of the proudest feats of which the great
orator could boºst." In due time the Byzantines
yielded to the Roman yoke, and in return for their
aid in the Mithridatic war, obtained the free usage
of their ancient laws. Their gratitude and splendor
drew forth the admiration of Cicero. “Urbem
Byzantiorum huic imperio fidelissimam fuisse,
refertissimam atque ornatissimam signis, quis ig.
norat ("f
* Demost. De Corona, xxvii.
f De Provinciis Consularibus, iii. iv.
forcibly rebukes a kinsman who dº?”
* º º till
The ſame of the city continued unimp.
the reign of Severus, (A. p. 103,) when #".
nately sided with his rival Pescenninus N'9
result was the overthrow of the building” €
vation of civic rights, and subjection for... the
the neighboring town of Perinthus. At . 3.
wrath of the conqueror yielded to compass''", its
wiser policy, and he commenced the repº bºk
ruins, in the hope that it might still servº . thé
wark against the barbarians of Asia i, º, Gal:
wrong of which he had repented did not * †g
lienus and his soldiers (A. D. 260) from . sum."
even more cruel injuries; and these were C siegº
mated by the loss of 6000 citizens in º (A: ".
which it endured from Constantine hims”
323) when pursuing Licinius. Here was
of trouble and subjection. In the very .
the city was preferred to be the future cap.”g
rapidly prepared for this high destinº. S
whatever were the natural advantages 0 to it.
and however skilfully Constantine labor. overſ.
prove and embellish his selected centre of g oral;
ment, there was an inherent degradation.
in the inhabitants which threatened to ..º.
º with their increase. Their bras: : they -
cen proved in a long succession of wars, 3.1 de-
had been always notorious for sensual vice ...been
bauchery: the authority of the legislature º thé .
impaired by this degeneracy of manners, d aid -
pleasure of the citizens served as their nº. 1
law. We are sorry not to have it in our Pºus!
dwell on these facts more minutely:-".
hasten to our proposed sketches, and
readers to form some judgment how far tº furth
tines had improved, when at the end of. º doſſ'
century they occupied the capital of Chris". d
In the present state of society, femal".
character are sure indications of the
condition of a people ; and this holds #.
respect to the Constantinopolitans. The ºlcº
essentially Greek, and exhibited Greciºn . reciº
to a very preponderating degree;—yet thº ºngº
tion of females which prevailed in the his!'.g.
of Greece was not transmitted to this great ºpeº
ant of the Grecian race; in fact, not being Pºong
an European principle, it never took ...ity ;
the Romans; it could not coéxist with Cº. Romº
and the influences of Christianity an "f Gré.
were amalgamated in this new compound e ſoul. -
cian civilization. Accordingly women º tim?:
a conspicuous place in the literature 0 º c 13.
Our readers shall judge how far the pººl. out
satisfactory; but we must premise that Y. -
chief informant, St. Chrysostom, cannot º cs:
false, much of humble excellence might ... follº.
caped an eye that was ever scrutinizing ther”
of the great; while his own pages show jiaº
were individuals within his personal . i
who deserved even his highest commen”.ribº .
The personal charms of the ladies dº.'" indee".
far more copiously than their mental gifts; i.
º º *GI 1
the latter seem to have been in generºl .
the care bestowed on their outwar Ari
Our readers will recollect how decidedly
tells us that size (ušys 90%) is one of the . le. Li'.
woman; but this was not less a virtue º
Jazian f
* * aZ -
of which we are treating; and Gregºry . a hº
This
wife only because she was too small.
portant particular being assumed, ”
* Rhetoric, lib. i. 5.
* 690.
t Greg. Nazianzen, epist. 155, cdit. Morel, 1

CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
429
clai
ºf | : Wºre requisite for admission among the belles
injºropolis. The eyes must be full, dark,
ºft. ºld rolling—the nose straight and exquisite.
§. will nostrils perfectly proportioned;
“S re of beautiful arrangement.* Thus much
Pa; jºd from nature; art too was called upon.
(ºn. g the face and dying the eyes with stibium
then jºggiºr) were appliances that few wo-
ind."ºld resist. It required the utmost tact to
"º SO .. wife to relinquish them. . Should she
her. ldicted, says Chrysostom, f “do not terrify
ºl. not threaten her; be persuasive and in-
Wh."; Talk at her by reflecting on heighbors
When ºne: tell her she appears less lovely
ºl." stampered with. Ask her if she wishes
Way i. |."g. and assure her this is the quickest
her º 90k old. Then finally come down upon
**pea "h the warnings of Scripture. You may
level. .. and again, and she is invincible; but
les...st be always amiable and bland, but still
hiº.º. It is worth putting every engine into
*aine º if you succeed you will no more see lips
*ěkin With vermilion, a mouth like that of a bear
* j With gore, nor eyebrows blackened as from
º kettle, nor cheeks plastored like whited
º..”. Such is the saint's exhortation. It
ºles "hat the dames of the eastern empire could
§ make their independence recognized, and
hi." striking contrast to the degraded state of
ºr.ºssors in modern times. It is curious too
her *how, under every change of circumstance,
lºsion of painting the eyes has prevailed in
§ººls: and, indeed, with habits in many
j So dissimilar, their delicacy and pampered
$fth "ity would have rendered them fit inhabitants
ly...areem. Their early training was deplora-
jective. Tiii the period of a very premature
* We *ge, they lived in the deepest seclusion, and
"Wºrcely discern a vestige of mental education.
*xi *nce comes it,” says Chrysostom.f “ that the
lºgi * effeminate, but from their method of rear-
lºss . the result of their seclusion, their idle-
hi. "eir baths, their unguents, the infinity of
Wºrfumes, and their downy couches.” A
‘en Was set upon their chambers; the approach
'º ºlations was almost forbidden. It is to be
º ºf in childhood they rarely attended the
º. of the church; by boys' we know it was
Wail ºy neglected. But no precautions could
hº prevent the bride from catching distant
ºn...t, her intended partner ;—occasionally,
§. Omo lofty window, she peered after the un-
Was". ºster of her happiness. This, however,
. . tº: icity of which he seldom partook; the
. º P was conducted on his behalf; he was too
lººtent upon the hippodrome to give himself to
§ei.iness-like transactions. The affair was in
hº ... of his father and mother—and innumera-
c makers"—ngouvſaroval aoxial zai vuu-
*
+ r.. "
Chr. º
* § . *ºst. 1 Epist, ad Timotheum, cap. ix. homil. 4.
§. whether the homilies on the Epistles to
jou...Yere delivered at Antioch or Constantinople.
• , §l thºse the question is immaterial, as the gen-
# Or º: of his discourses is similar at both places.
it." Condition of these great cities was almost
i. there is, perhaps, no matter of censure
A the one which is not also alleged against
en ciº quotations are all from the Paris reprint
; Shº...ºneºdition, 1834–40. •.
§§ e * in Matthaeum, homil. xxx. tom. vii. 401.
iš.hoºl. xxix. tom. xii. 392.
ºn.iii. 335.
ld." Psalmum ziviii., tom. v. 620.
. • *Om. iii. 381.
payoyol trozzol. The contract was properly made
in the presence of ten" witnesses; and by a singu-
lar provision, if a wifef brought a large dowry, the
husband was expected to meet it with a certain
amount, which, in the event of her early death,
might be claimed by her relations—a plausible
method of preventing, mercenary, marriages, as
many would fear to make shipwreck of their all on
so uncertain a contingency.
The religious ceremony was performed a day
before the civil contract. A bishop or priest joined
the hands of the parties and pronounced a blessing;
but at home,t not in the presence of the church.
Unquestionably the proceedings of the following
day could not have harmonized with any ecclesi-
astical rite. Our readers need only call to mind
the nuptial festivities of pagan Greece, and they
have a picture of those of Christian Constantinople.
The seclusion of the bride for her whole previous
life was frustrated in an hour. She came forth
from her father's door in all the disfigurements of
paint; and she who had scarcely known that a
world existed, was first received into it by hosts of
drunken and lascivious men—refuse slaves, vaga-
bonds, prostitutes. The procession to the house of
the bridegroom, always late in the evening, was
attended by innumerable lamps and torches, and the
bride was paraded through the agora to the sound
of flutes and cymbals. Singers and dancers from
the theatre were hired for the occasion. Every
license was given to the drunken revellers around,
and her cars were accosted by songs of the foulest
indecency and scurrility.) The marriage of a
wealthy couple aſſorded something like a saturnalia
to the reprobate idlers of the town. The “happy
couple” were “at home” for a week after the cer-
emony. At this interesting epoch, paint was not
the only adventitious ornament in which the young
lady appeared ; she was arrayed in finery ransacked
from all her friends. One furnished a dress, another
a jewel, and a third some costly article of furniture.
But at last the week expired, restitution must be
made, and her youthful heart was to prove whether
it could sustain the shock of such a separation.
“The bride will not take it to heart bitterly,” says
Chrysostom, “if she be kindly treated;”|| which
looks as if honeymoons had sometimes been speedily
overclouded. But in truth what she had gained
was more than sufficient to compensate for the bor:
rowed splendor which she lost. She had passed
from the imprisoned seclusion of her youth to a free-
dom out of doors, and an authority at home, such
as modern high life could scarcely exceed.
er most becoming position was when she
appeared in all the dignity of the housewife, (ºri
row 90% wow,) with her maids in silence spinning at
her side; but this is an exhibition of rare occur-
rence; far more frequently she is in tumult indoors
or fashionable dissipation abroad. In one of her
troubles she shared abundantly with modern In 1S-
tresses; her servants were an everlasting grievance;
and in the fourth century, the troºps of them re-
tained by the wealthy inhabitants of Constantinople
seem to us almost incredible. It was natural that
an inexperienced bride should be charmed by the
multitude of her maidens, but she little knew what
it entailed. As they were property, their bodily
* Codex Theod., lib. iii. tit. vii. thm. i. 280.
t Chrysost., tom. iii.261, quales dueenda uxores.
tCodex Theod., lib. iii, tit. vii. Gothofred's note.
§ Chrysost., iv. 626.
| Ibid. xi. 176.
430
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
ailments were matter of ceaseless solicitude; but
this would have been tolerable, and even things
worse than this—the daily vexation in watching
9ver the idle, controlling the mischievous, appeas-
ing the quarrelsome, and correcting countless mis-
demeanors." Something still graver remains, and
in such a swarm it was sure to occur; at least one
would be beautiful. The husband might be truly
faithful, but who could brook such a collision: here
was the embarrassment of wealth ; she must have
multitudes of attendants, and it redounded to her
fame that they should be handsome. In such a
case it is not difficult to forcsec the lengths to
which unrestrained power and petulance might
|. her. Hear Chrysostom commenting on
Sphesians,t chap. iv. v. 31, “Let all clamor be
put away.” “Above all things,” says he, “let
women hear this, for it treats of their habitual
practice. When they are exasperated with their
damsels, the whole house reëchoes to the cry, and
should the house adjoin the street, every passenger
overhears the screaming mistress and the shrieking
maid: ‘What can be the matter!’ bursts from
every mouth. “It is Mrs. So and So, beating her
maid.’ ( II Jaiva, pºol, ti v čovány rvºirst tºw
ëvrºs.) . What,” continues the preacher, “may
she not beat her 4 I say not that, for she ought;
but not continually, nor immoderately, nor for
household trifles, nor for negligent service merely.
But if she injures her own soul, then all men will
approve and none condemn the beating.—Yes, if
she will not improve, correct her with a rod and
blows. And what am I to do if she paints!—For-
bid it. What if she is given to drinking, talking,
and scandal!—Why, how many ladies are the
same ! But many a mistress is so savage as to
Scourge till one whole day cannot efface the stripes;
and when the unhappy woman next appears in the
bath, all this cruelty is disclosed. ow she is
threatened with the dungeon; now assailed with ten
thousand oaths and maledictions (uveta Roudogmaa-
wºrn ;) first she is a witch, and then a street-
walker, and next a ; for in her foaming pas-
sion a mistress withholds no word of insult. She
strips her and binds her to the bed-post, summons
her children to the spectacle, and bids her dotard
spouse act the part of executioner. Ought these
things to happen in the houses of Christians?
Why,” he concludes, “why are you all (nàoat)
blushing; or rather not all, but such as feel it
applicable to themselves?” We fear that this pic-
ture is not much oyer-colored; the law had inter-
posed to control the unlimited power of life and
death, which masters could formerly exercise, but
it had done nothing to repress such scenes as these.
Constantine had published two edicts on the treat-
ment of slaves; the first specifies the instrument of
punishment which may be used with impunity by
the master, even though to death—namely, rods
and thongs; the second provides more explicitly
for this event, and declares that the death of the
slave is not to be attributed to unjustifiable usage
when inflicted by these means, because the master
must be supposed to intend his reformation.f
These troops of females might be convenient at
home, but abroad fashion required a retinue of
9tinuchs. The number of these unhappy creatures
is inconceivable. Their character shall be given in
*Qhrysost. De Virginitate, tom. i. 395.
f In Epist. ad Ephes., cap. iv. homil. xv. tom. xi.
129. \
tCodex Theod, lib. ix. tit. iii.
*
;shomoſ.”
the words of St. Basil: “Lunuchs are * .
able and abandoned race, neither men "".
yet devoted to women; envious, mean: Pier }
gluttonous, avaricious, cruel, inconstant, º-yº
grasping, insatiable, furious, and *. men.”
they were as indispensable as the tal . g0 y
Grosvenor-square. “In liveries decked." ańce º'
says Chrysostom, “they must be in atten”, the
the mules of their mistress;” and 90°. erhap:
mules he sketches some scenes which h" §§
been paralleled elsewhere, even in mºl. dº
Christianity. “The husband has despa h
mules elsewhere—forthwith ensues peº"
a quarrel, a sullen fit; or perhaps she "º
forgot the engagements of the morning.”
lessly let them go—not the less all tº
she is devoured with vexation. And º: 16
same mules may turn lame, and both of hat J
and they must be sent out to grass, ºft.noug
after year, and for weeks at a time.” She invº
it an interminable age while she sat
though she were in prison, (jºiniºn".) ...in 4.
over the infinity of shopping for her º.º.
herself, which awaited her liberation ſº. h;
tions grayzatas.) She could not go out, better {0
the preacher rejoins, “it would have bºº. wh
have walked than to have sulked at hom not like
were feet given us?” d : " ſhºt
eS$
But no—“she di € $
to be jostled by the host of her acquaint". º th9
might excite a blush;” and he abruptly º bette‘.
debate by retorting that there might.º. ºppſ
reasons for her blushing at home. i *:Iſidº
was she who yoked white mules to be...Tº
even the empress could not be more fortuº.d col.
harnessf must be all in keeping with 38. lting iſ!
lar and trappings of silver tissue: º chº
such an equipage, she enjoyed no ride,”,S 1ſº
that which conveyed her to the jewell” the dif
gems incessantly required to be reset; º estrº
fidence that forbade her walking through tº ring 0ſ
happily subsided on entering his shop.S. ds, 5°
brooch might be stolen, if left in his haſ ºss
would sit and chat with him till the prº. in th”
* * l
finished. His shop was the most sumºkº
city—he was at once the goldsmith and **
as in the London of our own old jºists: indis.
4- º € • -, *
Balls, marriages, and processions cº, ctics'
putable possession of jewels, curls, and C0°. cm
~ .
W23
indé;
S
but nowhere was vanity so salient as whº, º, th9,
pire was most resisted. Happen what "...fhº
Thracian belle would parade all the resolº thu.
toilette to church. Chrysostom ºne allº.
through both her ears, but how could.” ſº º
while they were weighed down by peng" me tip.
to her neck! ~ yes”—he exclaims, “inº", iglº .
i º º at l'ºis. .
her little ear iſ she will suspend a ring tº Ghis
have paid for the food of ten thousand poº. ...hile
tians !” º
her robe stood stiff with golden embrº. ſold
waist” was nimium lubricus aspici, an t
her mantle seemed set by the sylphs for gotſ; * :
(7tsotégyów aroſłożny rov qigovg, rov yiruri" it the ill-
Tregisgyor&gay, vitodºuata &tºricºra.) eu tº ,
* Basilii Epist. cxv. tom. iii. 298, edit.
secunda, Paris, 1839. 27
t Chrysost. in Psalmum xlviii. tom. v. 9. vi
t Chrysost. in Joannem, homil. xii. 10"
tº: # ium- 20
n Psalmum xlviii. tom. v. 620. :..s's not” .ii.
Il Sozomen, lib. vii, cap. iv., with Valesiº. ºn. yi.
# Chrysost. in Matthaeum, homil. lxxx" xi.
.1 ſº tom.
945. - - # iii.
* In Epist. ad Timoth., cap. ii. homil. Wil
661.
at
ii. 77 ; :
º S -
She set forth, studded with gº." # .
16 2
coºl". #
*
* - º i. #. -
edić * ,
Ben A. r
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY. 431
º thei hus
|
tucke
(; º
lia WS.
º; t
bef er
*re the church.Ş
p *T * †
&l hese Jagösrot were, no doubt, the virgins called
tººl
i ..lusive reply, “and my heart swells while
"ire;” and so at last the matrons were too
sº. . Chrysostom. This was sufficiently vex-
Šins of:
Wirgins
hai
Irº c
preacher declaim as he list, “I like it,” is
ut what if the like folly infected the Vir-
he Church, the II,09trol.' And were the
ever seen with golden ornaments or braided
‘No,” says the saint, “but they have be-
CO º * : tº: 4 tº * ſº
. °unning in their simplicity; and this is worse
not Xorse.” It appears certain that they were
* forerunners of the Seurs de la Charité:
ºil() †. tº ſº.
. jº it has been sometimes maliciously supposed
tº...he mischievous spirits of this world dart
h *ation from the primness of a quakeress' bon-
and
rS
glen.
fledge an arrow from the quiet folds of her
who, in these days, has impeached the
. of heart in the poor Saºur, or doubted
. ed
W
ness to the world's beguilements? But it
lot so of old; the virgins had a garb ; and
jº)
d
lºe
G
§§si *
it i duity y
t |ryso 4
ºrii. stom roundly charges them with many a
(>
x 1
design in assuming it. “Their gown
is of the deepest grey (a podoo xvoróg :)
very short-waisted, and the girdle just be-
breast performs its office with the closest
(iro24); azgiffstag.) Who can deny that
T."ºre seductive than all the gayety of silks!
i. there are the shoes, refulgent with blacking,
S
has tart.
ºf ...) nicely acuminated to a point, the copy
et.ºortal foot, but of the beau idéal of the paint-
Who can withdraw from that face which
I) * º * º
Map ºver known paint, but glistens with perpetual
33;
ºroviſit ng usrú nożāj; r. c ax013 stag zai tº:
A veil whiter than the face hangs par-
§ lefore it, and this again is contrasted with
.*ck robe, in which she appears abroad, its
W. Jºst covering the summit of her head. But
b.hall decide the object of that veil, for from
at
Šm d In
Shini
it her eyes are seen to wander in ten thou-
... ovements! Then the gloves cling, so
i.hly to the hands, that they look like another
*ment of nature; and last of all,” says the
tº preacher, “are countless artful graces of
lage
ty...;
and deportment, such as entrance, every
§. though a dame all golden be riding by
lt W
adorned, the fair of Constantinople pressed
ion. "ay through the narrow streets to the fash-
* . able r
preacher—or the fashionable doctrine.
hi'i arrival, however, was not effected till they
and en beset by many a victim of squalid want
tº ease. The portico of the church, by an-
€ t ſº
- § of every variety of misery; nor had these
stom and prescription, was thronged by
6 * * * * * . . " ... *
ºf".ºrs flocked to the imperial city in ignorance
t
;
ºffé;
. ºrtifices. Hideous as was their appear-
º' ley could be courtly beggars. They im-
Ot he disdainful lady by the eyes of her son
ter, or absent husband, or still more unde-
y her own loveliness. “Then the heart
he color glows, and the hand makes its
Sup ...to charity.” # Whether or no their
Pigations moved her, at any rate she withdrew
§ip g ºf which was embroidered with gold, to
lelicate fingers in the fountain that played
“Siacº: * * ſº
§sci.lical by Sozomen, viii. 23. "Their names were
eit
Ot i
Qok
ather's h
Şases of
am § !º the roll of the church, but according to Bing-
Wii. chap. iv. sect. 1) they lived privately in
necessity, from the church.
& t h
$ii.ºsta tom. iii.33. "Habenies eundem Spiritum.
de
§ i.
4
: Psalmum, xlviii. tom. v. 616. ...
* Joannem, homil. lxxiv. tom. viii. 496.
ouse, and had their maintenance from him, 39
But for all this intrusion of vanity the church
was not responsible. Every decorous arrangement
was enforced, and truths were told, and rebukes
administered, such as no modern audience could
endure. Females were placed apart, generally on
an elevation or gallery above the men, in the in-
tention of preserving a more entire separation; but
it was applied to the purposes of a more prominent
display. In fact, the behavior of both sexes in
divine worship was most disgraceful. Our services
among the most illiterate of our people contrast in-
finitely to their advantage with the court churches
of the ancient metropolis. It is the just and frequent
subject of invective at Antioch and Constantinople.
“The order of a household shames the disorder of
the church.” “Here are the tumult and confu-
sion of an inn, the laughter and hubbub of the bath
and the agora.” NThe dress of many women ex-
posed them to the worst suspicions, and Chrysos-
tom declares his belief that no place was more
available for assignations.” Matters of trade
were canvassed more freely than in the market.
“Yes; if you would abuse and be abused, talk of
your families, your country, or your armies; go
not to the courts or the doctors’ shops, (taroźtor.)
Here you will obtain the truest intelligence; this
is the exchange of all nations.” When the dis-
course was uninteresting, and, at any rate, during
the prayers, the congregation sat and chatted; and
sharp and witty repartees (aarstoy ri) were circu-
lated with success. Above all, we are told, this
was the behavior of the women. “Here,” says
Chrysostom, “they show neither awe nor reserve :
here they laugh always.” +
It seems, then, that attendance at church was
very much regarded as a matter of fashion : and
with such degraded notions of worship it was nat-
ural that the preacher should be the all-important
object of regard. If Chrysostom was to preach,
there was sure to be a throng—always provided
that there was no conflicting exhibition at the hip-
podrome—but if the audience assembled to hear
him and he did not preach—if he had what is tech-
nically called “a supply,” the whole church was
convulsed. It was a compliment commonly paid
to strange clergymen to request them to take part
in the service where they happened to be sojourn-
ing. In compliance with this courteous custom,
Chrysostom called one day on “our brother from
Galatia,” a bishop, a man of graceful and hoary
antiquity, (zaungar froztár.) Instantly the audi-
en CG discharged upon him a volley of, screams.
They were famished for Chrysostom, “for the
tongue that cut, and lashed, and stung, and tor:
tured them, like a child that has been whipped; and
yet runs after his mother, and will not keep aloof,
but weeping and whining still trails at her side.”
On such occasions a tumult might ensue from
withstanding the popular voice, and, no Wonder
that “the brother from Galatia” was forced to de-
Scend.
The excitable and giddy Greeks were as eager
to express their admiration when the “great
preacher” moved them. He came, as he says,
oftentimes with a rod, but it was the rod of an en-
chanter, and bursts of acclamation impeded his dis-
course. Very simply and affectingly he describes
* Idem in Epist. 1 ad Corinth., homil. xxxvi. tom. x.
8.
t Chrysost. in Epist. ad Hebræos, chap. ix. homil.
xv. tom. xii. 223. ... . .
t Chrysost. homil...in illud, Pater meus usque modo
operatur, etc., tom. xii. 528.
432 CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
the effect of such applause. For the moment he
felt as other men would feel, (gr.90%tivºw tº nãozo.)
He exulted, and his spirits were buoyant within
him ; but when he reached the episcopal residence
he reflected that the benefit of the discourse had
evaporated in plaudits, and disappointment and
lamentation were his solitary reward." Gentile
and heretic indifferently hastened to hear him of
the golden mouth. Whether led by curiosity or
the desire of instruction, he captivated all, and van-
quished the reason when unable to subdue the
heart. The excessive throng compelled him to de-
viate from the usual practice of preaching from the
steps of the altar. He was to be seen, worn, at-
tenuated, and sallow, f sitting in the reader’s desk,
nearly in the centre of the church, while the peo-
ple with open mouth caught up his words, insatia-
bly longing for more, and pressed and crushed each
other to imbibe more closely the spell of his elo-
quence.
The concourse being often such as we have
described, it is not surprising that many withdrew
lightened of their jewels. There was a certain
classi of women who made it their business to
purloin such articles from the church and the bath.
The immense crowd rendered the recovery of
property hopeless, and awful was the sequel of
church-going. Slave-girls were scourged, and
waiting-men confounded, and police and prisons in
incessant requisition.)
The naming of the child was often an occasion
of the most absurd superstition. The pious cus-
tom of antiquity, which had designed him for
future piety by imposing the name of some saint or
martyr, was nearly obsolete. It was ..".
to have a number of lamps lighted, and labelle
with names acceptable to the parental ear. The
infant was named after the lamp which longest
protracted its light, this being deemed an omen of
longevity. Then it was furnished with a multitude
of charms and fascinations. Amulets and bells, and
crimson threads were put into its hand, whereas
Chrysostom would admit the symbol of the cross as
the only defence. The power of the evil eye and
the appliances of witchcraft were anxiously coun-
teracted. Nurses and maids took the mud out of
the bath, and with their fingers besmeared it over
the forehead of the child. This was deemed of
potent efficacy. . Another mode equally favored
(usy&nc pužaznº) was the use of texts from the
gospels, suspended, like the Roman bulla from the
neck." But with all this precaution against vision-
ary dangers, those which were real and momentous
were disregarded. Children were surrounded by
troops of servants of the vilest character; and so
familiarized to songs which Chrysostom, anticipat-
ing Southey, terms Satanic. Parents were too
ignorant of Scripture to be capable of imparting it
to their children. Many of them did not know of
the existence of such a book as the Acts of the
Apostles.**. The father deemed his duty fulfilled
when he had provided his sºn with a padagogus,
who was intrusted with the charge of him at home,
* Chrysost. in Acta Apostolorum, homil. xxx. tom.
lx. 263.
† Sozomen, lib. viii. cap. v. º
# Chrysost., De Virginitate, tom. i. 391.
5 Chrysost. in Matthaeum, homil. lxxxix. tom. vii.
945, 946.
| Chrysost. in Epist. 1 ad Corinth., homil. xii. tom.
x. 125.
T Chrysost. in populum Antiochenum, homil. xix.
tom. ii. 232. . .
* Chrysost. in Acta Apostolorum, tom. ix. p. 1.
º (1
and attended him to the school; but this º
was too often engaged without any consider 3
of the important trust committed to hiº; a`ā.
frequented the public spectacles, but their “...c.
ance at church was never enforced; when sity.
curred it was accidental, or dictated by curiº,
They were gaily dressed, and early ind" º
that master vanity of shoes, of which we sº.
more when we come to their manhood.
times they appeared in snowy robes, and
abundance of golden ornaments and º.on,
School-life, i. e. at a day-school, began we'. iſ:
even before the fifth year. As soon as *.
and reading were achieved, the instructiºn. ſt 0
to have been chiefly derived from the recitat.'".
passages of approved authors, with a sº.
gard to a proper enunciation and deck"." ii.
Boys commonly attended these days."...in
towards their fifteenth year,” and here, in
to their grammar learning, they received the etić.
ments of geometry, with writing and ariſh. i.
From that age, something of a profession? i. of
versity education commenced ; and yº.sive
wealth and family passed through a very.º. that
curriculum. For example, Nazianzen telº.’, eit
he and his friend St. Basil, having finish” pāle;
earlier studies, repaired first to Caesarea iſ..."
tine, which he calls a “metropolis of literatuſ º
then went through a course at Constantinº 05t
“the capital of the east, renowned for the ally
consummate sophists and philosophers;” 3 Il º -
distinguished themselves in the schools of A.
When we speak of the academic course", ºd
city of antiquity, our readers must not expeº!'" mi.
it the counterpart of that in our old Engli.es
versities. These are not lecture-rooms or " º º
for disputation and display. Their main dººd
not to impart a certain amount of clevernºd
mental furniture; but they are alike the Cº. to
the mould of English character: they asp. ;
form the whole man; to take living stones," ise!
the quarry of human nature, and fashion aſ .#
them into the symmetry of their own bºni.
erections. This is the aim of our vene.ia.
versities; they would concentrate the he* oneſ.
influences of English life on each successiº . of
ation of our youth, and perpetuate that deſ, il
moral and national feeling which, in spit”.. dis-
sinister eſſorts, will, we hope, continue
tinguish us. At Constantinople, as in mos: turg"
countries now, and in Scotland, a number oflºº A
rooms formed the whole visible establishmº" whole
rescript, dated a. d. 425, informs us of thº. im".
matériel of the institution. The number * tially
munities of professors having been already!.jół
defined by Constantine, Theodosius in tº ch 3°
assigns them various auditoria or exedrº, ºthe
we may call lecture-rooms. In imitatio" here
Roman capitol with its numerous porticº, stab: .
poets of old recited their compositions, ºple:
lishes his academy in the capitol of Consta"...em
Here stood eight porticos, and contiguou. admi';
were the exedra, large buildings, usual; () atc.
ting a free current of air, and the walls dec use. . . .
with the embellishments of the drama” struſ”
The only furniture consisted of seats and,” jar
for the lecturer. They nearly resemble the ºio
ter-houses of our cathédrals, which are *
the sides of the cloisters just as the exº Tú?
* Codex Theodosianus, lib. ii. tit. viii., with º
fred's note, A stoº Ettº
+ Gregory Nazian. Orat. Viccsima, st; floº" " .
zoſtoy, tom. i. p. 325, Morel, 1690.
che
*... the
»
Ix
Goth9.
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
433
"ſessor
ºf
- - "eithe
the
the
lish
Pºpular
each ; One such exedra was º to
Professor; the reason assigned being, that
pupils nor masters may raise disturbances
st each other, (sibi invicem obstrepere,) nor
8t °onfusion of tongues divert their minds from
... Till the year A. D. 425 there were only six
and ..." of the three faculties, grammar, rhetoric,
am *W. Of these, two were confined to the
i.eal studies of the Greek and one to the
toti anguage, two professors were employed in
10 or sophistry, and one in law. This estab-
ºnt, however, being totally insufficient for so
a resort, many private teachers of repute
*gain
We º: -
jºttended by large numbers of pupils at their
reg
*
* -. dr): * s -
Pract Partments, or even in public places.
pro
#:
But the
** was open to grave objections. The
ºlars were generally pagans, and likely to
fu . a very injurious influence on their youth-
ton "ditors. To counteract this cvil, Theodosius
a "d the irregular teachers to private work;
*rgely increased the number of the public
*Sors. The requisite qualifications of a pro-
ch. Were, under his edict, a blameless moral
dre *er, experience in teaching, facility of ad-
taſ. * flowing eloquence, and subtilty of interpre-
But by whom were these diversified
clai.
ºls to be examined 4 Who had the honor or
S * - i. - º
. i." to sit in judgment on the various candi-
The wording of the law seems to intimate
100 examination as well as the appointment
by ..p *çe in the senate, a case in which we might
Withize equally with candidates and judges.
Wo juestion whether the literati of a later age
ſº. Willingly submit their merits to an assembly
ºr Hºngly º
Hoºte illustrious than the senate of Theodosius.
as...ºppalling would be the embarrassments of an
C º
sº of England and Ireland to debate and decide
*: $onl,
º
*nt in jurisprudence who had all the ex-chan-
deserts : Or where could a misbegotten
* flee to hide himself, with the Archbishop
Sºlin on one side of him, and the Bishop of
. lou
ch
that - - -
late |...Proposes a correction of the text to facili-
lid.
then
* , { *
tha lat
§vid's on the other Gothofredus" is so
ed with pity for the peril of their situation,
'Sir escape. He supposes the merits of can-
in...were examined by the body of professors,
ºf the senate only approved of the recom-
ion which these had given. However this
bes "ºve been, candidates and critics seem to have
was ºry fairly matched, and many an aspirant
indi. Pproved at Constantinople, on whom an
hojº.ht “non habilis” would have been pro-
§ in England.
l º º
the "humber was now raised to thirty-one. Of
ºut. *
the hero grammarians and five sophists illustrated
ten."he Latin language and eloquence engrossed
*mmarians and three orators, while the same
hº *ek.f. “But since we would not have our
then youth trained exclusively in these attain:
*
of º reveal the formulae of law.” * -
theºl ºf these teachers are easily intelligible, but
, On
C
18.
...We associate with the abºliº
lea, ... more profound teachers of science and
One ing.” The provision is most scanty—" Let
an Professor explore the arcana of Philosºphy,
The duties
ſºjºse functions of the sophist, orator, or pro-
Šign hetorical disputant, cannot be so clearly
§on i . ... Endless volubility and infinite assump-
*H, ad distinguished the race from the days of
R prºf." we may well ask what was its object
. in matters of education 4 A training
*Theod., lib. vi. tit.xxi. i., wi te.
dex Th : |. *"ift. º § º with the no
under such masters could not but be most detri-
mental to the young. We may discern its effects
in some whose talents and sensibility might have
been expected to offer the best resistance. No-
where is it more apparent, or more to be deplored,
than in the case of Gregory Nazianzen. He had
received the best education that three illustrious
universities could afford. . But, while imbibing
much that was beneficial, he did not escape the
rhetorical excesses of the time, and thus impairs
the effect of that endearing tenderness of feeling
which is his great charm. Such being the result
with men of real genius, it is easy to guess how
intolerable the evil must have become in the case
of feebler spirits. The spurious homilies attached
to the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom, give
abundant testimony to the miserable degradation of
the public taste.
It was the misfortune of the time that the more
abstruse and invigorating studies were held in dis-
repute or suspicion. Thus Gregory tells us that
St. Basil, while at Athens, studied “arithmetic,
astronomy, and geometry so far as not to be con-
founded by the empty pretences of their professors,
but rejected everything beyond, as being useless to
the disciples of Christianity. In short, he was not
less worthy of admiration for his neglect of some
branches than for his cultivation of others.”
These studies had, indeed, become so subservient
to the purposes of astrology and divination that
their proper office was overlooked, and while pur-
suing them, a Christian was perpetually in danger
of deviating to forbidden ground.
The logic of Aristotle might in a measure have
supplied their place, as a process of mental training,
had it not been too frequently perverted to a method
of chicane. It was communicated to ordinary stu-
dents through a variety of systeins and compendia.
Of one such work Themistius was the author, and
from his statement it appears that such dilutions
were indispensable. He tells us that though the
deeper writings of the great philosopher were
everywhere to be had, they were generally unin-
telligible, and that his meaning seemed intrenched
within more fortifications than the palace at Ecba-
tanat. In ethical studies, which had not yet
ceased to be a branch of education, he shared
the empire with Plato; but the flowing eloquence
of the latter rendered him the more popular
authority.
Legal instruction was nowhere better than at
Constantinople, excepting at the celebrated Bery-
tus. A youth intended for the law would have
received but a deficient education who had not
taken them in succession. In the same way, a
residence at Alexandria was requisite to perfect a
medical student. Indeed, whatever were the
actual amount of knowledge imparted, there was
no lack of time or labor, or journeying, tº procure
it. At court one of the readiest methºds to pro-
motion was a thorough acquaintance with the Latin
language and literature,f and this was accordingly
a subject of much parental anxiety: A son in-
tended for public life would therefore be despatched
on an early visit to the university of Rome. In the
century of which we are treating, its system had
* Gregory Nazian., Orat, Vices, p.333, and still more
observably in the case of Caesarius the physician, Orat.
Decima, p. 163, Morel. #
f Thémistius, Orat. xxvi., where he refers to the
well known account of Herodotus, lib, i, cap 98.
t Chrysostom, advertus oppugnatores Vitae Monastica:
tom. i. 103.
434
CONSTANTINOP1, E IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
been rovised by the Emperor Valentinian, (A. D.
376,) and his edict throws much light on the
general course of academical life at the time. The
student was required to bring with him a letter of
introduction from the governor of his province
stating his birthplace, parentage and rank. On his
arrival this letter was presented to the master of
the census, a police magistrate, under the Praefec-
tus Urbis, who exercised something of a proctorial
authority. In his presence the youth professed, or
announced, the course of study which he intended
to pursue. His lodgings, or place of residence,
must be signified to the same authority, “that his
diligent attention to his studies might be readily
ascertained.” The same inspection extended to
his general habits and associations, particularly
that he did not too much frequent public amuse-
ments or disorderly parties. A resolute offender
“whose conduct proved unworthy of the liberal
arts,” was subject to very summary treatment: he
is to be “publicly whipped, put on board ship,
and dismissed to his friends.” This will remind
the reader of the ancient discipline in our own uni-
versities; and, as in the latter case, the age of the
undergraduates accounts for the corporal punish-
ment. The fifteenth year was commonly the
period of matriculation alike in the East and the
West, and the twentieth closed the course. Should
the student delay returning home at this time, the
praefect of the city was responsible for dismissing
him. The same officer was to see that his sub-
ordinates instituted an examination monthly into
the conduct of the youths, and the reports were to
be transmitted to the emperor at the end of each
year, “that we may ascertain,” as the edict says,
“the respective merits and pursuits of the pupils,
and whether they can be made available for our
Service.”* *
While Rome had her peculiar claims as being
the capital of the Latin world, and the fountain of
Latin literature, Athens retained unimpaired the
distinction of ancient repute. Thither all nations
congregated, from Gaul to Armenia. In such a
motley assemblage discipline was of difficult en-
forcement. Sedateness had never been the charac-
teristic of the Grecian race, and we can readily
believe that the streets of Athens vindicated too
often their classical licentiousness. A thoroughly
undergraduate scene has been preserved to us,
where we should scarcely look for it, in Gregory
Nazianzen's beautiful oration on St. Basil. The
fame attained at other universities had preceded
Basil, and his arrival at Athens was hailed with the
highest expectation. Iſence for him, and almost
for him alone, the usual opening of Freshman life
assuaged. Gregory says that he relates it as an
ióvana narrative. For ourselves, we doubt whether
it may not excite to thoughts of pensiveness rather
than of amusement, as we recall the vivid scenes
of youthful eagerness and merriment which long
ages have consigned to the paralyzing stillness of
death. # *
Most of the youth of the university, says Greg-
ory, were mad after the sophists (99%toroſtārovgºrº)
not only the mean and low-born, but some even of
its noblest scholars. “The spectators of a race
could not be more anxious for a favorite charioteer,
than they for the popularity of their respective pro-
fessors.” The Freshman had been accustomed to
discipline and subordination at Constantinople :
* Codex Theodosianus, lib. xiv, tit. ix. 1, with Gotho-
fred's notes.
. Lhut
there he and his master set peaceably to wº.
awful was the roverse when he landed a
Piraeus. With portmanteaus and carpº jºd
(argoliatósquoi) in attendance behind, he ...;
his way towards the renowned Athens. * ntry”.
was he who found some friend or fellow.”he
man there to receive and protect him. Il
was hurried away, nolens volens, by S0
irresistible “touter” for the sophists.
creature endeared to the professor by ... with
profitable, wheedling artifices, and tº at
sophistic bait (ſtagirro; tº dopteriza.) But,” usual
ever “touter” he yielded, he must stand º 671
ordeal among the already established ſ eritoſ
Athens.” He would be accosted by an i. U-
of the true Arrizöv 34 to:—that concret? § .
dence—with some crafty enigma; and while ºr.
lessly floundering after a solution, he jing
whelmed by troops of undergraduates tº pelº
around; “then came multitudinous questiº"..., a
ing upon him, some vastly impertinent, ot Hig."
little like logic, but all designed to try his . to
The new comer, having at length been badge thé
satiety, was conducted in triumph throº, ac-
agora, and so to the bath. In double file º ing
companied him to the door, shouting and lº
like so many bacchanals. Here he was 9..."...hen
stop, on pretence that the doors were bolte", "At
a terrific thumping and battery commenº. was
length the door gave way, and his admi. of
the symbol of his being a duly qualified men. Un-
the great academy of the world. Such." wh958
dergraduate initiation to all save St. Basil, jºr
already brilliant fame had procured him an º'
tion from the ruder portions of the ceremº
The fatal attachment to merely oratorical | ſling.
perverted the whole course of education :
knowledge was not its object, but skill in ºn
or florid discourse ; hence youths of celebrity.
though grave as Basil, were always liable §:
ruption in their pursuits by teasing and ſº encº
argumentation. Athens contained many influ dwº
which worked injuriously on young minds; it iſ
can readily believe Gregory when he say? ourcº
was very hostile to early piety. . All the .. and
of Grecian art had filled the city with ido ºut."
the susceptibility for such objects produce tifying
less admirers and worshippers; yet it is gº... the
to find that he and Basil were far from..."; itſ º
only youths who were deeply imbued with c cou
principles. There was a society such as "...ºroſ
designate as “most temperate, peaceable, ”jun’
itable,” united not by the tics of family; ºn iſº
try, but by the great reality of the Chººſing 3 *
congenial dispositions, and the charms of .ship;
study. The severance of such warm fºº"...ºur
and academic pleasures is a trial of frequen!
rence, yet rarely has it been described * egoſ.
simple beauty than in the language of St. irc
—“The day of our departure and all . W0
stances of departure arrived—the farew rel 65; ". .
the attendance to our ship, the last mess” O him.
lamentations, embraces, tears. Nothing * . and
ful as for friends to be severed from Athe som”.
each other (rsuvsgö at.) Our companions ...i thº'
of the professors surrounded us, and enº.il it
we would desist from our design : with ºof
was ineffectual, for he departed ; while,” }.
cut asunder by the separation, speedily Cºl.
him.” Here, then, closed the period of a to the
study: the world could add nothing full.i.am:
cultivation of Athens; there were n0 ; o b8
guages to be acquired, no foreign count” .
we
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
435
jº. and their edicts.
... W
- s th
ls
Phy
TH
- the
()
visi * 1 s * -
.*, rich in primeval art and historic fame. To
*...ºration Greece and Rome were still living
.* : no lapse of time, no crash of nations, had
S vr * * *- - - º
..." severed their identity; what was not theirs
*" outcast from the giſts of civilization, and
"d the limits of an enlightened curiosity.
Yºa º more promising and fortunate youth were
*y demanded for the service of the state.
beyo
,
i. were drafted off into innumerable public
jº. but under few of the conditions that
di qualify their hearts and minds for the proper
l -
ſ º of them. It is not for us to enter on a
that belongs more properly to the great histo-
Of l; f the era. We only touch on the bye-scenes
not on its political development; but even
*se bye-scenes we can never lose sight of em-
* Were our reader to turn
i. e Theodosian Code, and see how it brings
i. imperial authority even to the meanest
pers Sºnan in the vast extent of the empire, we are
fuln "aded he would instinctively revert with thank-
in º to our humble citizens of England, secure
tº wide inviolability of their prescriptive rights.
i.ºg was too great or too small to come within
{} - - - -
&nt Sºcive or patronizing appointments. Lieuten-
to 9ſ provinces and lords of the bedchamber, doc-
tº ºrghitects, millers, and ten thousand more, all
i...ºfamille—with their wives and children—had
º § *ppropriate niche in the imperial repository.
h
i °s we relinquish to the historian, but a few
jºes of the middle classes may not be unaccept-
9 will begin with the medical profession, as it
* of which we can speak most honorably. It
Stati ying to perceive that the estimation of the
*cian had been advancing for some centuries.
.privileges which he enjoyed under the Greek
f ** were indeed little more than had been con-
t." on him by Augustus, but in the lapse of time
S ; had gained increased confirmation and effect.
... peculiar exemptions marked the sense enter-
º. of the importance and dignity of the Targo”
“, the theoretical teachers and lecturers of the
hai
- sº."; art. Among the active practitioners first
£mf
- the Aozargot or Arch-healers; of whom those
i. °yed immediately about the court were not
* . (.iently rewarded with a title of nobility—
}
jºb division of the capital.
the
hep
Wi º primi ordinis. They were even honored
hº iºnatorial dignity, and that without any of the
in."; usually attendant on it; nay, the govern-
| li. provinces was in some cases deemed com:
A. with their vocation." . Others, also termed
sc.ºol, watched over the health of the different
tº.'s of the city. One such doctor was attached
The election was
° by his coadjutors, but must be confirmed by
ºperor. A salary was paid by the prefect of
"y, in order that there might be no excuse for
tº '. of the poor. There is an odd provision,
ºr. lºt in their general practice these public offi-
des.” 1 only receive such fees as the convalescent
the al merited, not those which patients offer during
in hā *in of their sickness. The system of guinea
- had not, it seems, been introduced.
- th: Yºry pleasing sketch of medical character in
N.h century is delivered to us by Gregory
(jºni in his Oration in memory of his brother
of . In common with other medical students
tion ºne, he had received his professional educa-
“Alexandria, and under circumstances of ad-
ºdosºl. xiii. i.iii.º. iv.
reg. Nazian., Orat. x. p. 163, Morel.
vantage such as we fear our students too often
forego. “Alexandria,” says Gregory, “seemed
what it was, and is, a great manufactory of educa-
tion. And here, what point of merit can I omit in
my brother's career : Who was more faithful to
his instructors—who more beloved by his equals—
who more averse from the friendship and associa-
tion of the vicious ! In 80 vast a city individuals
were lost in the throng, yet his virtues gained the
admiration of all ranks. While profoundly inves-
tigating the whole theory of his art, he yet ac-
quainted himself most accurately with each of its
practical branches.” But beside all this, arithme-
tic, geometry, and astronomy cngaged his attention,
“so far,” says Gregory, “as was profitable ;”
where it will be observed that he refers, as in the
case of St. Basil, to the perversion of these sciences
to astrological quackeries. Ancient education,
however deficient in depth and solidity, attempted
at least to bring every variety of knowledge to the
aid of him who undertook any one of the great
professions. Lucian scarcely caricatures the spirit
of his age when he announces that an accomplished
dancer must possess all the arts and sciences save
logic, and history at least from Chaos down to Cle-
opatra.” Witruvius is hardly more merciful in his
demands on the youthful architect : he, too, must
be master of all that art, and science, and history
can unfold; but withal, he must profit by a nice
compound of moral philosophy, where the utile and
honestum are to be blended after the best principles
of Paley ; and finally law, physics, and astronomy
must lend their aid to the completion of this archi-
tectural scaffold.i. But we have digressed from
Casarius, whose patients, no doubt, set most esti-
mation on his unrivalled diagnosis. On the comple-
tion of their education, and by a happy concurrence,
he from Alexandria, and Gregory from Athens,
arrived at the same time in Constantinople. Here
his skill and reputation speedily raised him to a
noble marriage and the senatorial dignity. The
Senate interposed its influence with Constantius,
that so valuable a person might be retained in the
city ; but affection for his aged and absent parents
induced him for a season to quit its brilliant pros-
pects. After some interval he returned, but the
wealth which he had now acquired rendered the
profits of his profession immaterial, and he exerciscd
it henceforth gratuitously. I'rom the expressions
employed, we may suppose that he did not confine
himself to the practice of his art, but further, com-
municated it by lecture. Named one of the Archi-
atri of the palace, he exhibited what is to us the
strange conjunction of a court physician and a high
political functionary. But in the midst of his hon-
ors, and of an herétical or apostate court, the purity
of his Christian profession remained unsullied.
With him, Julian changed his tone of sarcasm and
authority, while vainly attempting to embarrass his
faith by all the artifices of logic. At last, in an
emotion of feeling to which his sardonic nature was
rarely stirred, he exclaimed, in respect to the pa-
rentage and brotherhood of Caesarius and Gregory,
“O happy father O unhappy sons!” After the
death of Julian the fortunate doctor was nominated
to the qua-storship of Bithynia ; and still higher
stations might have been his, had his life been pro-
longed. On the whole it is clear that the medical
profession had attained a far higher estimation than
in the earlier periods of classical history. Its
*Lucian, De Saltatione, tom. v. p. 146, edit. Bipont.
t Vitruvius, lib. i. cap. vi.
436 CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
position seems to have been nearly what it is at
this day in England. The main difference consisted
in its eligibility for civil offices, which we deem
incompatible with the prosecution of so laborious a
vocation. Yet methods of cure were sometimes
l
resorted to by the faculty which we presume its date of this edict indicates the earnes”
modern representatives would not desire to revive.
Chrysostom tells us that such as had to deal with
refractory patients beguiled them to their nauseous
drugs by frequent kisses!” What is worse, in-
cantations were muttered over the fever or the
sore, and amulets affixed to the disordered member.f
Absurd as we deem such expedients, they were too
grave a matter for ridicule in the fourth century,
proclamation:—“We need a great nun. .
of
architects, and we have them not ; thereforº.
your sublimity (the ruler of the province
excite to the study youths about eighteen y;
age, who have tasted a liberal education.
which Constantine watched over his rising *
ss wil."
apital
arS 0
The
it!
rofes’
and provided for its equipment with ºjºs
sional advantage. The inducements which ".
are, that “they and their parents shall be.”
from the burdens to which they are
xeſ!
liable, and a competent salary shall be given.
their teachers.” This was followed by
II] r.
e - ſy
ents, from himself and Constantius, gran” tº.
cm3C:
+ - * * - S
when sufferers were importunate, friends urged sonal immunities to every class of engin.
veyors, builders, and mechanics. As the W0 ust
their efficacy, and eloquent preachers assailed them,
not as child's play, but as the unlawful machinery
of Satan. The same invalid, it appears, wºuld
request the prayers of the congregation on Sunday,
as among ourselves, and during the week have re-
course to the silliest tricks of the old superstition.
As the legal calling diverged into every office of
government, and mingled in all the dealings of
mankind, it was even provided that the academical
training for it should be considerably longer than
for other professions. Elsewhere, the ordinary
course, as we have seen, closed on a student's
attaining his twentieth year, but it was not sup-
posed that any one could have imbibed all the
learning of Berytus till five more years had super-
vened. This same Berytus, the Beyrout of Com-
modore Napier, and the metropolis of ancient law,
was only a provincial town, and so far subordinate
to Tyre, the capital of the district of Phoenice. It
abounded not only in law, but also in merchandize,
as innumerable traders were attracted thither by the
fame and plenty of the Tyrian purple. Still more
ominously it had been the favorite scene of gladia-
torial shows.) Strange, that incipient law should
so early have steeled itself to cruelty and death, and
rehearsed its destined functions amongst the pains
and callousness of mankind. Constantine desired
to soften the legal heart, even from its cradle, and
hence his celebrated edict against such exhibitions
was first promulgated at Berytus. That decree
was not to be slighted, and henceforth the human-
ized Templars could only solace their hours of
leisure with the circus and the theatre. Under
such numerous patronage, these resorts soon ob-
tained high celebrity in the Syrian world. But
the students of Berytus minded other things as well
as their Epsom and Taglioni. An old writer calls
it a city “valde delitiosa,” and says that in its lec-
ture-rooms all the causes célèbres of the Roman
world were revived and clucidated with the hap-
piest skill and effect. IIence learned practitioners
were despatched to act as assessors to the rulers of
provinces, and this was one of the main employ-
ments into which the innumerable advocates were
draughted; for these rulers, like some governors of
our foreign settlements, were taken indiscriminately
from any preceding station, and, being ignorant of
the law which they were called to administer,
would have been helpless but for the directing sub-
ordinate at their elbow. Natives of the province
were incapable of the office, and Berytus was the
copious source whence all these rills of law were
derived.
In A. D. 333, Constantine issued the following
* Chrysost. ad Pop. Antioch, homil. iii. tom. ii. p. 50.
+ Idem, Adversus Jadaeos, homil. viii. tom. i. 838.
t Codex Theodos., lib. xi. tit. i. xix., Gothofred's notc.
Ś Idem, lib. xv. tit. xii.
the city were in progress for many years, * impoſ
13
have employed a very numerous populatiº
tant effects could not fail to result on the
and habits of the place.
The classes on whom we have made these *
notes constituted a large proportion of the
15
ursory
i
ddle
º intercs”
ranks of the lay community. It would be into
arac"
f ch tG.
ing if we could discriminate the varieties 0 C
ter which distinguished them from those
wealth and high rank; but it is rather toº.
that they were ever aiming at an assimilº"
worthy of attainment, seldom attained, an
- 4. l!
ing a miserable fret of temper—the standing ºn
of mean ambition. There have been day;
!.1, in t
the great middle class of England lived with". -
simplicity for which Providence designed
propriá pelle quievit:” but may we not apſ:
jºred
tion tº
imply.
rS6
W
k
otherwis’
h6.
head
inop!.
among ourselves what occurred at Constan”, will
the arrival of a period when such acquiescº
wealth -
be exchanged for an universal mimicry 0
and nobility?—
Non minus ignotos generosis.”
But we must consider for a moment th9%
“Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria cuſſ
6.
!
11 , .
. . .
ase ºf
* rsity -
y * * - * nive
a young citizen just returned from his "...top-
education, and starting in life in that greſſ; º St.
olis. What shall he do first? “Marry,” sº the
Chrysostom. “Heaven forbid!” ejº. iſ!
fathers and mothers of England. But th95.nts
the state of that age, had many weighty arg
to urge for his advice. “As soon as your
Ul
S0
grown up, before he enters the army or *) If he
profession, take measures for his marriage.
sees that you mean speedily to provide hiº
wife, he may remain within the bounds of nº
but if he finds you bent on waiting till he.”
tain a handsome establishment, he despairs "...i h6 .
riage and virtue. He must wait, you reply.
has gained a standing in life and becomes,”
with *.
ality;
*.in-
Il h35
aſ
wn.
wck.’
º s {l +
And so you have no regard for his spin" itiall;
fare, but consign it to destruction in you".
subjection to the tyranny of wealth, f
not touch on the moral suggestions of the
We
saint, -
will
but
op
the fact is, that early marriages and redundº --
ulation were not among the anxieties Wºla" So
the economists of those days had to colº", was
far from a numerous family being dread: º
still encouraged by the favor of the old ion by
laws. Constantine had given them his flººſive
a decree, A. D. 324,t by which a fat!"...ico to
children was exempted from all personal * *
. … with
*Cordex Theodos., lib. xiii. tit. iv. i. i* iii., " .
Gothofred's notes.
t Chrysost. in Epist. 1 ad Thessal., ºp. iv. ho
Idem, in Matthaeum, homil. lix. tom: Wii. 680.
# Codex Theodos., lib. xii. tit. xvii. i.
mil."
.
H
*,
; : .
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY. - 437
º, t
hº provided he would give one of his sons
dW., Phalf. Next came Julian with a wonderful
tº which will defy the Malthusians of all genera-
ºre, et a man be father to thirteen, and then
0 ºl to trouble. “No more shall he be sum-
i.” to the Curia; let him henceforth enjoy the
thr.” hºnorable repose (honoratissima quiete done-
injº. This lºw throws Gothofredus into violent
jºn: “Why should the begetting of thir-
mºre, secure to any man this halcyon tran-
- i. #. Constantine had been most anxious to
tors us capital frequented. He summoned sena-
Seſsä ºm, Rome, and if we may attach, a specific
oths. to Eusebius's vague expression, he drained
i. cities in its behalf, “dedicatur pene omnium
.."in nuditate.” And yet its population never
.*he considerable when compared with the old
... or London, or even Paris. By far the
i; part of the inhabitants were Christians, and
j Were not estimated by St. Chrysostom at
th º than one hundred thousand.t No wonder
i...that even the emperors, who patronized the
ºn . system of monastic seclusion, perceived the
jº of encouraging those who remained in the
offs 8. World, to attend to the cares of marriage and
“pring.
W º let us hear the great preacher on parents
tº Were willing that their sons should marry.
th." are not anxious,” says Chrysostom, “for
i...he of your son, but for his wealth. Yet
wººl, Even without a dowry women abound
| Such pride, and are prone to vain glory; but with
ºi. accession, how are they to be borne?, The
a. ºf marriage is not to fill our houses with war
a e attle (nois wou zai taxis)—and yet how many,
º.º.ontracting rich alliances, have daily quarrels
i. Their table? Your own servants too indulge
tº free remarks on the fortunes ºf master and
Wººss:— Look at him; he was a beggar once,
scarcely a rag to cover him; he and his pa-
all tºº the scum of the earth; my mistress has
lºt. money.” Though you hear this, it does
Šentl ect you, because you have not the soul of a
FAt lan, I (concludes the primate) would
§ be a pauper ten thousand times over than be
*re & º by a wife.” A few other remarks, toº,
his general application. “Husband and wiſ,
* ve lot be quick in suspecting each other.’ It
ſij} true that he spends all the day with his
$n ea º and only comes home at a late hour, ſquº
it.gnº]; if she be wise, she will not notice
Plain it if she does, he must not resent her com-
ºts.” Again, “ Husband and wife should by
ºns intrude on each other's province in the
Whjºnent of the servants. She must have th:
- But * Sway of the maids, and he of the men. f
whi *metimes untowardscones would occur, against
is ..." was difficult to provide. The saint gives
of M. Specimen of a curtain lecture—one worthy
S(5 ..Saudle :—“Look at neighbor So and So!
fºll, tº ºr Taſtströg zai #2 ran stºr)—he 1S 3. low
tead "...and his parents were nobodies. But he is
- ºld °r anything, and bustles about the world,
his § made his fortune. That is the reason that
Rule * is covered with gold, and drives white
will.” her carriage, and goes where she likes,
"*at handmaidens, and troops of eunuchs in
.*hts
$
- Co
lºsiº, . . .
"; *tom, in Acta Apostolorum, homil. xi. tom. ix.
Qu tº m +
º: i.es digendae sint Uxores, iii. tom. iii. 261.
", in Epist, ad Ephes., cap. v. homil. xx. tom. xi.
her train. And you, you coward, you poltroon,
&rarðge zai Östº, you sleepy hunks, you crouch in
your cell—oh unhappy woman that I am I?’ “A
wife,” says the saint, should not speak thus; yet
if she persists, her husband must not beat her, but
smooth her down, considering that she is rather
flustered.” t
With these and many other Archiepiscopal pre-
cepts for his guidance, a young man might think
of marrying. The next difficulty to be got over
respects a house. A residence fit for a gentleman
must not stand in a row. It must be a rus in urbe
—furnished with a peristyle or cloister, with a
fountain playing in the midst, and the area should
be planted with delicate shrubs and flowers waving
in the wind. Here and there, too, the eye must be
attracted by vistas terminating in some rich monu-
ment of ancient art.” In a respectable house, the
lofty chambers must be supported by pillars and
pilasters, dazzling with gilded capitals, the walls
inlaid with marble, the floors variegated with tes-
sellated pavements. But we need not dwell on
such things—for it does not appear that as to them
there was much difference between Constantinople
and the elder seats of Greek and Roman luxury.
The display of gold and silver seems, however, to
have been quite enormous, and one application of
the precious metals stirs especially the wrath of
St. Chrysostom. This is the fashion of the silver
&uidsc, which we may suppose he could not inspect
the shops in the agora without being aware of,
and on which he descants with a freedom to mod-
ern ears somewhat astounding:—“I see that you
are aghast at my reproof, and aghast you ought to
be. it is indecency, and inhumanity, and barbari-
ty. I fear, that in the process of their madness,
women will become monsters. Yes, if it were not
for shame, they would have their hair, their lips,
their eyebrows of gold. Alas, that they cannot
imitate the King of Persia’s beard, and have such
an appendage decked with gold leaf. I tell you,
if you persist in such conduct, I will drive you
from the sacred threshold.” f—To ascend a little
from these delicate minutiae—the few that were
book fanciers prided themselves on the fine texture
of the paper,ſ the beauty of the letters, and the
golden illuminations. The happy invention of
illustrated bibles and prayer-books must be as-
cribed to Constantinople.
Though their rooms were crammed with objects
of show and virtu, the gentry were not addicted to
much private gayety. Their passion was for the
circus and hippodrome, and a showy ride through
the agora. . company at home must have
been a very dull affair when the younger branches
were wholly excluded from it, and the elder had
few of these accomplishments that sweeten modern
society; the ladies neither sang nor played, and
the days had long passed away since music was
indispensable in the education of a Grecian gentle-
man. It is doubtless on this account that we hear
little of private entertainments, except in the shape
of dinners—and here, no doubt, was an ample field,
on which, with unbroken leisure, long purses, and
inventive genius, they expatiated without restraint.
The Byzantines of an elder day had fed like glut-
* A long list of statues at Constantinople has been col-
lected by Heyne in the eleventh volume of the “Com-
mentationes Gottingenses,” p. 3, but it gives little more
than the names. tº
t Chrysost. in Epist, ad Coloss., cap. iii. homil. vii.
tom. xi. 435.
f Chrysost. in Joannem, homil. xxxii. tom. viii. p.
6.
438
CONSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
tons; all that they ate was steeped in wormwood,
or smelled of salt water and garlic. According to
Diphilus,” they devoured such quantities of young
tunnies, that their whole frame well nigh became
glutinous, and it was thought that they would have
been absorbed in mucilage. In the same days
of barbarity they had been given to tipple at tav-
erns, and had even corrupted their neighbors, the
blind but temperate Chalcedonians, till they were
transformed into a city of drunkards. But intellect
at length marched to the east; and though the
Constantinopolitans might have retained to the last
a secret fondness for the tavern and its hostess, it
was but the “Veteris vestigia flamma,” smoulder-
ing among the very embers of the populace. The
upper classes were luxurious—shamefully so, but
not so much from grossness of appetite as from a
passion for display. We have not room at present
for particulars of their deipnosophism; but the ed-
itors of Athenaeus, and of the Roman Satirists,
have not drawn on the fathers of the Greek church
as they ought to have done.
Was there any resemblance between the Amphi-
tryon who took his fashionable promenade in the
porticos of the baths of Zeuxippus, and him who is
iistless at Cheltenham or earnest in Pall Mall !
Our readers will reply in the negative if they look
only on the outer man. The fashion as well as
the material of his clothing defies comparison with
ours. When the weather was hot, he would not
venture out but in silks; if wet and dirty, he did
not appear at all, except in his carriage, in which
he sat rather in the style of a newly-elected lord
mayor than like a private gentleman. They did
not like the word—and yet very much exemplified
the thing which their forefathers called—Baravata.
“The moneyed man,” says Chrysostom, “knits
his brow, and sits forward in the carriage, and
seems to touch the clouds in his transported fancy.
When mounted on horseback, troops of lictors clear
his way through the agora, as though he would
put all the street to flight. No wolf or lion is so
unsociable: he will haunt with his kind, but the
rich disciple makes a desert before him.” A
master could no more appear in public without
his slaves than a lady without her mules.f. If he
put his head out of doors he would be jeered back
again, unless his retinue supported him. A gilded
bridlef hung on his horse's neck, a gilded livery
bedizened the servants ;... his own attire was all
golden, even to the girdle and the shoes. This
matter of shoes must not be too cursorily despatch-
ed; of all matters of display it was what an an-
cient beau could least readily surrender; indeed,
it was a taste indigenous in the Grecian º
and such as philosophers and archbishops assailed
with equal impotency. It had captivated the sub-
tlest of politicians || and the profoundest of savants.
Aristotle was not "less studious of his shoes than
his wig; and why should 4 fine gentleman of the
fourth century be truculently criticised?
No ; Chrysostom should have spared the shoes,
but forbearance was not his attribute. Imagine
our venerated diocesan thus haranguing from the
Chapel Royal. We say it not to raise merriment
at one so eminent as Chrysostom, but to draw at-
tention to the altered forms of the world. “Come,
* Apud Athenaeum, lib. iv. cap. ix. tom. ii. p. 21.
Schweighaeuser. *
t Chrysost. in Joannem, lxxx. tom. viii. 544, 545.
f Idcm in Psalmum, xlviii. tom. v. 627.
§ See Plato's Phaedo, cap. ix., cum notis Stallbaum.
| See Athenaeus, lib. xii. cap. xlvii.
then, let us siſt the matter and see it; º
When you saw on your shoes those silken. indſ!"
which you ought not even to weave into Yº: s art
tles, what ridicule does it not deserve 4 sº sº
built, rowers and steersmen collected: Salls lſº
furled, and ocean furrowed; wife, childr".
try are abandoned, and the soul of the *
hazarded to the waves—and all that you ". âh.
these silken threads and beautify that upº ice
er! How can he have heavenly ideas who º its
about the texture of the silk, the delicacy.'"dis-
color, the ivy tint which results from thº. . ill
position of the threads? No, his soul is º ago.
the mire, while he goes on tiptoe through ''. is:
ra. He begets to himself sorrow and desp.mer
in winter he slip into the mud, and in Sū canº
shuffle in the dust. Oh! my friend, hº their
thou be so troubled about thy shoes!-lº ºiſ
true utility. Shoes were designed for “... if
on the filth and unseemliness of the payº. ing
this will not suffice thee, take them up * n th}
them round thy neck, or stick them . . .
head.” + *
They were as superstitious as Dr. Johnº
setting the right foot foremost, and also thc t 0ſ!
shoe.” “That wretch of a slave, when hº aveſ'
my shoes, gave me the left one first—Heave" thé
I p".
rchaſ'
get
t
aboº
righ!
mischief—and when I came out of doors :
left foot first Here is misfortune brewi.
when I got into the street my right eye w".key
shall pay for it with my tears—besides; *... the
brayed, a cock crew, somebody sneezed...me.
first person I saw had only one eye andy. teſ’
But, worst of all, I met one of the religiº; to:
hood (ſtag beyos)—there is nothing coming *}
day. I wish I had met a frailer sister, (" nd.
then, indeed, would gain, betide mº, ies tº
should make cent. per cent.” “I see,” “... bea!
preacher, “how you crouch for shame, an ut b%
your foreheads, and creep into the earth la owſ
ye not ashamed at my words, but at ...,you
deeds. To avert these dangers of the ºſéti,
bind your head and feet with charms and a aſl er's
and the names of rivers, and the great Aº ‘hº
brazen coins: "Ye who are the discipl.s of
Cross seek your preservation from the " . . .
a Gentile king !”f ºr
The construction of the carriage was
tion of the rank of its possessor.
adopted this matter among his imperial.n tº
directs; that the honorati, i. e. functionariº ilitary.
expiration of their office, whether civil 9. e prº €ſ
shall in general continue to use the carriº. thin th9
to their station—the two-horsed carriºsº
heels .
anº
L!
aſl in #
º:
ares'
city—sacratissimi nominis—the name 9
tine. It was probably one with four º'
covered—a modern improvement on... disposº.
Rheda. Those who were ostentatiously eigh'.
made it as conspicuous as possible by ſº it tº
yet it was but an ineffectual attempt to i. entuº.
the honors and dimensions of the Ca º
This was a distinction with which all e. or aſ"
must dispense. It was confined to the º fice;
a few of the highest actual dignitar.
That of Constantine was covered will.
radiant with gems, and inferior on...'.
with gold and silver. Being of a very in
towering aspect, it was considered toº 674:
º j, o' ii;
* Chrysost. in Matthaeum, homil. xlix. tºº." *
t Chrysost. ad Illuminandos Catechesis, iſ xii. to.
287 ; and in Epist. ad Ephes., cap. ". hom
xi. 108. † - +.
# Codex Theod., lib. xiv., tit. xii. lex. i.
conSTANTINOPLE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY.
439
ln
hi "ged in
tº
lºysostom
#
bj
Wome
Štro " ; no head but that of the empress was
i. enough to bear it, and she was equal to four
iny .# with it—a privilege inadmissible for
(i.er class of carriage in the streets of Constan-
"Qple.
pla º for what all this limitless profusion of dis-
clude th he emperors had already learned to se-
Asiati hemselves for the most part in more than
‘mul * pomp, nor did they offer the attractions and
jº of what moderns call a court. The
§ º were extravagant for the mere sake of
0... and it is one of the unfortunate attendants
R0 ºpºſe governments that the wealth of their
inſ ity is not applied as an instrument of power or
jº, but absorbed in mero ostentation: Where
on. . no subdivision of power this, becomes the
§ °hannel that great wealth finds for its dis-
ejºnt; or if the disposition prompt to more
Cou "g pursuits, a resource is found at the race-
à. gaming-table. To the latter it does not
l i. that the Constantinopolitans were particular-
ºlost ºted. Dice and drafts might be found in
fo. Mouses, but rather to beguile the time than
ſº.genuine love of gambling. They pre:
Greek Sitting in the agora, that paradise of ancient
‘in. in the tranquil enjoyment of their delicious
ed. § and in such conversation as the day afford-
time.*he duties of the bath, to be sure, cost some
Own t OSe vulgar persons who had none of their
the "ºre obliged to go out in search of it—but
§y..."...ºn. home immediately afterwards and
*pos Its full effects by some hours of tranquil
*ś Indeed, this pursuit must have consumed
Statio part of the day, for all persons, not in the
sº. of a bishop, reckoned two baths per diem
Yatia °wable gratification. Even Sisinius, the No-
in." or Puritan bishop, rebuked the cavil that he
it too much by stating that he limited
tº Sib wice only.f º
i. bon has told is enough about the Byzantine
º°ºromists and their furious passions. It is
S. Greg., Nazianzen compares then with
the jors of the sophists: “The attendants at
then º are not more earnest than they. There
§º and shout, and cast dust into the sky;
§: 911 their seats they drive the chariot, they
sh º air, they ply their quivering fingers like a
ºil.” turn their horses from side to side, though
*çapable of anything. And who are they
Wi. thus? The poor and the destitute—men
bj *We not provision for a day.” Poverty,
Pºssi *SS, and duty were alike arrested by the sur:
§ys § claims of the hippodrome. “ Thither,”
if “the whole city removes; and
ºil. and agora are evacuated for the frantic
§§ets Not the hippodrome only, but houses,
i. Nº. and hanging hills are all prečccu-
.0 infirmity represses the insatiable passion,
i. men, in dishonor of their hoariness, rush
W. * more impetuously than youths in their prime;
Wea. *tending our churches they grow sick, and
§oºl and listless; they complain there is no
§ th: that they are suffocated, and the like; but
lºsiºpºdrome they bear to be trampled on and
º t {} *nd squeezed with intolerable violence; yes,
§ey. ºidst of ten thousand worse annoyances
"d no ºriate as though upon a grassy lawn.” It
, - 90ſ-apparently not even an awning ; yet
*
tºº
+
ºf toº
ht º in tº º
**t in Joannem, homil. xxxii. tom. viii. p.
- : §hen lib # * g. º
rys.” TU Viii. cap i.
"**t, De Anna, serm. iv. tom. iv. 846.
when the rain was driving in torrents and the wind
beating in their faces, or the sun blazing over their
heads, they stood in the same wild eagerness the
greater part of the day, careless of its inclemency
or the long journey which many had made to reach
the spot. But even this was aggravated by the
season at which the celebration occurred ; it was
not enough to violate the solemnity of Lent—even
the sacred day of our Lord's crucifixion was pro-
faned by this madness. “Is it to be borne, is it to
be endured!” cries the impassioned preacher—
“Some have left our assemblies to-day and been so
frantic as to fill the whole city with shouting and
uproar and laughter—that laughter that shall be
turned into mourning. In the interior of my house
I heard the shout break forth, and suffered more
anguish than the storm-tossed mariner—more terri-
bly did this tempest light on me, while the nobles
were applauding from high places, and the popu-
lace urging the drivers from below. This, in the
city of apostles, the city which boasts of St. An-
drew for its doctor—this, in a multitude of Christ's
disciples—this on the day when your Lord was
crucified for the world, when such a victim was
bleeding and Paradise was opening, and the curse
was ceasing, and sin was vanishing, and the inter-
minable war was being pacified, and reconciliation
was in progress between God and man, and all
things were resuming their original brightness '''
That nothing might be wanting to complete the
impiety, the next day was diversified by theatrical
shows; “a transition from the smoke to the fire,
and to a gulf still deeper than before. You see the
actresses come forth with gold embroidered robes,
with effeminate and wanton step, and meretricious
Songs and equivocal expressions, and you press for-
ward and imbibe it all !”* So ended the Lent of
Constantinople, A. D. 399. Easter Sunday was
ushered in by fresh entertainments at the hippo-
drome—but it was a fatal occasion ; an officer in
the scrvice of the practor, whose house was al-
ready decked for his marriage on the following
day, participated in the games; the rival chariot-
eers overtook him before he could escape, and in a
moment his head and limbs were dissevered from
the body. In the midst of wailing women the mu-
tilated corpse was conveyed to the newly-prepared
abode, and the agora surrounded with lamenta-
tlOnS.
Equal in public estimation with the hippodrome
was the theatre; but it was not appropriated ex-
clusively to dramatic entertainments: musicians,
wrestlers, even orators, enjoyed it as the field of
their exhibition. In the proper office of the theatre
there is reason to suppose that the national taste
had totally degenerated: they still spoke the lan-
guage and possessed the works of its highest mas-
ters, but the faculty for enjoying them, was gone.
The stage was usurped by gaudy courtesans, who
occasionally, however, varied the seduction by ap-
pearing in puris naturalibus;f the plays and songs
were worthy of the actresses; they turned on
nothing but illicit intrigues; and a favorite catas-
trophe was hanging. The orchestra presented
every variety of juggler. Constantine had abol-
ished the gladiatoral shows, and the Wenatio had
not thriven equally when its sanguinary rival was
* Chrysost., Contra Ludos et Theatra, toin. vi. 315.
Idem in Illud, Pater meus, tom. Kii. 529.
t Chrysost. in Joannem, homil. i. tom. viii. pp. 1, 2.
t Chrysost. in Epist. 1 ad Thessal., cap. iv. homil.
vi. tom. xi. 538.
*.
440
PERIODICALS-GUN COTTON.
SCARCITY OF FOOD-MONTHLY
withdrawn; the wild beasts were retained, but less
admired, though imperial edicts still provided for the
supply of the faithful city. The jungles" of the
Euphrates were still drained of their inhabitants to
replenish the dens and amphitheatres of the empire;
but the altered disposition of the citizens was
evinced even in the treatment of their animals, and
tame lions had become more acceptable than wild
ones. Formerly, the numerous cities on their route
had been seriously aggrieved by the expenditure
required for their transmission. Three or four
months had been spent in a single halt; but this
was limited by the younger Theodosius, who for-
bade their being detained more than a week in one
place.
The agora fills many an angry page of St.
Chrysostom. Nothing was respectable that had not
figured on this grande place. It was a hole-and-
corner business that did not appear in the agora.
There the idlers sunned, or cooled, or rested them-
selves, and scanned with equal complacency the
marriage procession of one friend, and funeral
grandeur of another;f an exhibition of tumblers or
jugglers, or the march of a criminal attended by
myriads of rabble to the place of execution. The
loungers had much amusement from the placards,
among which those about runaway slaves appear to
have been the most numerous. But vary what
might, there was one most offensive object which
the agora could always exhibit—at least whenever
St. Chrysostom had occasion to pass through it.
This was a troop of heretics. “You shall not fail
to descry them hung in knots here and there, in
close discourse, full of malice and machination,
very smooth-tongued yet with knitted brows. Be-
sides, they are invincibly yellow-visaged (ſt tºwow
#zovot to xquiſta;) they inherit it from their unhappy
leader (Eunomius;) and all the drugs of the phar-
mºre could not reduce them to a salutary
ue.”
We must now close our portfolio. We hope we
have taxed it sufficiently to satisfy our lay readers
that some amusement as well as instruction may be
gathered from the Byzantine fathers.
The London press is full of speculations on Mexi-
can affairs, and the state of the war. But the one
pervading topic, which continually breaks in, and
shows its deep and absorbing importance, is the
scarcity of food and the distress in Ireland. After
all the flaunting and boasting and sputtering of the
London editors, respecting this country, they are
compelled to the mortifying confession that they are
dependent upon the United States for their bread
and cheese, and there is but little prospect of this
dependence being mitigated very soon. The scarci-
ty of human food is one of the greatest anomalies
of civilization, and occurring, as it does, at a time
of almost universal peace, and when the earth, by
the aid of science, has been made to yield a fourfold
harvest to what it did in former years, must open
the cyes of statesmen and law-makers to the fact
that the systems of commercial, international law
are based wholly upon error. They have brought
a large part of Christendom to the borders of star-
vation, and yet, Pharaoh-like, kings and congress-
men refuse to let trade go free, and still keep it in
Egyptian bondage, exacting bricks, and yet deny-
* Codex Theod., lib. xv. tit. xi. lex ii., with Gotho-
fred's note. -
f Chrysost., tom, ii. p. 831 ; De Droside, Mastyre.
# Philostorgius, Historia Ecclesiastica, tom. iii. 524,
* º - º | €Il thé op.
ing straw. But the time is coming, Wº: 3 0.
pressors must be swallowed up in the * rael,
starvation, and trade, like the child. Ajani;
will rejoice in freedom.—Among the trºjack"
notorieties at present in England, the le. ntio":
Smith appears to win the most general,” ves 3"
Wherever he goes he scatters his olive led
recipes for making Indian dumplings.
From the London Correspondence of the N
You will not ſail to observe the unusuali d
of all the monthly periodicals, exhibiting :
sion of ability more rapid than could havº l
pected by the most attentive observer 9 . stand.
§ontinued retrocession from their once exa”
ard. Their total extinction would have tº ..
long ago, but for the multiplication of read...is
into which a copy of all, no matter how "...pa
now finds its way; so that the inducem"... ifi!
contributors as formerly no longer exist. spº
did, a more lucrative market for the lº week.
cies of talent has been found in the daily * 'ears
ly press. When Bulwer boasted, some º, thé
back, that he could live like a gentlenº"...arº
proceeds of his pen, and was consequeſ") ...ſtº.
less of government patronage, the toadiº . thé
bies of the aristocracy, who had assº.nº
traditional garrets and clamorous washer."ºok
Grub street with people who worke "for th9
sellers, were amazed, and their respec', ... eve;
mercantile value of a head full of brains l is:
since been on the increase. There are pº did
men now who make as much as Sir T. ... º.
then ; men of very inferior powers, unk". whº
of their own very circumscribed circles...sler
will never leave a name of more exten. tam!"
rity. The disclosures recently made in ". Couſh
nation of Mr. E. Mahew in the Insolvº"...niſ.
show that numerous newspaper writº º {0
comes exceeding those of many officers ºndle:
secure which such prodigious intºres. £ntº
intrigues have to be employed. He staº £º.
and declared that the profits of that work . t jſe
3610,000 a year, after all expenses were #. ugh º
is not even the best paid of his class, th joº
was one of the first who originated the .iuc.
pursuit of wit and drollery, since beco.is cº.
tive. He, with his brother, who afterº."ºf tº:
mitted suicide, originated the first pº. sor "
kind—Figaro in London, a worthy preg
Punch, of which it was about half the sº
—-
* ethe''
THE GUN Cotton.—We have our dou. tº.
the explosive cotton is really the discovº. last quº f
sor Schonbein. Certain it is that, for "...toº,";
ter of a century, there has been in us? º that." ſ
incomparably greater explosive power; ... Cº.
the material of which Sir Robert Peeli.".n h.
a whole bale of Professor Schonbein’s ‘. wº.
blown the tory party to atoms?’ It is all '# ya.
send a rifle ball through eight planks ºf ing *…that
but what is that feat compared with d..§§ W.
importation bill through the house of lor ads, wº
is the resistance of boards to that of blockhe ºsh.
Peel's cotton made of as little account.”.g.: º
Peel has been blowing everything "P. I'l k %ffi
ting, and blasting, all his life without * S a v .
for the cotton combustible explodes ...nian: j
perature; he has blown up Protestan!".
has blown up his party, he has blº."
tion system; and what in the world is C IS
will not blow up one of these days, for t
petard of explosive cotton, and the
Velesius.
nature is destructiveness.-Ezam”
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.-No. 134.—5 DECEMBER, 1846.
*NNEDY on the EPIDEMic choleRA.
sº.. author of this work may claim the sad hon-
$100d º a prophet of evil, whose predictions have
10 test of twenty years' experience. When
he ºlished his first edition in Calcutta, in 1826,
Q º assured by those who were thought to be
too i. judges of the matter, that his book came
had ...to possess any interest; that the disease
Of i. its course, and was extinct, or on the point
§.g so, forever. He, however, had con-
f. a theory of the disease essentially different
He . * views entertained by most of his colleagues.
w."ºld among other notions, that epidemic cholera
... new destruction suddenly let loose upon
len *d, but probably as old as any other pesti-
e.nd, as likely to recur again. So far the
ºld ci is but too signally confirmed his surmises,
Qū hanced the presumptive value of his authority
ple º points connected with this terrible and per-
sto. Yisitation. Here, then, is a writer, thus
ejºy accredited, announcing that he has discov-
&nd . true pathological character of the disease,
ºnly the true principles on which it
l i. be treated. If this be true, its importance
eijinable; for we hardly know which of the two
ity j hitherto been the more fatal—the malig-
th... the epidemic itself on the one hand, or on
*her the havoc caused by the wild and desper-
head *asures taken to resist it, and by the panic
is t of its presence. Who can tell how much
of . ºor is aggravated by the palpable impotence
em.**ical science, and the distracting spirit of
*icism that seizes the profession, each man
Çing a different course, and all mayhap a Wrong
pº common opinion is, that cholera has its
*y seat somewhere in the abdominal viscera;
inj" doubt it will appear to most persons exceed-
bº Paradoxical to assert that it is not the discase,
such..."atural cure, of which those parts exhibit
D. ºn: symptoms. Now this is exactly what
°nnedy undertakes to prove. He says—
(t
ºf º iden may, then, be introduced in the language
§ 3.9mbay Medical Board, that in cholera ‘ther:
What *67that pressing on the vital functions;' and
l at somen'hat is, I leave for those to speculate
*gn. ."o can tell me what the gout is, or what, the
Լn. ; or, in short, what any other disease is which
*gge; be resolved into inflammation; but of the two
i. 9ns offered by the Board, I consider that the
liš. "on is on the nervous and not on the circu-
Whiº, ºystem, for I know nothing but hemorrhage
âte: * such rapid progress could thus affect the
9ncil. A consider a nervous derangement, similar to
Cussi * -
ºn of the brain, to be the discase, how in-
shoe now not, following the above inexplicable
\ldºstained by the constitution; and the collapse
brai *ms to be symptomatic of the disorder of the
lºg toº." finally, I consider the purging and vomit-
§§§ cº no part of the disease, but the struggle and
ºf the **ture to relieve the constitution, and cast
§ tjºls rinciple which is destroying it. For
§§ti ..ºn of such a disease, the indication is dis-
. ind jºrent to relieve the brain by bleeding, and
ng Wher the sanitary process of vomiting and purg-
*:::: they do not exist, or to moderate them
* Living AGE. vol. xi. 28
when violent. Into these brief injunctions may be
resolved all that nas been written on respectable
authority; and the only difference in my theory is,
that I would propose a regular systematic procedure
in preference to the uncertainty, hesitation, and un-
decidedness, which, in spite of everything that has-yet
been written, continue to prevail, in a case where,
of all others, the patient's safety most mainly hinges
on the promptitude of treatment.”
Before the more violent and well-known symptoms
of cholera make their appearance, thero is always
an obscure stage of the disorder, little noticed in
general by the patient's friends; in which he labors
under a strange nervous depression, the sign of dis-
turbed action in the brain. Precisely the same
thing is seen in the incipicnt stage of ague or of
remittent fever.
“When a patient, who has been subjected to marsh
miasma, aſter a certain process of languor, yawning,
and restlessness, accompanied with an indescribable
depression of spirits, assumes gradually a cadaverous
expression of countenance, with eyes engulfed in their
orbits; nose pinched, and seeming more prominent
from the sinking in of the cheeks; temples hollow ;
skin wrinkled and shrivelled, and of a hue betwixt
blue and yellow ; and lips colorless; the ears blood-
less, and almost to be termed semi-transparent; and
the hands and fingers like the extremities of a corpse
many days dead, and in which putridity has com-
menced its course of discoloration; we feel no un-
easiness whatever at this appalling train of symp-
toms, and call it the first stage of an intermittent.
In due time, the cold becomes of a more intense se-
verity, the teeth rattle together by the unrestrainable
action of the masticatory muscles, the patient shud-
ders as if he would shake to pieces, and a grinding
sensation thrills down the neck and back, as iſ a
small stream of water were running down, of such
cutting chilness, that it “burns frone, and cold per-
forms th’ effect of fire.” This, we say, is the cold
stage; and it is clearly the stage of disease, for when
the termination is fatal, it usually takes place here.
Happily, however, if the disease be properly attended
to, this is not so frequent as might be expected from
the apparent severity of the disorder. But what is
the first symptom of the cold diminishing? A nausea,
followed by violent straining and vomiting! to which
we have no hesitation of attaching the idea of its
being a sanitary process; and which, whenever the
patient is robust and plethoric, we induce, by admin-
istering an emetic at the outset, to hasten and aid the
natural ordinary process; nor do we ever find our-
selves mistaken in our supposition, that our judi-
ciously affording nature this stimulus and excitement
to her sanative course is beneficial to the patient, by
shortening the duration of the cold, stage. This is
our every-day experience, and needs either argu-
ment to support it nor authority to enforce it. No
sooner does the patient'vomit freely than, in a mild
and ordinary case, the deathy cºldness yields, the
circulation gradually returns, and the hot stage of
the intermittent supervenes, as the reaction of the
constitution. Now what is that hot stage 2 Is it
that nature, having been depressed below her usual
course, resumes her course of action, as it were, with
a bound of over-excitement? or is it thus that nature
works, to bring about the next critical evacuation,
which forms the third or sweating stage of the inter-
mittent, by which the train of febrile symptoms are
442
MRS. WILLARD's TREATISE ON THE Blood.
finally to be relieved? I confess myself unable to
reply; but when I see preternatural heat, or a par-
oxysm of fever, follow every shock or unusually
violent. Stimulus the constitution receives, I cannot
but believe that it is a part of a sanative process,
and that nothing would be more deleterious than to
attempt its termination in any other way than the
one pointed out by nature, viz., by promoting the
critical evacuation of the perspiratory vessels.
“Here, then, is a routine instance of daily occur-
rence, and familiar to us all, where first the process
of vomiting is a sanative process, an effort of the vis
medicatrix naturaº to shake off a disease, or a poison
inhaled from a polluted atmosphere, which seems to
be acting with a malignity that threatens to over-
throw, as it were, at once the resources and energies
of life; and secondly, where the consequent reaction
of the constitution is again lowered, and excessive
action checked and reduced by a critical discharge
of the superficial perspiratory organs.”
Accident afforded Dr. Kennedy some remarkable
opportunities for confirming the correctness of his
pathological views. In three cases, he was applied
to by patients in what both he and themselves mis-
took for the incipient stage of ague, but which was
in reality that of cholera. In each case he admin-
istered an emetic, with copious draughts of hot
water: this immediately induced the second stage
of the disease, which was then clearly cholera, and
was treated with bloodletting and a dose of castor-
oil, followed by pills of camphor and opium, until
the patients fell asleep : they all three recovered.
Just enough is now before our readers to enable
them to understand what Dr. Kennedy’s theory is;
those who desire fuller information may find it in
his somewhat discursive volume. We incline to
think his views correct; at all events, we agree
with him, that it is high time for the medical pro-
fession to come fo some decision, if possible, on the
vexed questions connected with epidemic cholera.—
Spectator, 26 Sept.
From the Critic.
A Treatise on the Motive Powers which produce the
Circulation of the Blood. By EMMA WILLARD.
8vo., London and New York, 1816. Wiley
and Putnam.
PRopoRTIONATE to the degrees of refinement
which severally characterized the nations of whom
history has taken note, the enfranchisement of the
faculties of woman, and her Consequent elevation in
the social scheme has steadily kept pace. And it is
a feature most honorable to the present age, that
throughout the states of Turope and América,
which are blessed with free institutions, woman
holds at this time a higher intellectual position, and
has a greater respect paid to her faculties and her
person, than at any previous period through which
the word has passed. * * *
Bravely, too, has woman vindicated her claim to
these prerogatives. To say nothing of mere writers
of fiction, we have in England 4 Mary Somerville,
who handles with consumate ability the grandest
and most important of the physical sciences, and a
Harriette Martineau, who, doing the same for
morals, has given proof that the genius of woman
may usefully and profitably be applied to questions
upon which it had been thought N. and
unfit that the sex should enter. Neither is America
backward in according to woman the freedom for
mind, and respect to her stalents, which justly are
her due, nor far behind us in the quality and capac-
ity of genius which the sex develop. We have
been led to these remarks because in the lº.
fore us (which is by an American lady) we hº l]
instance of a woman undertaking to discuss ...;
ject that has perplexed and baffled the ingen.
the most distinguished anatomists and phys”.
who have considered it, from Harvey dº.
Paxton; and what is more remarkable, so *
ting herself as to show that she apprehen †
forcibly as the best of them the difficultie: "...i
beset the inquiry, perceived as quickly as ' g re-
the errors and incongruities of the theories...n
vious writers; and, lastly, herself propoulº j,
hypothesis to account for the circulation of thº. m 0
and, according to her ideas, the consequent *
the heart, equally novel and ingenious, bearing inly
its face a strong similitude of truth, and ce".
eminently entitled to the serious atteº who
examination, by the test of experiment, of .
Wºº. or take an interest in physiologica †:
We subjoin a brief outline of Mrs. Wi ested
theory, premising that the inquiry was first sug; he
to her, by observing, in 1832, the symptom; ...hich
Asiatic cholera, then raging in America, and W thé
convinced her that “whatever is the cause º olds
circulation, the heart's action is not.” Shº .
that respiration, operating by animal heat, Pº ome8
an expansive power in the lungs, and thus"; su5'
the efficient cause of the blood's circulation. . se”
tain this opinion, she urgesthe following rema”
1. The blood receives caloric at the lungs-A ch
ical combination of oxygen and nitrogen is ".
A part of the oxygen is detained, and in tº ired.
carbonic acid gas and watery vapor are ... its
Hence caloric must have been evolved, and .ne,
nature, have passed the thin separating *.gs.
and infused itself through the blood in th9. 2, by
This we regard as already demonstrated emical
chemical writers, as well as by the plain.
phenomena, and the fact known to all, unlº.es
well as learned, that the heat of the body 9%
at the vitals, and is lost at the surface. ansio’
2. The blood must therefore expand.—The ...ist.
of ſluids by caloric is a doctrine so perſecſ. but
stood and established, that it needs no com. this
it is important to our purpose to consider, thºsion;
case, there must be a very considerable...ried
Notwithstanding the great quantity of ca oriº up a
off at the surface, enough is received to º tem."
mean temperature of 98 deg. Fahrenheit. ndie
perature of venous blood is stated by Maš.
vary from 101 deg. to 75 deg.—that of arterid
to be nearly 104 deg. Taking 88 deg; as ºntº
temperature of venous blood, we have a d ſl
of 16 deg. which the vital action at the lº
the air there received is to ...}}. [Laº.
has shown me that the whole difference be"
extreme heat at the vitals, and the sº
S
ioſ]
ectiº
º:
thé
irculº'
extremities, is available in carrying on 1 i. era”
tion. (See Appendix, No. II.) And the . impº.
tion that the force works in vacuo, is high # išthº
tant in showing its efficiency. In air, 21% "...int *
point at which a ſluid boils; 72 deg. the & meg"
which it boils in vacuo, which is 6 deg. . jood.] d
temperature; 32 deg. below that of arteriº ºn sta".
The quantity of blood in the lungs has be e poºl.
by physiologists at one fifth of the whole.ſº
out of twenty-five.* This receives cal. ºrſaº
water in a vessel over a fire, at one sº"
dant'ſ
*The statements of other writers make tº º:
of blood at the lungs one fourth of the whol. Bº 5
reckon at thirty-five pounds instead of ty. S abi.
the quantity and proportion vary in diº. the 0% gé
So also do the dimensions of the morta. Whº e t fi
is an inch in diameter, I believe there urº . r cight.
pounds of blood in the lungs, probably seven
Mrs. will ARD's TREATIse oN THE BLOOD.
443
O
º but over a space, which has been variously
M jºl, but by all acknowledged to be great.
bloo "g a computation on Dr. Keill's statement, the
“qual at the lungs receives caloric over a. surface
Seven to the area of a circle whose diameter is nearly
. feet, so that if the portion received at each
ular point should be small, the aggregate must
*$onsiderable.
ſºjº'ſ the blood expands it must move:-This is per-
b. °vident, for to expand is to spring into a larger
Cà and the space which has contained the blood
b ...thin it no longer; so that this expansion must
4 ºptive power. s fº
º If the blood moves from the lungs it must move
into º's the left ventricle of the heart, and from thence
8 aorta, and so on through the arteries.—For it
si, of the two directions, take that in which it can
im °, and not that in which it cannot. Here arise
jºriant considerations respecting the animal struc-
fln; d *S a machine made for receiving streams of a
it.” Inoved by the same agent which warms it; for
It i. ºf a power, like impulse, indifferent to direction.
3tür * antagonist principle to gravitation, and its
luid º! tendency is upwards.” When particles of
they become more heated than others with which
for .. connected, the heavier fall downwards, and
ºf th "pwards the lighter. This, in the consideration
the' whole subject, must be regarded, as well as
whi."ºlute power produced by expansion; a power
tre. In its high and explosive state, is the most
as "..ºlously destructive of any known to man; yet,
ſtol * the present case, where a fluid passes merely
lº.ºrm to warmer, it is the most kindly and gen:
that º: that can be imagined—yet if we consider
aci.s generated in the lungs over a space equal to
a. *e whose area is about seventeen feet diameter,
dia °oncentrated in a tube (the aorta) of one inch
ſº. we shall no longer be astonished at the
Sh a 9 the current found there. Suppose one should,
is...ld spring day, place a lens of the diameter of
ti.een feet, so that it would receive the rays of
nº its focus being in diameter one inch—would
th. . force be intense? or suppose (a case in which
on ºs of hydraulics are regarded, and which will
tº account be more directly in point) a machine
injucted like a syringe, with a piston of five yards
i.e., and a spout of one inch bore—how very
§§.”ust be the movement of such a piston to send
tº th from the spout with the velocity of the blood
° aortal
lº. is a short outline of her theory, which,
lºns . she subsequently fills up by strong opin-
the ºsed upon the doubts expressed and urged by
to th ºf distinguished physiologists when objecting
yet."heories previously accepted; and renders it
Sn."º complete and cogent by sagacious remarks
View. "nfrequentl y deduced from experiments—and
acti º her own. The strictures on the heart's
tion. the illustrations given of the venous circula-
the *"d the facts she advances in support of her
Orº and which, she holds, are either suggested
to º ºned by the animal structure itself, appear
soul. Ҽtremely just, and if they should prove un:
tº most certainly they have the likeness of
W, ... iſ .
ºve place to an interesting section from this
the lºwing the opinions of certain writers upon
rt.
Reti
§. be allowed that we have removed these tWO
thé blo º, viz., that concerning the first springing of
into the general circulation of the heart;
§ i. not, however, lose sight of that law of ca-
º whij **ºgnrds its radiation in all possible directions,
*y are i" is transmitted to adjoining substances till
ºn equilibrio.
and second, that of the pulsations of the blood as be-
ing derived from the heart; we shall find expressed,
in one way or another, a general opinion among
those who have examined the subject, that there is
a strong improbability of the heart's action furnish-
ing the cause of so great an effect as the circulation
of the mass of the blood against the obstructions
which it must encounter. Dr. Roget, a late as well
as an able writer, declares himself of opinion that
the heart's action alone is not adequate to produce
the circulation. We will quote his language as to
the great resistances which the force springing from
the aorta must meet; and let the inquirer, as he
reads, stop and reflect how the expansive power, if
allowed, would meet these various obstructions and
overcome these difficulties:—“It will be quite evi-
dent,” says Dr. Roget, “that a very considerable
power is required, in order to enable the heart to pro-
pel the blood through the arteries, when we consider
the enormous resistance opposed to its progress, and
when we also take into account the great velocity
given to it in its motion. The column of blood al-
ready contained in the arterial system, must have its
velocity accelerated in order to admit of the passage
of fresh blood into the aorta. The arteries require
also to be distended for the admission of this addi-
tional quantity of blood every time that the ventricle
contracts. The angles and flexures which the blood
is obliged to ſollow in its course through the vessels
must be the causes of retardation, and must be pro-
ductive of a loss of force, which the muscular power
of the heart is ultimately called upon to supply. The
operation of all these retarding causes is so compli-
cated, that we need not be surprised at the problem
of the force exerted by the heart having baffled the
skill of the best mathematicians, and their calcula-
tions being so widely different from one another
Thus while Keill estimated the power of the left ven-
tricle at only five ounces, Borelli calculated that its
force could not be less than one hundred and eighty
thousand pounds. Dr. Hales computes it to be ex-
actly fifty-one pounds and a half; while Tabor con-
cludes its amount to be one hundred and fifty pounds.
Such irreconcilable results show the futility of most
of the reasonings on which they are founded.” Dr.
Roget further tells us that a query has arisen wheth-
er the arteries by their elasticity do not make up the
deficiencies of the heart's power, and he inclines to
believe that they do. But having no valves except
at the entrance of the aorta, and no vermicular mo-
tion, any contractions which they might make, except
at the aorta, would send as much blood backwards
as forwards. That any such power is afforded by
the arteries is denied by Bichat, Arnott, and others.
We have no objection to allowing that some aid may
thus be received; but still maintain that the expan-
sive is the leading power. *
The following, from the section showing how
nature preserves the requisite and healthful balance
of temperature, will be read with interest -
And let us here mark the kind care with, which
our Creator has guarded the circulation in this re-
spect, by instincts the most remarkable and the most
constant of any with which our animal nature is en-
dued. And first, we notice instinctive respiration.
We must have oxygen to support the internal com-
bustion, and we must have it, every moment; and
nature has made us to feel that the most pressing of
our necessities is, to breathe atmospheric air. Sec-
ondly, we are endued with a feeling of pleasure in
that comfortable warmth, which is the measure of
healthy vibration between internal heat and external
coldness, and on the contrary with a feeling of pain
and suffering from extreme injurious heat, or dan-
gerous coldness. This feeling is intense when that
shuddering cold comes over us which endangers the
444 MRs. will,ARD's TREATISE ON THE BLOOD.
continuance of the circulation. Again: we must not
only have the supporter of combustion, but we must
have the combustible daily renewed. This we derive
from our food and drink, which the instincts of hun-
ger and thirst oblige us to take. After the blood has
passed the arteries it is led into the veins by capil-
lary attraction, and then comes the last grand diffi-
culty in the circulation. When the blood has left the
capillaries, how is it to be liſted back to the heart
and lungst And here we must again notice that
É. of caloric, by which it is transmitted by any
eated body to whatever bodies lie contiguous to it,
until their heat is equal to its own; and by those
bodies to be in like manner transmitted to others;
and so on, until it goes off at the surface. By this
law of the transmission of caloric, all the organs next
the lungs would have the same heat as the lungs;
and thus all the inner parts of the body would have
the transmitted heat derived from the lungs. As
soon as the blood of the capillaries is led on its course
by capillary attraction, being driven onwards by the
arterial current, then as it passes upwards it soon
begins to be warmed, and of course expanded by this
transmitted heat, and as the parts of the body are
more and more warmed as it ascends, it would be
more and more quickened in its upward course; and
as the effect of gravitation would be checked by the
branching out of the system from the top to the bot-
tom, so the ascending current would be accelerated
by the uniting of the branches and the lessening of
the general capacity of the circulating system, but
the returning current occupies the more space, and
therefore has less velocity than that going out from
the heart and lungs. All muscular exercise displa-
ces blood from the veins, which, on account of their
valves, must move towards the heart and lungs.
These causes, together with the suction power, ap-
pear to be fully sufficient to account for the venous
circulation.
There is one consideration respecting the valves
which affords evidence of a design to aid the blood's
circulation. The valves of the heart cutting the col-
umns of blood into shorter columns, their pressure is
diminished, and the same remark applies to the
valves in the veins. Some of the most remarkable
of the variations in the operation of the forces is that
caused by change of position. And first, with re-
gard to the horizontal; and here we see the wisdom
and goodness of the Creator in giving us sleep—the
night to sleep in, and the instinct of weariness to
compel us to lie down. Let us now place horizon-
tally one simple elliptical tube which we have all
along supposed upright, and consider the operations
of the gravitating fluids when in a horizontal posi-
tion; and here, instead of long perpendicular col-
umns of fluid, we have only the diameter of the tube
for the perpendicular pressure, and that is not in any
case much over an inch. Then we have the upward
movement of the expansive power, to balance gravi-
tation, and take off pressure from the base of the
containing vessels. So when the human body is
thus laid recumbent, slight accessions of force will
keep the current in motion; and as the heart's power
works best in this position, it is, probable that it is
proportionally most active at night, and least so dur-
ing the day, when the expansive power works to
the best advantage. Thus the heart may rest during
the day, and the lungs during the night. That a
change of forces takes place in changing from up-
right to recumbent postures, is clearly shown by the
changes in the breathing and in the pulse. This
will be especially apparent in older persons and in
invalids. . The pulse gains from four to six beats in
a minute by rising up. But if it is the power of ex-
pansion which we depend on for daily activity, we
must for this reason regard it as the leading motive
power.
icall
The utilitarian spirit common to the A. §
character peeps out in Mrs. Willard's book tº rom
its close; she could not forbear stepping *.
her main subject to give a few words 0
advice to the young of her own sex; and º r 1.
objecting to this digression, we applaud her to: ".
ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.
rd
When I am speaking to young girls, ſº º:
bless and keep them,) I am in my prºpº"...ou.
Why should it be otherwise f * I have had fiv . II]
sand under my charge, and spent thirty Yº...ader
life devoted to their service; and the gener” them,
will excuse me if I add some further advice... .od.
which the light of this theory will show to be £il 35
If it be so, others may have its benefit as . WS6
they, but it is most natural for me to addr.".
to them. Would you, my dear young laº; llow”
will of God on earth by being useful to you. º jo
beings º Take care of health. Would, y0.
life 2 Take care of health; for without it,
is, for every purpose of enjoyment, worse many
blank. No matter how much wealth or h9.
luxuries you can command, there is no enº.
without health. To an aching head what is "what is
pillow with silken curtains floating above * W e
the cushioned landau and the gardened lands. the
her whose disordered lungs can no longer rºa.
inspirations of an ordinary atmosphere A.us
are books, music, and paintings to her whose ". to
sufferings give disease to her senses, and * r p3.
her frame * Would you smooth for your tende of
rents, the pillow of declining life?' Talº,”.me.
health. And does the “prophetic pencil'.
times trace the form of one whose name, periº. 4.
now unknown, who shall hereafter devote "...on
manly and generous heart, and marriage sº."
the bond Would you be a blessing tº sº...itate,
then now take care of your health; or if you he Iself
let imagination go still further. Fancy . of 50.
feeble as with untimely age, clad in vestmeº ... with
row, and leaving a childless home to walk fort 'your
him to the church-yard, there to weep o'"
buried offspring. Øy
Study . to know your frame, that yº” nº
before it is too late, pursue such a cours” §tion:
secure to you a sound and vigorous consti ther
Study what I have written in this book amº you!
means, and here learn that to be carefu "...on.
health is to accustom yourself to bear, withº'
venience, the full range of temperature to " !. live
must sometimes be exposed by the climatº ) pan;
in. When you go forth, erect your form. O and
your chest, and let your organs of respirº."you!
your cheek meet the full current of air whº...? If
onward motion produces, and sets again.gº.
you have heretofore believed that this was ". th0
ous exposure, and have covered your face ...wis,
wintry air as you went abroad, on foot Q. ot u havº
now learn that this is a mistake. But if Jº...otic
already practised it till your lungs, like * . then
stomach, cannot digest their wholesome alſ."º de'
you must not change your habits at once, . ircII,
grees. Pass no day without invigorating t .cful
lation by exercise more or less energetic. ...ture ſ.
to take regularly the simple diet which "...which
quires, but shun all beverages and condiº"...mach,
unduly excite the nerves and disorder the jung;
for the nerves are the media through whic º that
derive their vital power, and the stoº..."to nº
through which the blood itself is formed;...notivº
purpose is the channel for circulation aſ " . ...tate;
power, if there be no healthy blood tº be ci when i!
Have the good sense to disregard fashiº. dress
would lead you to imprudence in dº sº.ht, ſº
for beauty as well as for health. . That . # exteſ"
God himself has not disregarded beauty"
#
THE BUCHANITES FROM 445
f FIRST To LAST.
hal §tion, and beauty is the child of nature and
§ t;
...licity, not of ornament, extravagance and affec.
i. But study nature's fine models more than
ashion
a.º. Plates, and you will gain in beauty as well
!" health. The attenuated waist and the Chinese
. . not divinely made, but fashion-formed, and
§, nothing better than Superinduced deformities.
IOr º pressure on the lungs, enough has been said
on tº." to remember its danger. But the pressure
live ° Stomach is also deleterious, and that on the
i. may be both fatal to health and destructive of
8t "y. If the vital motions of the liver are ob-
Tucted, the yellow bile pervades and disorders the
ful .*, System, and ruins the complexion. Beca.
..clothe your feet properly, and press them.
**osely. A free circulatiºn cannºt go on if ob-
ºr acted here, and here is the greatest danger of ob-
...elion. Be not over anxious then to have a tiny
i. for undue pressure on the feet, and carelessness
jºing up warmth at the feet by proper covering,
.. Perhaps destroyed as many female lives as uſ.
On ºral pressure on the lungs. Unnatural pressure
º lungs, the stomach, and the liver, annihilates
the *auty of form and complexion, and pressure on
... its finest accompaniment, grace and dignity
th "notion. The French women are allowed to be
will. graceful in the world, and their feet are
Tºy §rown. Taglioni, the very queen of grace, had
º but well-shaped feet. But who thought of this
t.* the dance she seemed to float on air * Then
tou º, could detect no jar when in descending she
ched the floºr, nor any appearance of effort when
ºse, but the wavy line of grace remained un-
Such perfection of movement a very small
of hºld not have allowed. The important office
. . Skin we have already discussed, and you will
is °tter able now to comprehend why “cleanliness
lºt to godliness.” Finally, my dear young friends,
§ by proper clothing the region of the lungs. i
i. believe that a quarter of a yard of flannel, ap-
l ºn due time to the chest, would have saved
that y a death by consu mption. In our cold climate,
Reck $9 many should have lived to so expose the
for breast and shoulders, is only to be accounted
tº. the supposition of the upward tendency of a
§§ agent. But many, by tempting nature too
Yº..." this particular, have gone to untimely graves.
lif.ºve seen how necessary to circulation and to
...the heat of the lungs. Guard it then with a
be ºceeded by no other, except that which should
ºil tº keeping in vigorous flow the ſountain-
sº 9ſ spiritual life. As coldness in this respect
tº. ºf spiritual death, so does the chill which
* the vitals warn of the death of the body.
ºm-mm------
From the Britannia.
Tº
" *hamites from First to Last. By Josepit
RAIN. Dlackwood.
º: history of the Buchanites must be allowed
or jº singular page in the history of imposture
the ...ºnaticism. In 1783 a middle-aged woman in
Cece *"er rank of Scottish life, who had shown an
Joar * perhaps vicious, disposition in her past
and ...ºnounced that she was the Holy Ghost,
Comi °ierred to Rev. xii. 1 , for the prophecy of her
"%. A minister a Irvine, named White, was
ºpiºit.'...earliest converts. In allusion to his
and "al birth by her, he was called the Man Child
tºº. Wils styled the Friend Mother. As the
*ub. of this strange sect increased º Wero
j; º much persecution, and Elspeth Buchan
ºf th:... rowly escaped with her life from the fury
ºt. To avoid prosecution, they formed a
ºncº." at New Cample, and here the sect were
** to hope that their promised translatiºn
tº heaven without death would take place. One of
the most devout of the members, Andrew Innes,
describing the expected translation, says:—
“One evening when we were is usual all em-
ployed, some in the garret and many below, Friend
Mother was in the kitchen surrounded by children,
when, on a sudden, a loud voice was hcard, as if
from the clouds. The children, assisted by our
great luminary, struck up the following hymn:-
“Oh hasten translation, and come resurrection
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air
All the members below instantly started to their
feet, and those in the garret hurried down as fast.
they possibly could through the trap-door; but it
being about midnight, and there being no light in
the house, Mr. Hunter, in the agitation of the mo-
ºnent, and being a feeble old man, tumbled head-
long down the trap-ladder, whilst striving to
descend from the cockloft. In an instant, however,
he bounded from the ground, and, with a voice as
loºd as a trumpet, joined in the general chorus of
‘Hasten translation,’ which every one in the house
sung most vehemently. The bodily agitation be.
°ºmº so, great, with the clapping of hands and
singing, that it is out of my power to convey a just
idea, on paper, of the scene which it occasioned :
everyone thought the blessed moment was arrived ;
and every one singing, leaping, and clapping his
hands, pressed forward to the kitchen, where
Friend Mother sat with great composure, whilst her
face shone so white with the glory of God as to
dazzle the sight of those who beheld it; and her
raiment was as white as snow.
“The noise was so loud that the neighborhood
was alarmed. Thomas Davidson, on. landlord,
came to our door like a man out of his senses ; he
rapped and called at the door till he obtained admis-
sion; and he, too, squeezed into the kitchen, be-
secching her to save him, and the multitude by
whom the house was surrounded, from the pending
destruction, which they apprehended was about to
destroy the world. She told them to . of good
cheer, for neither he nor any of his friends would
Suſſer any damage that night, for she now saw her
people were not sufficiently prepared for the
ºnighty change which she intended them to Uln-
dergo. º
. As the light passed from her countenance she
called for a tobacco-pipe and took a smoke ; and,
as the Oxtraordinary agitation diminished, the peo-
ple without dispersed quictly. How long the
!"mult listed I was not in a state of mind to reco.
lect; but I remember, when daylight appeared, of
having Seen the floor strewed with watches, gold
fings, and a great number of trinkets, which had
been, in the moment of expected translation, thrown
ºway by the possessors as useless, in our expected
Country. We did so, because Elijah threw away
his mantle when he was, in like manner, about to
ascend to heaven. My own watch was of the num-
er. I never saw it more ; but I afterwards learned
that John Gibson, our treasurer, had collected in
the watches and jewellery then thrown away, and
sold them in Dumfries.”
As no miracle ensued, the Friend Mother de-
clared that her followers were not yet ready ſor
translation, and she ordered a fast för forty days.
The society, then, consisting of about sixty mem-
hers, shut themselves up in their house, nailing up
doors and windows; and the fast was by the
greater number rigidly kept, only a little teach.
and water being taken by them, as faintness ap-
446
BIBLICAL LEGENDS OF THE MUSSULMANS.
proached. Some were rescued by magisterial in-
terference, among who were two children, who felt
the effects of the cruel fast for many years after-
wards. The Friend Mother, however, took food
as usual, alleging that, if she did not, her frame
would become so purely spiritual as to be no
longer visible. At the end of the forty days the
people, weak and emaciated to the last degree,
went forth to a neighboring hill, there to wait for
the expected translation. One account of this
singular meeting states:—
“At long and length the glorious day arrived on
which they were all to be taken to the regions
above. Platforms were erected for them to wait on
till the wonderful hour arrived, and Mrs. Buchan's
platform was exalted above all the others. The
hair of each head was cut short, all but a tuft on
the top for the angels to catch by when drawing
them up. The momentous hour came ; every sta-
tion for ascension was occupied ; thus they expect-
ed every moment to be wafted into the land of bliss.
A gust of wind came, but, instead of wafting them
upwards, it capsized Mrs. Buchan, platform and
all !”
Another authority says:—
“So full was Mr. White of the idea of his being
carried aloft without tasting of death, that he
dressed himself in his canonicals, put on his gloves,
and walked about scanning the heavens. Crowds
of country people were looking on, and expecting:
every minute that the sound of the archangel's
trump would break upon their ears.”
After this disappointment the society partially
broke up, and the Friend Mother and the Man
Child were imprisoned, at the suit of some of those
who had suffered from the delusion. When
restored to their followers, a new establishment
was formed at Auchingibbert, and a farm taken.
Here, by their industry, the sect flourished till the
death of the Friend Mother in 1791. She died an-
nouncing her divine nature, and promising to return,
according as the faith of her followers was lively
or slack, at the end of six days, or ten years, or
fifty years. Her coffin was carefully watched, and
the body buried on the seventh day, though against
the wish of some of her disciples, who were loud in
their lamentations.
Another division then took place in the society.
Mr. White, with some of the members, went to
America, and Andrew Innes, with others, removed
to Larghill, a wild moorland farm. By patient in-
dustry this new settlement again became prosper-
ous; in the course of years, Andrew Innēs, with a
female companion, Katie Gardiner, became the sole
survivors. The old man prospered in circumstan-
ces, but he still adhered to his faith in the divine
mission of the Friend Mother. At length the fifty
years announced as the latest period for her return
elapsed, and found old Andrew waiting and praying
in fervent faith for her approach. . . The period
passed by, but Andrew lost none of his hope. He
entrusted all his wealth to a friend, that he might
not be encumbered by it in his ascent to heaven.
In January, 1846, fifty-five years after Elspeth
Buchan's decease, he felt his end approaching, and
prepared to meet it. He settled all his affairs, and
announced his death would take place on the morn-
ing of the third day. His prophecy was one of
those that fulfil themselves. He expired at the ap-
pointed time. As his dearest treasure on earth, he
had kept the mouldering remains of his Friend
Mother buried deep beneath his own hearthstone,
that they might be secured from disturbance, and in
his will he directed that they should be rº.
and laid in the same grave with himself. H.
quest was complied with, and the earth was P
over the tomb of the last of the Buchanies...atry,
In a darker age, or in a more excitable º;
the singular constancy of the Buchanites.” their
self-delusion, their contempt of all social tie; ing,
disregard of wealth, their fortitude under suffer, à
and their energy in action, might have est” 18 Il
a creed; in the faith of Rome, Elspeth #:
would have been a saint; in the East her I Not
White might have been another Mahommed: trime
readily susceptible of enthusiasm, any new *.
rarely finds favor in the minds of Scottish ally :
But when once received, whether by few or mº
it is cherished with the most devoted constal.
guarded with the sternest determination. :"hi
innes has deserved this chronicle of his life bints
nature is a psychological study. In all othº dus.
save that one he was a shrewd, sensible, and .
trious man, though for the world's goods he C in-
nothing. He wrote with great facility, *: th9
stanced that accomplishment as an evidence or "
genuineness of the spirit breathed on him. uch
The author, Mr. Train, has collected * of
curious information, but he seems hardly º,
its importance. The history is not, as he º: S
a mere record of vulgar imposture; in ablº ould
it might have assumed higher value. It wº
require no great power of analogy to trace . rs in
curious resemblance to the origin of some or jºr
Rome, and to show from it a tendency to sel.
sion in the human mind that no evidence can i.
no reason can shake. The moral is ins"...r.
but it requires to be drawn by a skilful and * "jk
ent hand. There are some passages in ...is
having a striking resemblance to the M*
revival scenes of the last century.
———-mº
From the sº
BIBLICAL LEGENDs of The Mussulºt”
...aries
THE sources whence these Mahometan lº.
of the lives of several principal scriptural . s iſ:
ters are drawn, are various Arabic collee. d
continental libraries, together with the Kºi...ier
its commentaries; but it is not clear to us." sin"
Dr. Weil has translated the legends from i. rest
gle authority, merely using the Koran and jet
for purposes of correction or comparison, "...ous
he has himself compiled his book from thº.; the
sources indicated. As regards the substan” eade'
work, this is of small importance ; for the ** at
has obviously the Arabian facts and opiniº lagº
the form would be affected, and perhaps advan ſian
ously—the style seems closer and less flow”
the Oriental. ... doubtſ".
The precise age of these legends is º
Of course, those which are alluded to in thº. ed tº
date back to Mahomet, and Dr. Weil is inclin s th9
attribute most of them to him ; but he dº . falsº
apostle of theism from the charge of wilfu . shº!
fying the Scriptures. . In the first place, ºnlife
it is probable that Mahomet only learned la stion”.
to write or even to read Arabic: it is *". h6
ble that he knew no other language; . º
was therefore obliged to draw his know...”. ſell
Scripture from such Jews and Christiaº ºniº
in with, in an age and country where Chri.
at all events, if not Judaism, was corrupº
atry and overlaid by the most ignorant sup”
* Reprinted as No. 15 of Harpers' New Miscel
tition*
lany-
BIBLICAL LEGENDS OF THE MUSSULMIANS.
447
º
º arguments, however, strike us as a better
*e for Mahomet's opposition to Christianity
... a valid defence against the charge of add-
esand altering. He might have got a corrupt
Sel º of Scripture narratives, and he might him-
believe that they were corrupted; but there
. º doubt of his interpolating the text to an:
i. is own purposes, since nothing could be found
wi. about Mahomet and his advent. Some of the
§. superstitions, especially, those relating to
jº are perhaps Oriental, rather than pecu.
by § Syrian or Arabian ; and they might be used
hot ºne: as a general Eastern belief, if he did
elieve them himself.
s...", persons whose lives are included in these
... are the leading characters of Scripture from
ite º to Christ; but those most elaborately exhib-
are Joseph, Moses, and Solomon, with the
. of the queen of Saba or Sheba. In the lead-
tie acts of the patriarchal lives the Hebrew Scrip-
th. are pretty closely adhered to., Man falls
...?" the weakness of Eve, tempted by the evil
jº who has entered into the serpent; Cain
... Abel; Abraham offers up his son—but it is
i. instead of Isaac, Joseph is hated by his
ises ºn, sold into bondage, resists Potiphar's wife,
bred to be the ruler of Egypt, and deals with his
*en much as it is described in Genesis. The
i. birth and Egyptian training of Moses,
º his ſlight, exile, call, and miracles, are all told
D ºral conformity with the scriptural account.
the ld slays Goliah with the stone, and sins with
di ...iſe of Uriah ; but the punishment is inflicted
ºy upon himself. The life of Solomon is one
sº “tales of the Genii,” which it is probable
I Alahomet only adopted. -
Wi . the narrative of events, however, there is a
nº.gulf between the comprehensive brevity and
...al simplicity of Scripture and these Arabian
thi Positions. R. only is everything told in. de-
paſs *nd the discourse of subordinates and princi-
i.ºpºrted at length, but great additions, are
b." by filling up what Scripture leaves untold, or
fict *grafting unnecessary particulars upon the
"f º, the manner in which Moses was begotten,
Pated haraoh, terrified by his dreams, had antici-
Stati modern poor-law commissioners by the sep:
hijº of the sexes. In the story of Saul, too, all
in... thanity and all the epic interest of his touch-
tº."ºrative escapes. The aptitude of the Scrip-
pur ...theles, or indeed their necessity for the
jº. in hand, is also lost. Wonders, are fre:
like i. multiplied without reason, till they look
ialº tricks of a pantomime rather than the spec-
cho.ºrference of the Deity by the means of his
fab.º. prophets; and some are of the species of
lº.º. by all nations to account for the ap-
go."ºs of nature. The composition is “barbaric
All fi *nd pearl.” Precious stones and metals, with
hes."ºn rarities, are heaped up to mark, great-
§§ the rewards and punishments, especially the
Otto ºnents, are physical, and remind one of the
§ of Dante's Hell; and the machinery of the
tha dIn Nights and the middle age stories of en-
Senii ". predominate. Here is a description of the
º'ho were slaves to Solomon.
#we "ally, another angel brought to him a fourth
ºd', Which bore the inscription, “There is no
By * one, and Mohamed is his messenger.’
§. of this stone,’ said the angel, “thou
Whic ** the dominion over the kingdom of spirits;
and i. much greater than that of man and beasts,
* up the whole space between the earth and
Alaj
heaven. Parts of these spirits,” continued the an-
gel, “believe in the only God, and pray to him; but
others are unbelieving. Some adore the fire; others
the sun; others again the different stars; and many
even the water. The first continually hover round
the pious, to preserve them from every evil and sin;
but the latter seek in every possible manner to tor-
ment and to seduce them ; which they do the morè
easily since they render themselves invisible, or as-
suméany form they please.’ Solomon desired to see
the genii in their original form. The angel rushed like
a column of fire through the air, and soon returned
with a host of demons and genii; whose appalling
appearance filled Solomon, spite of his dominion
over them, with an inward shudder. He had had
no idea that there were such misshapen and fright-
ſul beings in the world. He saw human heads on
the necks of horses, with asses’ feet; the wings
of eagles on the dromedary's back; and the horns
of the gazelle on the head of the peacock. Aston-
ished at this singular union, he prayed the angel to
explain it to him, since Djan, from whom all the
genii were descended, had only a simple form.
‘This is the consequence,' replied the angel, ‘of
their wicked lives, and their shameless intercourse
with men, beasts, and birds; for their desires know
no bounds, and the more they multiply, the more
they degenerate.’”
Trick or circumvention is frequently put forth as
a proof of wisdom. This is the way Solomon
manages to overcome a reluctant genius who had
absconded.
“When Solomon was returning again to Jerusa-
lem, he heard such a noise, proceeding from the
constant hammering of the genii who were occupied
with the building of the temple, that the inhabit-
ants of Jerusalem were no longer able to converse
with each other. He therefore commanded the
spirits to suspend their labors, and inquired whether
none of them was acquainted with a means by
which the various metals might be wrought without
producing such a clamor. Then there stepped out
one from among them, and said, “This is known
only to the mighty Sachr; but he has hitherto suc-
ceeded in escaping from thy dominion.”
“‘Is, then, this Sachrutterly inaccessible?' in-
quired Solomon.
“‘Sachr,’ replied the genius, ‘is stronger than
all of us put together, and is as much our superior
in swiftness as in power. Still, I know... that ho
drinks from a fountain in the province of Hidirºnce
in every month. Perhaps thou mayest succeed, 0.
wise king ! to subdue him to thy sceptre;’, .
“Solomon commanded forthwith a division of
his swift-flying genii to empty the ſountil and to
fill it with intoxicating liquor. Some of them, ho
then ordered to linger in its vicinity, until they
should see Sachr approaching, and then instantly
to return and bring |. word. A few weeks after-
wards, when Solomon was standing, on the terraco
of his palace, he beheld a genius flying from the
direction of Hidir swifter than the wind. The
§§ inquired of him if he brought news respecting
achr. º º:
“‘Sachr is lying overcome, with wine at the
brink of the fountain,” replied the genius, “and we
have bound him with chains as massive as the pil-
lars of thy temple; but he will burst them asunder
as the hair of a virgin when he has slept off his
wine.”
“Solomon then mounted hastily the winged
genius, and in less than an hour was borne to the
fountain. It was high time, for Sachrº had already
448
BIBLICAL LEGENDS OF THE MUSSULMANS.
opened his eyes again ; but his hands and feet were
still chained; so that Solomon set the signet on his
neck without any hindrance.”
The following account of the cause of grey hairs'
is of Rabbinical origin; a source whence a good
many of the more mystical parts have been drawn.
“When Isaac attained the age of manhood,
'Abraham's beard became grey ; which astonished
in not a little, since no man before him had ever
tºurned grey. But Allah had performed this won-
Her that Abraham might be distinguished from
!saac. For as he was a hundred years old when
Sarah bore Isaac, the people of Palestine derided
him, and doubted of Sarah's innocence : but Allah
;"ave to Isaac such a perfect resemblance of his
ºther, that every one who saw him was convinced
of Sarah's conjugal ſidelity. But, to prevent their
''eing mistaken for each other, Allah caused grey
i.airs to grow on Abraham as a mark of distinction;
*ad it is only since that time that the hair loses its
Gºrk color in old age.”
This description of Iſell, though put into the
mouth of Samuel, is taken from the Night Journey
uſ Mahomet; parts of which were too marvellous
for his followers, and had nearly lost him his in-
tiuence.
“He beholds the pious amidst all their felicities
in Paradise, and sinners in their varied agonies in
Hell. Many of them are roaming there like raw-
cnous beasts through barren fields ; they are those
who in this life enjoyed the bounties of Allah, and
gave nothing thereof to the poor.
“Others run to and fro, carrying fresh meat in
one hand and corroded flesh in the other; but as
often as they would put the former into their mouths,
their hands are struck with ſiery rods until they
partake of the putrefied morsel. This is the pun-
Ishment of those who broke their marriage-vow,
and found pleasure in guilty indulgences.
“The bodies of others are terribly swollen, and
are still increasing in bulk : they are such as have
grown rich by money, and whose avarice was in-
satiable.
“The tongues and lips of others are seized and
pinched with iron pincers, as the punishment of
their calumnious and rebellious speeches, by which
they caused so much evil in the earth. -
“Midway between Paradisc and Hell is seated
Adam, the father of the human race, who smiles
with joy as often as the gates of Paradise are thrown
open, and the triumphant cries of the blessed are
horne forth ; but weeps when the gates of Hell are
unclosed and the sighs of the damned penetrate to
his ear.” -
The incarnation offered nºthing repugnant to the
mind of Mahomet. He admitted the miraculous
birth and inspired character of Christ: it was his
godhead to which he objected, and to the crucifix-
ion. This is the Mussulſhan account of that cvent,
and of the resurrection.
“But while the true faith found many followers
abroad, the hatred of the sons of Israel, but espec-
ially of the priests and the heads of the people,
towards Christ, daily waxed in rangor, until at last,
when he had attained the age of thirty-and-three
years, they sought to take his life: but Allah over-
threw their plans, and raised him to heaven unto
himself, while another man, whom Allah had caused
to have a perfect resemblance to him, was put to
death in his stead.
“The further particulars of the last moments of
this prophet are variously narrated by the learned ;
but most of them run as follows. On the evening
before the passover feast, the Jews took º
captive, together with his apostles, aud ...
up in a house, with the intention of putting Ҽut
publicly to death on the following mº, salt
in the night Allah revealed to him, ‘ Thou º
receivedeath from me, but immediately afte:* wer
raised up to heaven, and be delivered from thºſ." and
of the unbelievers.” Christ gave up his spirit.”.
remained dead for the space of three lº. and
the fourth hour the angel Gabriel appeal...w
raised him unperceived by any through a Y”
into heaven. But an unbelieving Jew, * ig
stolen into the house to watch Christ, that lº ".
by no means escape, became so like him.º.º.
the apostles themselves took him to be their pº *
He it was who, as soon as the day dawn" is
chained by the Jews and led through the sº thou
Jerusalem, everybody crying to him, ‘Ha* t
not revived the dead! why shouldest thº.in
able to break thy fetters!” Many pricked lº. at
rods of thorn, others spat in his face, until c he
last arrived at the place of execution, wº. W
was crucifici; for no one would believe that"
not the Christ. d from
“But when Mary had well nigh succu. Oſlº
grief at the shameful death of her suppos” sai
Christ appeared to her from heaven, and him."
‘ Mourn not for me, for Allah has taken mºie
self, and we shall be reinited in the dºm
resurrection. Comfort my disciples, and tell they
that it is well with me in heaven, and th. 6
shall obtain a place beside me if they "...ch
steadfast in the faith. Hereafter, at the *...th,
of the last day, I shall be sent again upon tº the
when I shall slay the false prophet Dadja!...in
wild boar, (both of which cause similar diº.
the earth,) and such a state of peace º' |l ſecº
shall ensué that the lamb and the hyaenº sº".
like brothers beside each other. I shall tº...ii;
the Gospel, which has been falsified by º ped
priests, and the crosses which they have wº | ſlº
as gods, and subject the whole earth to the "...s.'
of Mohamed, who shall be sent in later." mor"
When Christ had thus spoken, he was on”
lifted on a cloud to heaven.”
From thesespecimens a judgment may”
of the reading that will be found in the
Legends of the Mussulmans. The greateſ... the
however, is of a critical kind, and arises,” “with
opportunity of comparing the later Art, *...ºr
the Hebrew—the human with the inspired | of 9
sition, it is a curious book, and well wor”
place in the library.
me!
º
tercºº
ſº
SELF, SELF-IURTER.—When God, at the her f
of judgment, arraigned Eve, she transſeº.one of
on the serpent which beguiled her. This wº veſ
the first-fruits of our depraved natuº;....”ic coº.
after regenerate men in Scripture, makinä. cas'
fession of their sins, (whereof many preçº º *heſ,
all the fault on themselves alone : yed, . tº:
he numbered the people, though it be ºpa".
Satan provoked him thereunto, and th. ye! h6
probably might be sensible of his temptº", it 9.
#over accused the devil, but derived all,”..., ſº
himself: it is iſ that have sinned: good º ... fir:
Satan hath no impulsive power; he may º) º:
till he be weary (if his malice can be yº. cannº
man's corruption brings the tinder, the *: cour:”
be lighted. Away, then, with that plea igº,
The pevil, owed Me A silaME. Owe º, is will.
but pay thee he could not, unless th9. wº smº" #lleſ.
to take his black money, as he to tender it.
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVEP, ATIONS.
449
From the Westminster dnd Foreign Quarterly Review, (now
united.)
l. Thoughts on Animalcules; or, a Glimpse at the
Invisible World revealed by the Microscope.
By GIDEoN A. MANTELL, LL.D. London: John
Murray. 1846. pp. 144.
• Microscopic Manipulation, containing the Theory
and Plain Instructions for the Use of the
Microscope. Illustrated by Wood-cuts. T. &
3. R.Willātts, 98 Cheapside, 1846, pp. 59.
4 History of Infusoria–Living and Fossil,
arranged according to “Die Infusionsthier-
then * of C. G. Ehrenberg. By ANDREw
PRITch And, M.R.I. London: Whittaker &
1. So...1845, pp. 439.
Traité Pratique du Microscope, et de son Emploi
dans l’Etude des Corps Organisés, par le
Docteur L. Mandl. Paris; and Baillière, Re-
gent Street, London.
THE fallibility of human judgment is never more
..]y shown than in many of the predictions
...itatingly made and authoritatively enforced, in
*tion to any new scientific discovery, or its appli-
"on to the onward progress of human knowledge,
Il tº the wants and comforts of mankind. We do
*allude to the mere ignorant assertions of igno-
* and self-sufficient men, who appear to regret
iza .endeavor to oppose every forward step in civil-
i. and who, despite the constant failu.e of
Wi. prophecies, still receive any scientific novelty
incredulity, or treat its discoverer with con-
Pt and scorn: but we speak of the assertions
.." by men whose whole lives have been devoted
th Philosophical inquiry, and whose minds have
...fore been matured by deep study and a con-
... observation of those phenomena concerning
hich they so unhesitatingly and so incautiously
Proph Numberless examples of this fact pre-
c
Ot
Phesy.
Ilt º to our recollection ; but we will
§ºnt ourselves with reference to two only;
in . it was first proposed to substitute gas for oil
Hu e, illumination of the streets of London, Sir
tic ºphrey Davy asserted that it would be as prac-
*le to cut a slice from the moon, and use it as
Nº. uminating power. And yet but a few years
... ºver before not only the metropolis, but every
"incial town had its gas-works and its gas illumi-
im 9n-the hopes of those who had suggested the
; *ovement were fulfilled—the prediction of the
Q
p
ºt philosopher of that day was but a ground-
tic ºpprehension.” And again, when Transatlan-
...in navigation was proposed, Dr. Lardner
wººed, in the most unqualified manner, that it
* impossible that any steam vessel could traverse
º The prediction was scarcely made
* ere the task was accomplished.t
#
U.9. this subject it may not be uninteresting to add
On t ºuring the winter months, sao tons of coal are used,
nie." average, per day, by the Metropolitan Gas Compa-
off...or the manufacture of gas; and that, on the 24th
in ººmber, seven million cubic feet of gas are consumed
infº ºdon and the suburbs. We are indebted for this
Sãº.iºn to a paper read before the last Meeting of the
*ical Society by Mr. Fictcher.
is ... Lardner's prophecy was delivered before the Brit-
Wol, isociation, and was published in the “Athenæum,”
ofs. P. 656. He computed that for each horse-power
Riles *"...one ton of coals would be required for every 1425
he, i. Taking this as a basis of the calculation,” said
Pow º allowing one fourth of a ton of coals per horse-
$nd in * spare fuel, the tonnage necessary for the fuel
Would Shinery, on a voyage from England to New York
With e $3.70 tons per horse-power, which, for a vesse
Nº. §§gines of 400 horse-power, would be 1480 tons.”
: as the ship referred to was only intended to be 1200
QQ1,
*
We are naturally led to these remarks in refer-
ring to the history of one of the most beautiful and
perfect instruments with which modern science has
furnished the philosopher—the compound Micro-
scope. For a long period this instrument was con-
sidered a mere philosophical toy, owing to the
distance which the light had to traverse, and the
consequent increase of the chromatic and spherical
aberration; and so impossible did it appear to over-
come this difficulty that, within thirty years of the
present period, philosophers of no less eminence
than M. Biot and Dr. Wollaston predicted that the
compound would never rival the simple microscope,
and that the idea of rendering its object-glasses
achromatic was hopeless. Nor can these opinions
be wondered at, when we consider how long the
achromatic telescope had existed without any
attempt to apply its principles to the compound
microscope. And if we recollect further the small-
ness of the pencil required by the microscope, and
the enormous increase of difficulty attending every
enlargement of the pencil; if we consider further
that these difficulties had to be contended with and
removed, by operations on portions of glass so small
that they were themselves almost microscopic
objects; we shall not be surprised that even a cau-
tious philosopher and able manipulator like Dr.
Wollaston should prescribe limits to its improve-
Iſlent.
Such is the picture with which we are presented
if we inquire into the use of the microscope thirty
years since. Fortunately, however, for science
generally, these apprehensions of Wollaston have
proved false ; undeterred by the assertion of author-
ities of such eminence, philosophers and opticians
have conjointly devoted their energies to a task at
first apparently so hopeless, the result of which has
been that the improvements thus effected during the
last fifteen years have sufficed to elevate the micro-
scope from the useless condition we have described
to that of being the most important instrument ever
bestowed by art upon the investigator of nature.
In almost every department of science are we
indebted to it for the extension of our knowledge,
and the verification of previous observation. É.
the chemist it is of utility in the examination of
crystals, and the determination of their angles—to
the pharmacist, in the detection of the adulteration
of drugs. The physiologist may ascertain the inti-
mate structure of organic tissues in their normal, the
pathologist in their abnormal state; the physician
may obtain conclusive and satisfactory evidence
regarding the nature and seat of disease by the
examination of the secretions or excretions of dis-
eased organs, while, in medico-legal inquiries, the
microscope again comes to our aid, in detecting
the murderer, and rendering him back le poison
grain for grain. To it, recently, has geology been
greatly indebted; in the hands of an Owen and a
Mantell the microscope becomes an instrument of
magic power, by means of which, from the inspec-
tion of a portion only of a bone or tooth, the habits
of the animal to which it belonged are decided; the
colossal reptiles of the ancient earth are revived in
all the reality of life and being, and the early for-
tons burden, which was afterwards increased to 1340 tons,
the voyage was dº.” impracticable. And yet
the Great Western completed her first voyage across the
Atlantic in fifteen days. Upon after examination it turned
out that, although the computations of Dr. Lardner were
correct, his data were wrong. Instead of the 1480 tons,
which it was E. the Great Western would have to
burn, she took out only 660 tons, of which only 450 tons
were consumed.
450
THE Microscore AND ITS REVELATIONS.
mations of our globe decked with their former inhab-
itants and the vegetation which clothed them long
ere man “moved, and breathed, and had his
being.”
But perhaps in the departments of botany and
zoology have the most extensive discoveries been
effected by this instrument. A new world of micro-
scopic life previously unknown and unsuspected has
been disclosed, whose extent and wonders naturally
excite in the human mind unbounded astonishment,
and increase our reverence for the Great Creator,
who, in the organization of these beings of a day,
displays design as extensive, and adaptation as com-
plete, as in the structure of man himself. An
extract from the opening remarks of one of the
works before us will convey some faint idea of this
microscopic world:
“Wherever we turn, within the precincts of our
own homes, in meadow or moorland, hill or forest,
by the lone sea-shore or amidst crumbling ruins—
fresh objects of interest are constantly to be found;
plants and animals unknown to our unaided vision,
with minute organs perfectly adapted to their neces-
sities; with appetites as keen, enjoyments as perfect,
as our own. In the purest waters, as well as in
thick, acid, and saline fluids, of the most indifferent
climates—in springs, rivers, lakes and seas—often
* * * in the internal humidity of living plants and animals,
even in great numbers in the living human body—
nay, probably carried about in the aqueous vapors
and dust of the whole atmosphere—there is a
world of minute, living, organized beings, imper-
ceptible to the ordinary senses of man. In the daily
course of life, this immense mysterious kingdom
of diminutive living beings is unnoticed and disre-
garded; but it appears great and astonishing,
beyond all expectation, to the retired observer who
views it by the aid of the microscope. In every
drop of standing water, he very frequently, though
not always, sees by its aid rapidly moving bodies,
from 1-96 to less than 1-2000 of a line in diameter,
which are often so crowded together, that the inter-
vals between them are less than their diameter. If
we assume the size of the drop of water to be one
cubic line, and the intervals, though they are often
smaller, to be equal to the diameter of the bodies,
we may easily calculate, without exaggeration, that
such a drop is inhabited by from one hundred thou-
sand to one thousand millions of such animalcules;
in fact we must come to the conclusion, that a
single drop of water, under such circumstances,
contains more inhabitants than there are individuals
of the human race upon our planet. If, further, we
reflect on the amount of life in a large quantity of
water, in a ditch or pond, for example—or if we
calculate that, according to many observers of the
sea, and especially of its . phosphorescence, VaSt
tracts of the ocean periodically exhibit a similar
development of masses of microscopic organized
bodies—even if we assume much greater intervals
—we have numbers and relations of creatures living
on the earth, invisible to the naked eye, at the very
"thought of which the mind is lost in wonder and
admiration. It is the microscope alone which has
enabled close observers of nature to unveil such a
world of her diminutive creation, just as it was the
art of making good telescopes which first opened to
their view the boundless variety, and all the wonders
of the starry firmament.”—“Microscopic Manipula-
‘tion,” pp. 13, 14.
Who can wonder, then, that this world of micro-
ccopic life should, upon its first discovery, have
been represented by fanciful writers as a world of
spirits, peopled by forms not to be compared i.
those of the visible world; sometimes horrible,
sometimes strangely distorted, neither prº.
animate, nor yet properly inanimate. Some lº.
represented them as the wanton sport of the creaſ.
energy of nature (lusus natura;) and even in . i
an otherwise respectable writer described in .
the magic powers with which some of these ſom
were said to be endowed. It is not, hº.
merely the singularity and minuteness of their * 6
that have excited the greatest interest, but .
wonderful physiological properties ascribed tº º:
Infusoria by different observers have attracted tº
attention of all the friends of science, and 9 º
most learned and profound inquirers, from Liebnitz
and Boerhaave down to the present time. . . f
Before we proceed to speak of the revelations ".
the microscope, it will be interesting tºº.
retrospective glance at its history, which, like ".
of many other valuable inventions, is veiled in .
siderable obscurity by the lapse of time. It *. C
certain that the ancients were acquainted with º
microscope, in one at least of the simple forms nºw
known, from the following passage in Senecº
“Literac, quamvis minutae et obscurac, per vitream
pilam aqua plenam, majores claigresque. ".
tur.” Amongst the moderns (for during,' )
middle ages it appears to have been entirely lost
the honor of its discovery has been claimed by .
individuals. By Huygens, the celebrated Tu"
mathematician, its invention is attributed to one ".
his countrymen, Cornelius Drebell. But it is ".
serted by Borellus, that Jansen, the reputed tº
triver of the telescope, was its inventor, and that he
presented some such instrument to Prince Maurice,
and Albert, Archduke of Austria. This instrum"
was six feet in length, and consisted of a tube .
gilt copper, supported by thin brass pillars in º
shape of dolphins, on a base of ebony, which ...
adapted to hold the objects to be examined. O
internal construction of this microscope we havº º
account, though there is reason to believe thº' fl.
was nothing more than a telescope converted i".
microscope. For ourselves, we arc inclined
give to Jansen the merit of having invente' | §
microscope from this very testimony of Borcl .
who, in a work” published in 1655, has adduº. iO
great deal of evidence connected with the inven. º
of the telescope and microscope. He brings *
ward five different testimonies, and a letter."
William Borcel, envoy from the States of Hol. %
which throw considerable light on the sº.
Boreel was intimately acquainted with Zaºl. S
Jansen, and had frequently been in his fat!". re
shop. He had often heard that the Jansens wº
the inventors of the microscope, and having hºº
England in 1619, he saw in the hands of his tº.
Cornelius Drebell the very microscope which icC
charius Jansen had presented to Prince Mºţ.
and Albert, Archduke of Austria. Cornelius re
bell, therefore, who has commonly been cons' . 70
as the inventor of the microscope, appears to." CC
derived this honor from the accidental circums"
of his having exhibited the microscope ma".
Jansen; and as he was a favorite at the court t
James the Sixth, where he lived some tº...n
opinion may have proceeded not only from * VOT.
arrogance, but from the influence of royal º
Viviani, an Italian mathematician, also expº
informs us, in his life of Galileo, that
this great
* º O
man was led to the construction of the micrº
* De Vero Telescopii Inventore,

THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS. T.
45]
from that of the telescope; and in the year 1612, he
§tually sent a microscope to Sigismund, King of
oland. Dissatisfied, however, with the perform-
unce of this instrument, he appears from his letters
!9 have been much occupied about 1624 in bringing
* to perfection, but we have no information of the
§sult of his labors. In the year 1618, Fontana, a
eapolitan, made a microscope of two double-con-
Vºx lenses, and wrote an account of it in a work,”
Which, however, was not published till some years
ºfterwards. As there is no reason to believe that
10 microscopes invented by Jansen consisted of two
$onvex lenses, the honor of this improvement seems
ºe to Fontana, who distinctly assumes the merit
ºf it, and we may add that no other person has laid
dlm to it.
"or a long period, curious as the fact may now
*ppear, the single microscope was that generally in
lse, the compound instrument, as we have already
*marked, being regarded as a mere philosophical
*y. Soon after the year 1820, a series of experi-
'hents was begun in France by M. Selligne; and
*multaneously by Frauenhofer, at Munich; by
mici, at Modena; by Chevalier, at Paris; and by
the late Mr. Tulley, of London. In 1824, the last.
ºned artist, at the instigation of Dr. Goring, and
Without knowing what had been done on the conti-
"ºnt, made an attempt to construct an achromatic
ºject-glass for a compound microscope, and pro-
ºiced one of 9-10ths of an inch focal length, com-
Pºsed of three lenses, and transmitting a pencil of
*ghteen degrees. This was the first that was
ºde in England. While these practical investiga-
9ns were in progress, the subject of achromatism
°ngaged the attention of some of the most profound
\athematicians in England. Sir John Herschel,
rofessor Airy, Professor Barlow, Mr. Coddington,
and others, contributed largely to the theoretical
*xamination of the subject; and though the results
ºf their labors were not immediately applicable to
e microscope, they essentially promoted its im-
ºnent, etween this period and the year 1829,
Mr. Joseph Jackson Lister had directed his atten-
"ºn more particularly to this subject, and he was
*d to the discovery of certain properties in achro-
*atic combinations which had before been unob-
*rved. A paper on the subject was sent º him
º, and published by, the Royal Society. To the
actical optician the investigations and results of
t. Lister proved to be of the highest value: the
Tºgress of improvement was, in consequence,
ºxtremely rapid; and since that period, owing to the
.gy and exertions of Messrs. Ross, Pritchard,
9Well, Smith, and other well-known London opti-
ºns, every year has served to bring this instrument
ºarer to perfection. Nor must we forget to bear
§.mony to the exertions of the Microscopical
ºciety, which was founded some few years since,
With the express object of rendering the microscope
ºre available as an aid to scientific research, by
roducing improvements into its construction.
jº of the papers which have been read before
| Society are of the most interesting description;
it may safely be affirmed, that the exertions
"d researches of its members, amongst whom are
º of the most celebrated men of the present day,
i the various departments of zoology, botany,
§ºlºgy, and geology, have tended to give a
b increase to our knowledge in this fascinating
*nch of physical science.
* : - º º
N ‘Noves Terrestrium et Celestium Observationes.”—
*ap. 1646 -
f : Philosophical Transactions” for 1830.
In an article like the present it would be useless
to attempt to give any account of the construction
of the microscope, of the optical principles on which
such construction depends, or of its manipulation.
We must content ourselves with referring the
reader, who is desirous of acquainting himself with
these matters, to the second work in the list which
heads this paper, a concise treatise on the manipu-
lation of the microscope, the mode of sclecting and
mounting objects, &c.
We turn now to the consideration of the wondrous
revelations of this instrument; and we will first
speak of that vast world of animal life with which,
but for its aid, we should be wholly unacquainted.
It would be utterly impossible for us, within the
limits to which we are confined, to give a detailed
account of all the animalcules which, under the
name of Infusoria, have been examined, described,
and figured by the naturalists who have devoted
themselves to this branch of study. Our endeavors
in the present article must necessarily be confined
to the attempt to present to the general reader a
view of the extraordinary edifice reared by means
of the microscope in the field of physical science,
and to show how the eye of man is here opened to
penetrate the most profound, and formerly unsus-
pected, secrets of nature.
The vast numbers of animalcules with which the
microscope has made us acquainted, were first
detected in water in which vegetable matters, such
as hay, grass, &c., had been allowed to macerate;
and as they were almost invariably found in such
infusions, it was considered by early investigators
that they were peculiar to them; hence the general
term Infuson 1A was given to them ; and although
it is now known that these vegetable infusions have
no relation to the origin of such creatures, except
in so far as they provide a proper medium for the
development of their ova, everywhere present;
yet, for the sake of convenience, the general term
“Infusoria” is still retained by naturalists. Per-
haps the best general idea of the appearance of
some of these animalcules to an observer, for the
first time, will be given by the following extract
from Dr. Mantell's work:—
“From some water containing aquatic plants,
collected from a pond on Clapham Common, Í
select a small twig, to which are attached a few
delicate flakes, apparently of slime or jelly; some
minute fibres standing erect here and there on the
twig are also dimly visible to the naked eye. ...This
twig, with a drop or two of water, we will put
between two thin plates of glass, and place under
the field of view of a microscope, having lenses
that magnify the image of an object two hun-
dred times in linear dimensions. Upon looking
through the instrument we find the fluid swarming
with animals of various shapes and magnitudes.
Some are darting through the water, with great
rapidity, while others are pursuing and devouring
creatures more infinitesimal than themselves. Man
are attached to the twig by long delicate threads,
(the Vorticellae;) several have their bodies inclosed
in a transparent tube, from one end of which the
animal partly protrudes, and then recedes, (the
Floscularia: ;) while numbers are covered by an
elegant sheli or case, (the Brachionus.) The
minutest kinds, (the Monads.) many of which are
so small that millions might be contained in a sin-
gle drop of water, appear like mere animated glob-
ules, free, single, and of various colors, sporting
about in every direction. Numerous species resem.
ble pearly or opaline cups or vases, fringed round
452 THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
the margin with delicate fibres that are in constant
oscillation, (the Vorticellae.) Some of these are
attached by spiral tendrils; others are united by a
slender stem to one common trunk, appearing like
a bunch of harebells, (the Carchesium;) others are
of a globular form, and grouped together in a
definite pattern on a tabular or spherical membrane-
ous case for a certain period of their existence, and
ultimately become detached and locomotive, (the
Gonium and Volvox;) while many are permanently
clustered together, and die if separated from the
parent mass. No organs of progressive motion,
similar to those of beasts, birds, or fishes, are
observable in these beings; yet they traverse the
water with rapidity, without the aid of limbs or
fins; and though many species are destitute of eyes,
yet all possess an accurate perception of the pres-
ence of other bodies, and pursue and capture their
prey with unerring purpose.”—“Thoughts on Ani-
malcules,” pp. 9, 10.
Much as has been done in this department of
science, our knowledge of the infusory beings is
still limited; but there is every reason to believe
that they do not take their station among the links
of the animal chain according to their dimensions,
but from their structure. The simplest and small-
est is as much an animal as the prouder examples
of nature's works; and it is equally the object of
the Creator's care and contrivance. To Ehrenberg
are we indebted for a classification of the Infusoria,
which has been followed and adopted by all subse-
quent philosophers. He divides them into two
classes. First, The PolyGASTRIA ; and, secondly,
The RotATor1A.
The Polygastria, or Polygastrica, are, as the
name would imply, a natural group of animals
characterized by the digestive organ being com-
posed of several little globular bladders connected
*to each other by a common tube; and these globu-
ilar tubes receive and digest the matter on which the
animalcule feeds when in a sufficiently comminuted
or divided state. . That this is their real organiza-
tion we have evident proof; for, by an ingenious
process, first adopted, we believe, by Gleichen von
}. these little cavities occurring in the
bodies of the polygastria can be more minutely
cxamined. The process to which we allude was
that of coloring the water in which the animalcules
were contained by carmine or indigo. The tinged
water was thus traced from cavity to cavity until
its final ejection from the last of the series. The
Polygastria present great diversity both of figure
and dimensions. None of them exceed the twelfth
of an inch in length, and some of the smaller spe-
cies, even when full-grown, are but the two-
thousandth part of that measure; indeed, so minute
must be many of the young of these Infusoria that
they cannot be recognized by Qur microscopes.
Again, others individually so small as to be almost
invisible, form, when aggregated, green, red, yel-
low, blue, brown, and black colored masses of
great extent. Thus the clusters in some species
in the families Vorticella and Bacillaria increase to
such an extent that they attain a size of several
inches, resembling Polypi. The greater number of
olygastria are found in fresh water, but there are
also countless hosts contained in the salt water of
the ocean, in astringent solutions, in fluids produced
by animal secretions, in humid earth, peat-bogs, and
morasses. They may also be artificially produced
by macerating hay, grass, horses' hair, black pep-
per, and a vast variety of other organic matters in
water. It is highly probable that some kinds
reside in the vapor of the atmosphere, in which,
from their light, they may be raised in countles*
multitudes, and blown about by the wind in invº
ble cloud-like masses. In none of the animals of th9
class Polygastrica can a vascular system be trace"
In many species there is demonstration of the exis".
ence of eyes, and from the movements and habitº
of the animál there can be but little doubt that
organs of touch and sensation also exist, though n°
definite nervous system has been detected. g
The whole of the movements of the Polygastrº”
(and the same remark holds good, to a certa”
extent, of all the Infusoria) are performed by vibrº
tile cilia, a series of delicate hair-like processes,
which differ only in the several types in number.
position, and relative magnitude. These delica”
appendages, which have received the name 9
“cilia,” from their supposed resemblance to thº
eye-lashes, are constantly in motion, rapidly vibrak
ing in the water. In some species of the Infuso."
they are distributed over the whole surface of the
body; in others they are disposed in one or monº
circles round the mouth or aperture of the digestivº
organs; and in some are arranged in zones on 90°
or more circular or semi-circular projections on thº
upper part of the body. In the last modification,
the successive action of the rows of cilia produçº
the appearance of a rotatory motion like that of *
wheel on its axis. And this resemblance is $9
striking as to have induced Ehrenberg to classily
all the animals possessing this character in his
second division, of which we shall hereafter havº
to speak, namely, the Rotatoria. The chief us.”
of these cilia is to bring the food to the mou!"
by the currents produced by them in the water
aération, and in those species requiring it, progrešº
sion is performed by the agency of the same organ.
In the rapid motion of these cilia we have prook*
of a muscular system; for, reasoning from 09"
present state of knowledge, we can in no way SøP"
arate animal motion from muscular fibre. Thre"
berg, indeed, believed that he had discovered muń.
cles, and even the distribution of their fibres, *
some of the larger Polygastria, but great dou
still exists on the subject.
The Polygastria, when examined at night, *
found to be as actively in motion as during tº
day; in fact, they never seem to require repos.
or, in the words of Ehrenberg, they appear to
sleepless. Their geographical distribution is.”
most universal of the animal kingdom. It,”
l:nown to extend over the whole of Europe, the
north of Africa, the west and north of Asºº
and species have also been observed in Anº.
The largest and most generally distributed ſa.
of this class is the Bacillaria, its species cquail.".
one fourth of the whole. Fossil states of th”
curious family are known in Europe, Africa, º,
Isle of Bourbon, the Isle of Lucan, among " f
Philippines, and America. These remains ºn.
into some of the new red sandstone formatiº.
also into the layers of flints of the secondary for"
tions, certain porphyrite structures, &c. i-
It is a remarkable fact that one half of the ſº.
lies belonging to this class, Polygastria, arº º
cated, and the other half are illoricated. ' ; at
former, the most curious discovery of late 18 th r-
by M. Fischer, of the siliceous or glass-like Ҽ O
ing of many species, and although the º tl”
which they belong may have been dead for . *
sands of years, yet these remains inform us of d
local conditions of the soil at the time they e.1.
In the Polygastria Infusoria, these shell-like *
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
453
ºngs consist either of lime, silex, or iron; and these
retain their form and structure for unlimited periods
9f time. From the inconceivable number of these
ºricated animalcules which swarm in every body
of water, whether fresh or salt, and the immense
ºpidity with which the species increase by spon-
taneous fissuration, gemmation, and ova-position,
extensive deposits or strata of their cases are con-
stantly forming at the bottom of lakes, rivers, and
Seas. Hence have originated the layers of white
"alcareous earth, common in peat-bogs, and mo-
*asses; the tripoli or polishing slate of Bilin, con-
Sisting wholly of the siliceous cases of animalcules;
and the bog-iron, composed of the ferruginous
Shields of other forms of Polygastria. These shell-
ike coverings are often found in large masses, cov-
ering many miles of the earth's suface, and occur,
When indurated and mixed with argillaceous and
ºther earths, in the form of siliceous slate rocks.
hese remains of the primeval inhabitants of our
globe are records in the pages of history, penned
by Infinite Truth, unbiassed by ignorance or preju-
dice, and form some of the first-fruits of the effec-
tive application of achromatic glasses to our micro-
Scopes
#. propagation of the Polygastria is effected in
'three different ways; and, what is still more cu-
flous, all these modes of reproduction may go on
ºn the same animalcule at the same time. The
first of these modes is the formation of ova, or eggs,
* very fertile mode of increase; the second consists
ºn the growth of gemmules, or buds, upon the pa-
rent; and the last, and most extraordinary, is the
Spontaneous self-division of the body of the animal-
cule into two or more individuals.
this process may readily be observed. When it is
about to take place, the granules within the integ-
ument or outer case seem to be divided by a trans-
verse line; this gradually becomes more apparent;
and, at length, the containing case itself contracts
along the course of this line, and the Monad ap-
pears double. Both parts now have an impulse to
separate, and an entire division soon takes place ;
the two become perfect individuals, and swim offin
opposite directions. When we take into consider-
ation all these methods of increase possessed by
these extraordinary beings, we can no longer won:
der at their otherwise incomprehensible increase of
number in a very short space of time. Ehrenberg
himself remarks “on the astonishing great fertility
or capacity of increase of microscopic animals, ac-
$ording to which an imperceptible corposcule can
ecome, in four days, one hundred and seventy bil-
tons, or as many single animalcules as are con-
tained in two cubic feet of the stone from the
\ºing slate of Bilin.” In some of the larger
olygastria a single specimen is ascertained to in-
§rease to eight, by simple transverse division of the
ody only, in one day; so that, if we take into this
account the other modes of increase of these crea-
tures, namely, by eggs, often in masses like the
spawn of a fish, and again by buds growing from
the sides of the body, it is clear, in a very few days,
All attempt at the expression of their number must
*il. We turn now to the next class, according to
the arrangement of Ehrenberg, the Rotatoria, the
Whole of which tribe of beings possess an organiza-
ion far more complete than that of the Polygastria;
* Complete, indeed, that, in a correct arrangement
§ the animal kingdom, they would take up a sta-
on far above many others, the individuals of which
* of much larger magnitude. As we have
already said, the term by which the class is distin-
*
In the Monads,
guished, has been given on account of the appear-
ance assumed by the zones, or rows of cilia arrang-
ed on circular or semi-circular eminences around
the upper part of the body; when rapidly vibrating,
their motion so closely resembles that produced by
the rotation of a wheel, that every one who ob-
serves the phenomenon is struck by the similitude.
In some species these cilia are in a single series;
in others, in several rows of different forms; and in
one genus (Stephanoceros) they assume the char-
acter of ciliated tentacula rather than that of simplo
vibrating processes. The Rotatoria mostly inhabit
water, but immersion in that element does not ap-
pear to be essential to their existence. They often
reside in damp or moist earth; and the Rotifer vul-
garis, and some other species, are known to inhabit
the cells of mosses and algae. With regard to
their geographical distribution, they do not appear
to be confined to any particular part of Europe, and
they have been found in the north of Africa, the
north and west of Asia, and in some parts of
America.
With regard to their structure and organization,
the observations of microscopists have given us
more decided information than concerning those of
the Polygastria. We have in this class complete
proof of the development of distinct muscles subser-
vient to the functions of locomotion, nutrition, &c.,
and the transparency of the integument, or case,
enables the observer to render, by aid of the micro-
scope, their structure and situation distinctly visible.
Many species possess a foot-like non-articulated
process situated at the ventral surface of the
posterior part of the body. This pedicle has usu-
ally the faculty of being able to slide one part with-
in another, and presents to the observer the same
effect as the moving of the sliding tubes of an opera-
glass or telescope. The extremity is often formed
with a sucker at its termination, so that the animal,
by exhausting the cavity of air, can fix its body
during the rapid motions of the cilia; and without
this power of attachment the upper part of the body
would be drawn in by the action of these organs.
The pedicle is likewise employed as an instrument
of progression, the animal alternately contracting
and elongating it, and fixing itself by it and the
mouth. The digestive canal is a tube more or less
straight, sometimes expanded in the middle. There
is also a chewing apparatus, situate at the com-
mencement of the oesophagus, surrounded by mus-
cular masses and armed with teeth, which, by pres-
sure, may be detached from the animal, and exam-
ined separately under the microscope. The number
and arrangement of the teeth in the different species
are so distinct, that Ehrenberg asserts that the Ro-
tifera might almost be arranged like quadrupeds,
according to their teeth. . . In some genera, the
stomach is furnished with biliary glands, while in
others gall-ducts have been observed. With regard
to the vascular system in the Rotatorial Infusoria,
much doubt still exists on the subject. In some of
the animalcules, transverse vessels are observed,
which have the appearance of articulations; in
others, these vessels resemble a net-work; which
is more or less distinct, below the edges of the
mouth, and connected by free longitudinal ones to
the interior ventral surface of the body. Respiration,
or, more properly, the aëration of the fluids, is
effected in the Rotifera by the constant introduction
of fresh water through one or more apertures near
the neck; and in some kinds there are internal oval
bodies, composed of granules or corpuscules, which
have a constantly tremulous motion, and are sup-
454
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
posed to perſorm the office of branchia or gills:
this, at least, is the function ascribed to them by
Ehrenberg, and he further considered that the
tremulous motion was occasioned by the lamina or
leaflets that compose them. The Rotatoria are not
considered to possess a true nervous system,
although there are indications of nervous centres,
or ganglia, in several genera. Many species have
eyes, which vary in number; they are usually of a
red color; in some they are placed upon a ganglion,
and are freely movable beneath the transparent
superficial envelope of the body.
he Rotatorial Infusoria are not endowed with
the various faculties of propagation which we have
already described as appertaining to the Polygas-
tria. Reproduction in all cases is effected by
means of ova. Some kinds are oviparous, others
viviparous. An elongated bag or sack, in which
the eggs are formed, is distinctly visible; but few
eggs are developed at the same time. The ova in
many species equal in size one third of the body of
the animalcule ; like the seeds of vegetables, they
retain their vitality for an indefinite length of time,
until accident throws them into a situation suitable
for their development. But although the Rotato-
ria havo not the same rapid means of reproduction
as those with which the Polygastria are endowed,
yet their vast increase by eggs only will astonish
most persons who have not previously considered the
subject. Ehrenberg states that he isolated a single
specimen of Hydatina senta, and kept it in a sep-
arate vessel for eighteen days; that during this
interval it laid four eggs per day, and that the
young, at two days old, laid a like number; so that,
when circumstances are favorable, one million in-
dividuals may be obtained from one specimen in ten
days: on the eleventh day this brood will amount
to four millions, and on the twelfth day to sixteen
millions.
We have thus given a general view of the na-
ture and habits of the Infusoria. We cannot
attempt within our limits to detail the number of
families, genera, and species, into which they have
been divided by Ehrenberg, but must refer the read-
er to the valuable work of Mr. Pritchard, named at
the commencement of this article, which contains
not only an abstract of the labors of Ehrenberg, his
classifications, and a description of every species,
but also accurately drawn, representations of most
of these animalcules, their mode of propagation,
&c. Mr. Pritchard has for many years been an
indefatigable laborer in this field of scientific
research; he has done much to draw attention to
the value of the microscope, and to popularize its
important revelations; and we are happy to have it
in our power to bear our humble testimony to the
great exertions of himself and his late colleague,
Dr. Goring. Dr. Mandi's work, likewise, quoted
in our heading, is also a valuable compilation, but
we are not aware that any translation of it has yet
been made. º
We will now proceed to direct our attention to
certain points in relation to the Infusoria which are
still matter of debate amongst naturalists. In the
first place, then, the question naturally, arises,
“Do all these Infusoria belong to the animal or
vegetable kingdom 1"—a question somewhat diffi-
cult of solution. By many naturalists a great
number of the forms reckoned among the Infusoria
have been placed in the vegetable kingdom. Even
in one of the volumes now before us, a whole fami-
ly, that of the Bacillaria, placed by Ehrenberg
amongst the Infusoria, is referred by Dr. Mantell to
the vegetable kingdom, and considered by him. *
algae, belonging to the order Desmidiaceae, rather
than as being in any way related to the Infusoriº
nor can we wonder at this difference of opinio,
when we reflect how closely the lower forms 0
vegetables and animals resemble each other. Thus,
the lowest form of the Monad consists of a single
cell; so do some of the most simple forms of the
vegetable world. A higher class of Infusoria coil.
sist of an aggregation of cells, and here again W*
have a resemblance amongst plants. The Polygas.
tria, as we have seen, propagate by self-division :
so do the Conferva. In some of the sea-weeds the
sporule, or young plant, is formed within one of the
cells of the parent; at the period of maturity
the cell bursts, the sporule is released, and .1%
then seen to be fringed with a number of cilia; by
the motion of which the new being is enabled 19
traverse the water until it finds a spot fitted for it.
future growth, to which it then becomes adherent:
But the same phenomenon exactly is observed in
relation to the germ of the sponge. It will be seen,
therefore, how difficult it is to draw the line of dº
marcation between animals and vegetables, and,
indeed, taking all these facts into consideration,
Dr. Carus, an able commentator on the discoveries
of Ehrenberg, observes that, “It seems to follow
that we are entitled to suppose between plants an
animals an original organic kingdom—a kingdom
such as we have attempted to represent as the
kingdom of the protorganisms; nay, that this is the
only way in which we can succeed in laying down
a truly generic series of these singular organizº.
tions, beginning with the most simple, and losing
itself in one direction in the vegetable, and in the
other in the animal kingdom.”
* As this most remarkable phenomenon in reference 19
the propagation of some of the simplest forms of plant.
and its resemblance to the reproduction of some animal;
low in the scale of organization, may be new to many.9
our readers, we quote a more lengthened description of it
from a recently published and most interesting work by
Mr. Hassall, entitled “A History of Fresh-water Algæ.
“At a certain stage,” observes the author, “the granulº
hecome perfected, and they are now seen moving restles.
ly about the interior of the cell, frequently strikiº.
against its walls, as though anxious to escape from tº
confinement of their narrow cell, and to rove about, indº'
pendent beings, through the waters, in search of an appº
priate abiding-place. Having escaped from the “”
which they are enabled to do, not as Āgardh supposed: by
the multiplied knockings of their beaks against its side;
whereby its fibres become displaced, but either by rupt".
ing its walls, through their increased development, 5 º
Lyngbya, &c., or by some special provision, as in " j,
culifera, Zygnema, &c., they fall into the water, thrº
which they speedily begin to move hither and thithe:
now progressing in a straight line, with the rostra lºº t
vancé; now wheeling round and pursuing a differ.
course'; now letting their rostra drop, and oscillº
upon them, like (to compare small things with great .
loons ere the strings are cut, or like tops, the centrip.
force being nearly expended; now altogether stºl.
and anon résuming their curious and eccentric nº.
Truly wonderful is the velocity with which these º:
scopic objects progress, their relative speed far sur .
ing that of the fleetest race-horse. After a time, !. Cé
ever, which frequently extends to some two or .
hours, the motion becomes much retarded, and at leº §
after ſaint struggles, entirely ceases, and the ſº.
then lie as though dead; not so, nevertheless; they.
merely lost the power of locomotion; the vital prinº
is ... active within them, and they are seen to exº:
to become partitioned, and, if the species be of . cni
tached kind, each zoospore will emit from its rºl.S
extremity two or more radicles, whereby it lº. &
finally and forever, fixed. Strange transition, º thé
roving life of the animal to the fixed existence 9
plant "
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS. \ 455
We come next to consider one of the most im-
Portant results of the improvement of the micro-
scope, namely, the ultimate structure of all organ-
1zed bodies. We have already shown that the
Simplest form of monad consists but of a single
°ell, that many others of the same family are but a
Collection of individual monads, either attached to a
$ºmmon base or contained in a globular integument.
The Vibrio, or trembling animalcule, again, for
9xample, is a series of many individuals united
together in a flexible chain, from imperfect sponta-
Reous transverse division; and the same remark
olds good with regard to the lowest forms of veg-
°table life. In the larger Fuci, or sea-weeds, the
Whole fabric consists of cells, and the fresh-water
Jonferva, are merely jointed films, composed of
Cells; common mould or mustiness is a cluster of
Plants formed of cells only, and in the yeast fungus
and red snow the entire plant consists of one iso-
lated cell; and when we carry our observations still
urther, we find that the most complicated organs
both in the animal and the vegetable are made up
ut of an aggregation of simple cells. . These ele-
mentary cells have now been detected in almost all
the solids and fluids both of vegetable and animal
Odies; in the sap and succus proprius of vegeta-
bles, and in the blood, chyle, milk, and other fluids
9f animals; in the fecula, albumen, parenchyma of
the leaves, cells of the flowers, &c., of plants, and
ºn the cellular membrane, muscle, brain, nerve,
glands, &c., of animals. As far as our present
Powers of observation go, there is no apparent dif-
*rence in the formation of these cells, although it
Cannot but be believed that they must be endowed
with specific properties. Thus, for example, one
Set of cells secretes bile, another fat, another the
nervous matter; but how these special products are
ormed by cells apparently of similar organization
rom the same nutrient fluids, we know not : many
theories have been advanced. Thus, Dr. Willis
tas suggested whether this indifference may not
result from the different modes in which the elemen-
tary globules are disposed, and he adds, “It is not
improbable that the difference of function, they
ºxhibit may yet be found in harmony with, and per-
lºps depending on, peculiarity of arrangements in
their constituent molecules.” In the work of Dr.
Alantell before'us, another theory is thus hinted
“Whether the special endowment belonging to
e system of cells of a particular organ depends
on the intimate structure of the walls or tissue of
such cells; and this structure is so attenuated and
infinitesimal as to clude observation; or whether it
ºsults from the transmission pf some peculiar mod-
ification of that mysterious vital force we term
nervous influence, are questions to which, in the
Present state of our knowledge, no satisfactory re-
ply can be given.”—“Thoughts on Animalcules,”
But although the researches of microscopists have
ught us that cells are the extreme limit of animal
9rganization; that the lowest and highest forms of
*nimal life are but an aggregation of cells, each
Shdowed with specific properties, capable only of
Performing particular functions; we must carefully
§lard against the idea that there is, therefore, any
"entity between these various cells of various ani-
mals :—any identity, in fact, between the primary
°ells of the simplest animals or vegetables, much
§: ; ; º † }} tº
Art. $º of Anatomy and Physiology,” Vol. i.,
less between those of more complicated organiza-
tion. It is to such hasty generalization, to deduc-
tions thus made either from a misrepresentation or
misconception of facts, that we owe so many of the
absurd and fallacious theories of the present day.
Perhaps one of the best examples of the errors into
which such hasty generalization inevitably leads, is
to be found in a work which has, from its ingenuity
and eloquence, gained great popularity; we allude
to the “Vestiges of the Natural History of Crea-
tion.” All animals and plants, as we have said,
are to be regarded as definite aggregations of cells,
endowed with specific properties in the different
types, and subjected to a never varying law of devel-
opment. And yet, overlooking this latter fact, the
author has erected a theory of creation which may,
perhaps, be best stated in his own words. We
quote them as they occur in the fourth cdition of
the work:—
“The idea, then, which I form of the progress
of organic life upon our earth, and the hypothesis is
applicable to all similar theatres of vital being, is,
that the simplest and most primitive type under a
law to which that of like production is subordinate,
gave birth to the type next above it; that this again
produced the next higher, and so on to the very
highest, the stages of advance being in all cases
very small, namely, from one species only to anoth-
er ; so that the phenomenon has always been of a
simple and modest character.”
Or, in other words, the monad was first created;
it gave birth to the next species in the link, and so
on, until from the monkey sprang man. To the
unphilosophical reader this doctrine may appear, at
a first glance, to bear upon it the impress of truth;
but, allowing for a moment that such were the case,
how is it, it may be asked, that these cells have lost
such a remarkable endowment? How is it that the
more ambitious monkeys do not still convert them-
selves into or give birth to men? And again, this
progressive development, at all events in our pres-
ent state of knowledge, is directly in contradiction
to facts; the stages of advance could not, in all
cases, be very small—the difference in the organiza-
tion of reptiles and birds, and again, of birds and
mammals, is great; and, as far as we know, there
is no intermediate class of organized beings to dimin-
ish the wide gulf which separates them. Here,
therefore, the development could not have been
gradual—the stage of advance could not have been
very small. º
Dr. Mantell was one of the very first philoso-
phers who showed the fallacy of this plausible
theory. In the work now before us, he has again
adverted to it, and, in our opinion, has clearly ex-
posed the error which pervades it. With an extract,
therefore, from his remarks, we will close this part
of our subject:— # * * *
“Although it is now a received physiological
axiom, that cells are the elementary basis, the ultimate
limit, of all animal and vegetable structures; and
that the varied functions, in which organic life
essentially consists, are performed by the agency
of cells, which are not distinguishable from each
other by any well-marked characters; there is not
any ground for assuming any identity between the
primary cells, even of the simplest species of ani-
mals or vegetables, much less between those of
more complicated organization. The single cell
which embodies vitality in the monad, or the yeast
fungus, is governed by the same immutable organic
laws which preside over the complicated machinery
of man, and the other Wertebrata; and the single
456
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
cell which is the embryotic condition of the mammal
has no more relation to the single cell which is the
permanent condition of the monad than has the
perfect animal into which the mammalian cell
becomes ultimately developed. The cell that forms
the germ of each species of organism is endowed
with special properties, which can result in nothing
but the fabrication of that particular species. The
serious error which pervades the theory advanced in
the work entitled ‘The Vestiges of the Natural
History of the Creation' has arisen from its author
having, in many instances, assumed analogy to be a
proof of identity. There is an analogy between
the human embryo and the monad of the volvox,
in that each consists of simple cells; but there is no
more identity between the human and the polygas-
trian cells, than between the perfect man and the
mature animalcule.”—“Thoughts on Animal-
cules,” p. 24.
But there is another point connected with this
art of our subject, which we must not pass over
in silence. We have already had occasion to ob-
serve that the physician had been indebted to the
microscope for many improvements in the treat-
ment of disease. All sciences, indeed, have a
natural dependence one on another, and any great
discovery in one must sooner or later produce a
corresponding change in others. . The discovery
of the fact that cells were the ultimate limit to
which all animal organization can be traced; that
it is by the agency of cells that all the vital func-
tions are produced; that by them the bile, the
mucus, and all the other important fluids are
secreted; naturally leads to the idea that in many,
perhaps, in all instances, the origin of disease may
depend upon some derangement of these micro-
Scopic elements of organization ; and that the
maintenance of health may depend entirely upon
the integrity of a cell or a cluster of cells. On thi
point Dr. Mantell justly remarks:— +
“Hence, we can understand how mental emo-
tions, by disturbing or weakening the vital influ-
ence transmitted by the nerves to the cells of any
particular organ, may impair the structure and
vitiate the secretions, and ultimately induce exten-
sive local disease long after the cause of the phys-
ical derangement has passed away, and is forgot-
ten. Of the truth of this remark, pulmonary
consumption, alas! affords every day the most un-
equivocal and melancholy proofs. But the Tree
of Knowledge yields good as well as evil fruit; and
if recent microscopical discoveries are calculated
to alarm the timid, by showing what slight causes
may lay the foundation of fatal, diseases; on the
other hand, they encourage the cheering hope that,
by patience and perseverance, we may, at length,
learn how to detect the first stage of disordered
action, and correct the functional derangement ere
the structure of the organ is seriously impaired.”
And it is only by such patient and continued ob-
servations, it is only by taking advantage of the
light thus thrown upon their path by the discov-
cries in other branches of science, that physicians
can hope to raise medicine from an empirical art,
which even to this day it, in a great measure, is to
the rank of a true science.
The last question which we shall have occasion to
discuss is that of primitive or equivocal generation.
We have already seen to what an immense extent,
and how rapidly, the Infusoria are produced. A
little vegetable or animal matter, placed into dis-
tilled water, under favorable circumstances, will,
in a few days, swarm with various forms of micror
scopic life. We have seen, too, that these Infusor
ria are constructed upon the same principle as othe,
animals, reproducing in their own likeness; an
thus each species continues its characteristics periº
odically, and enjoys certain instincts and percep"
tions in common with the rest of the animal cred"
tion. Yet so prone to think wrongly is the human
mind, that certain philosophers, of an age and *
country which gave birth to the most extravaganº
materialism, viewed these animalcula as examples
of their cherished doctrines; and they were pro,
nounced to constitute exceptions to the presume
universal axiom of Harvey—“omnia ab oro.
They were accordingly referred to the principle 6
equivocal generation to explain their origin, as 1
they sprang into life by the casual combination 9
circumstances, and the union of certain materia
properties; and thus animated beings, enjoying
spontaneous motion and guided by animal instincts,
were referred to senseless matter for their forma"
tion and birth, as the mud of the Nile was ancient-
ly supposed to produce living beings under the
influence of the sun's rays. But this is a falsº
philosophy. Whether a vegetable or animal being
be the object of our contemplation, each alike is
traceable to parents, sometimes divided into separt
ate sexes and persons, and sometimes united in one
person; and we also know that every new being
arises from an egg. We can no longer believº
that fermentive or putrefactive matter, warme
by the sun's rays, gives birth to living creatures.
Infusoria are always to be found in vegetable infu"
sions, because their ova or germs, everywhere
present, find in such fluids a proper medium for
their development. We have already spoken of
the prolific nature of the Infusoria; we have show"
how, in a few days, millions of these creatures
may be produced by a single individual; and how
their ova may be taken up by every passing breeze;
be wafted from place to place, and be deposite
everywhere. Here they remain without losing
their vitality, “everywhere ready to burst into life,
and go through their assigned phases of develºp.
ment, when placed under the conditions specially
required by the type of organization to which they
belong.” The same remarks hold good with tº
gard to the lowest forms of the vegetable creatio"
The sporules of some fungi are so minute, and 9.
cur in such immense numbers, that in a single indi-
vidual (of Reticularia) more than ten millions hº
been counted; and they are so light and subtle th”
they are dispersed by the slightest agitation of the
air, and even by evaporation. The germs of theº
minute and simple forms of vegetation must, ther”
fore, always be present in the atmosphere. .
There appear to us to be two grand objection; .
this theory of equivocal generation. In the ſº
place we observe, that in vegetable infusion alm.
every species of animalcule which is generally
found in our climate is indifferently developed.
precisely the same infusion we shall at times fin
swarms of certain species, at other times none.
Dr. Mantell's work we find it stated that one *P*.
cies of Rotatoria—the Stephanoceros—was scar". y
to be found during the last summer, not even º' its
favorite haunts. How can we reconcile these ſº
with the doctrine of equivocal generation 4 Surely,
if those animals were formed from mere fºrm.
tive or putrefactive matter, warmed by the ..".
rays, the same species should always be foº" º
the same infusion. And again, it appears ” "
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
457
º
that, were this the case, the necessity for these
animalcules possessing organs and means of repro-
duction is entirely done away with.
But we believe that we have even more conclu-
sive evidence of the fallacy of this doctrine of
Qquivocal generation in an experiment made by M.
F. Schulze, of Berlin.” He considered that, ac-
cording to the theory of equivocal generation, the
access of air, light, and heat to infundirten sub-
stances included of itself all the conditions for the
primary formations of animal or vegetable organ-
isms, and he resolved therefore experimentally to
ascertain the truth or error of this theory. #.
great difficulty to be overcome consisted in the ne-
cessity of being first assured that at the beginning
of the experiment there was no animal germ capa-
ble of development in the infusion; and secondly,
that the air admitted contained nothing of the kind.
he experiment and its results we subjoin in the
words of its deviser:—
“I filled a glass flask half full of distilled water,
in which I mixed various animal and vegetable
substances; I then closed it with a good cork,
through which I passed two glass tubes, bent at
right angles, the whole being air-tight. It was
next placed in a sand bath, and heated until the
water boiled violently, and thus all parts had
reached a temperature of 212° Fahrenheit. While
the watery vapor was escaping by the glass tubes,
I fastened at each end an apparatus, which chem-
usts employ for collecting carbonic acid; that to the
left was filled with concentrated sulphuric acid, and
the other with a solution of potash. By means of
the boiling heat, everything living and all germs in
the flask or in the tubes were destroyed, and all
access was cut off by the sulphuric acid on the one
side, and by the potash on the other. I placed this
easily-moved apparatus before my window, where
it was exposed to the action of light, and also, as I
performed my experiments in the summer, to that
of heat. At the same time I placed near it an
open vessel with the same substances that had been
introduced into the flask, and also after having sub-
jected them to a boiling temperature. In order
now to renew constantly the air within the flask, I
sucked with my mouth several times a day the
open end of the apparatus filled with solution of
potash, by which process the air entered my mouth
from the flask through the caustic liquid, and the
atmospheric air from without entered the flask
through the sulphuric acid. The air was of course
not altered in its composition by passing through
the sulphuric acid into the flask, but if sufficient
time was allowed for the passage, all the portions
of living matter, or of matter capable of becoming
animated, were taken up by the sulphuric acid and
destroyed. From the 28th of May until the early
part of August, I continued uninterruptedly the
renewal of the air in the flask, without being able
y the aid of the microscope to perceive any living
animal or vegetable substance, although, during
the whole of the time, I made my observations
almost daily on the edge of the liquid; and when
at last I separated the different parts of the appara-
tus, I could not find in the whole liquid the slight-
§t trace of Infusoria, of Conſerva', or of mould.
ut all the three presented themselves in great
abundance a few days after I had left the flask
Standing open. The vessel which I placed near
e apparatus contained on the following day Vibri-
ones, and Monades, to which were soon added
* Published in Jameson's Journal, vol. 23.
CXXXIV. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI. 29
#
larger Polygastric Infusoria and afterwards Rotato-
ld.
To us this experiment appears a most satisfacto-
ry one ; and we come to the conclusion that, where
either living or dead organized matter swarms with
colonies of animals, such matter does not produce
them spontaneously, but beings resembling them
have deposited their eggs, which, under favorable
circumstances, spring into life and being.
But many of the philosophers who oppose the
theory of equivocal generation in reference to the
Infusoria, lean thereunto with reference to another
class of animals—the Entozoa. The Entozoa are
those parasitical animals which infest the bodies
of other animals, many of which are restricted to
particular organs of particular species of animals,
and are themselves the theatre of existence of
other parasites. The development of these ani-
mals, according to Dr. Mantell, “is inexplicable on
the former view of the subject,” namely, the pro-
pagation by minute ova, and “is indeed incompre-
hensible in the present state of our knowledge.”
And the following remarks of Dr. Holland are then
quoted:—
“Here we approach to speculations, which,
though founded on the most minute forms of exis-
tence, have yet a vastness in their obscurity, and in
the results to which their solution would lead.
Hence the questions arise, whether animal or veg-
etable life (for the inquiry equally regards both) is
in any case produced except from the eggs or
germs of prior individuals of the same species?
Whether there may not be matter so constituted as
to be capable, from some unknown law, of assum-
ing an organic character, and of giving rise to par-
ticular species of living beings, whenever the con-
ditions suitable to the development and continuance
of such organisms are present?”
“And,” Dr. Mantell continues, “the theory of
origination of living beings from inorganic elements,
or, to use the expression of the author of the ‘Wes.
tiges,’ of organic creation by law, offers a solution
to these difficult problems; but no certain evidence
has yet been obtained to substantiate or even sanc-
tion this hypothesis. This is, in fact, the serious
and only legitimate objection to a doctrine which
would explain many obscure physiological phenom-
ena, and bring the laws of vitality into harmony
with those which preside over the inorganic king-
dom of nature.” -
Now, in this opinion we must entirely differ from
the learned author. We cannot see why, because
our knowledge of the matter is as yet limited, a
special method of generation should be assumed in
direct opposition to that observed in all other classes
of organized beings; and that more particularly,
when “there is no evidence to substantiate or even
sanction this hypothesis.” We know that in all
other animals and plants reproduction is effected by
ova; * why then should we imagine that the En-
tozoa, animals far above some of the Infusoria in
point of organization, can, spring from inorganic
elements 1 And if this doctrine be allowed in
reforence to the Entozoa; why should it not be
equally correct with regard to all animals, even to
man himself? Again, assuming that it is possible
for inorganic matter under certain conditions to take
upon itself an organic character, surely it is but
necessary to study these conditions for man himself
to become a creator, and realize the wild visions of
r
* We, of course, here mean to include the sporules and
seeds of plants under this general term.
458
MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
THE
a Frankenstein. The same kind of theory was,
as we have already said, held in reference to the
Infusoria ; but the improvements in the microscope,
by enabling us to watch these animals more closely,
soon annihilated it. And may we not in the same
manner believe that the further progress of science,
that future researches and discoveries, will teach
us that even the Entozoa follow the universal law,
and are developed entirely from ova! Indeed,
limited as we are aware that our information con-
cerning them is, the few facts in our possession
militate strongly, in our opinion at least, against
this doctrine. The very restriction of certain kinds
of Entozoa to particular organs of particular species
of animals leads to the belief that, like those of
the Infusoria, their ova are everywhere present,
but remain undeveloped until they meet with a
medium suitable to their wants. In some of these
parasites we find a kind of instinctive choice of
habitation. Thus, with regard to the Ascaris lum-
bricoides—the round worm—Professor Owen re-
marks, “ that they are much more common in
children than in adults, and are extremely rare in
aged persons. They are most obnoxious to indi-
viduals of lymphatic temperament, and such as use
gross and indigestible food, or who inhabit low and
damp localities.” Nay, further, we have proof of
the generation of some parasites from ova, and of
the very mode by which they gain access to the
interior of the animal in which they are found;
this is the case, for example, with the CEstrus equi,
found in the intestinal cavity of the horse. The
parent insect deposits its egg about the shoulder of
the horse, where it can easily be reached by the
tongue ; the irritation causes the animal to lick the
part, and by this means the bot is introduced into
the only place which affords the viscid nutriment
and due heat for its full development. And again,
we have another example in the Distoma hians, an
Entozoon which infests the intestines of the perch.
The parent animal deposits its ova within the intes-
tines—they are there hatched, and the young are
expelled from the fish. It would seem that they
were destined to pass a transitional state of their ex-
istence in a fluid medium permeated by light. The
young animal, when thus ejected from the fish, is
totally unlike its Parent, presenting a greater re-
semblance to the Polygastric Infusoria, and being,
like them, covered with vibratile cilia, which are in
rapid and incessant motion, and create a vortex in
the surrounding water. Unlike their parent, too,
in this state they possess an organ of vision. Thus
organized, the young of this parasite move to and
fro in the water as if it were their natural element.
But after a certain period, they again pass into the
alimentary canal of the fish, where they undergo
their metamorphosis, lose the organ which guided
the movements of their young and free life, grow
at the expense of the nutrient secretions with which
they are now abundantly provided, and deposit their
eggs, which in like manner are hatched, and go
through the same process of development." And,
*Another most remarkable instance of the introduction
of parasitical animals into cavities adapted for their de-
velopment, has been described by Reaumur. There is a
species ofºtrus in Lapland, which lodges near the
gullet of the rein-deer, and there the larvae lake up their
ahode in families consisting of one hundred or more in-
dividuals. At each side of the root of the tongue there
is, according to Reaumur, a slit in the pharynx of the
deer, which leads to two fleshy cavities, which he calls
purses. “We do not know,” he observes, “of what use
they are to these large animals, but they are essential to
the worms, which are developed within them. If they
which was seven miles broad, before we reached
(7
lastly, as an objection against this theory, we wºul”
repeat what we have already said with regard tº
the Infusoria, that all the Entozoa are endow?
with organs of reproduction, a provision perfectly
unnecessary, if they could take origin from ino”
ganic element. º
We may then, we believe, adopt the conclusion
of a contemporary author, that “all nature, *
whatever point we meet her, and during whatevº
age in the past history of the earth, tells us wit
an unhesitating voice that she has not enacted arº,
law of spontaneous generation, and that she W*
not allow any power inferior to herself to mar hº
vestiges or blot out her fixed organic types.”
But a few words more are necessary to comple.”
our summary of the habits and peculiarities of tº
Infusoria. We have already seen that they hay?
been observed in all the four quarters of the worl
—that vast bodies of water are tinged by these al".
malcules—and that even the phosphorescence 9
the sea is owing to their presence." We havº
found, too, that accumulations of immense mass”
of fossil Infusoria form mould and various speciº
of rock; on this subject Ehrenberg observes, thº'
are not made for these, if they are useful to the deer, º
all events, HE who constructed the cavities, and ſorinº
the insects, knew that they were necessary to the ex'.
tence of these worms, and so taught them to lodge º
their destined repositories; for ii that is essential tº
their nourishment and growth is contained within thes”
and is not to be found elsewhere. The question natº.
ally is, how the perſect insect contrives to deposit tº
young in a spot which none but an anatomist can deteº
and to reach which requires the boldness and dexteriº.
of a creature which is regardless of its own life. If Y.
consider that nature has endowed the deer with tº
ower of ejecting any substance annoying the nostºl.
y sneezing, the power of enveloping anything irril.
the palate in a viscid saliva, or of crushing it by º
of grinder teeth, we must give due credit to a fly, whis s
in spite of these obstacles, manages to reach the cavit.
in question.” And yet this CEstrus boldly, enters.
nostrils and the cavities, and, proceeding to the exº.
ity, comes at once on the fleshy purses at the root of
tongue; in these the female ſly deposits her eggs, ".
leaves them in a matrix furnished with a supply *
Ҽ CC
* The phosphorescence of the sea, owing to the prese.
of minute animalcules, is a subject of the greatest intº
est, and we shall therefore make no apology for quº;
an account which will show the occasional extent of º
phenomenon. Dr. Pöppig, in his “Voyage to Chi le
says, “From the topmast the sea appeared, as ſar as t
eye could reach, of a dark-red color, and this in a sº
; breadth of which was estimated at six English mº.
As we sailed slowly along, we found that the gº.
changed into brilliant j, so that even the º:
which is seen at the stern of a ship under sail, was ‘his
rose color. The sight was very striking, because, IIl
purple streak was marked by a very distinct line º e
the blue waters of the sea, a circumstance which We tly
more easily observed, because our course lay †. IIl
through the midst of this streak, which extended tº
south-east to north-west. The water, taken up int
bucket, appeared indeed quite transparent, but a !.
purple tinge was perceptible when a few drops idly
laced upon a piece of white china, and moved .#
j and forwards in the sunshine. A mol.
magnifying glass showed that these little red dots, . the
only with great attention could be discerned wit her-
naked eye, consisted of Infusoria, which were of a º:
ical form, entirely destitute of all external orgºs.a
tion. * * * We sailed for four hours at *...
rate of six English miles an hour, through this º eInſ
t
of it, and its superficies must therefore have bee. aboli
one hundred and sixty-eight English square #"ºuiſ.
we add that those animals may have been equally, dº six
uted in the upper stratum of water, to the. ... sur-
feet, we must confess that their numbers infinitº,
passed the conception of the human understanding.
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
459
“We can make glass out of invisible Infusoria
with lime or soda ; can manufacture floating bricks
out of them, use them as flints, probably make iron
out of them, polish silver with them as tripoli, as
Ochre; manure with them as mud and mould, and,
with mountain flour, composed of them, allay the
cravings of hunger.” Many, and probably all,
White chalk rocks are the produce of microscopic
animalcules, which are for the most part quite
invisible to the naked eye, possessing calcareous
shells, of which more than one million are well
preserved in each cubic inch ; that is, much more
than ten millions in one pound of chalk. The ex-
treme minuteness of these chalk animalcules is
Strikingly proved by the fact, that, even in the finest
levigated whiting, multitudes of them are still
present, and may be applied without suffering change
to the most varied purposes; thus, in the chalk
coating given to painted chambers, paper, or even
ſº visiting cards, (when not coated with white
ead alone,) may be seen a pretty mosaic of well
preserved moss-coral animalcules, invisible to the
naked eye; and thus our natural vision receives
from such a surface the impression of the purest
white, little dreaming that it contains the bodies of
millions of beings which once enjoyed life—beings
of varied and beautiful forms, more or less closely
crowded together. Linnaeus said, “All lime comes
from worms” (omnis cala e vermibus.) Now, we
are led to think, whether all ſlint and all iron—
consequently, the three principal component parts
of the earth—do not come from animalcules: om-
nis siler, omne ferrum, e vermibus, cannot at pres-
ent, with propriety, be affirmed or denied, and must
remain for more special investigations to decide.
The Infusoria, like the higher animals, perish
from sudden transitions of temperature. They die
in ice; but when the water first congeals, each
animalcule is surrounded by a moist space, caused
by the caloric liberated by its own body. Heat in-
staneously kills infusory animalcules—eggs and
animals equally perish. Several species are never:
theless capable of supporting a temperature, of
from 45 deg. to 50 deg. Reaumur (nearly 140 deg.
Fahrenheit.) Heat is less hurtful when it takes
place gradually; light is favorable to their produc-
tion, but it is not necessary, for they are even found
in deep mines. Atmospheric air is essential tº the
existence of the Infusoria, especially the Rotatoria.
hey are killed by substances which affect the
chemical composition of the water; but the strong-
est poisons, if only in mechanical suspension in the
uid, exert no influence upon them. Fresh-water
species instantly die if sea-water be suddenly added,
though the latter swarm with marine species; but
they survive if the mixture bº gradual, and many
inds inhabit brackish waters. sº
usoria are carnivorous, feeding on those species
more infinitesimal than themselves; others, are
herbivorous, and are nourished by particles of de:
composed vegetables too minute to be visible till
accumulated in the internal organs of the animal-
cules. The duration of life in these animals varies
from a few hours to several days or even weeks;
some Rotifera have been traced to the seventy-third
ay of their existence. Their dissolution usually
takes place suddenly, but in some of the larger
species microscopists have observed violent throes
ºld convulsive struggles as attending their death.
The soft parts rapidly undergo decomposition, and
it is a remarkable fact that, under such circum-
stances, but a very small proportion of solid matter
remains; from aggregated myriads but a few par-
*.
Many of the In-|d
ticles of dust are left. One of the most remarka-
ble points, perhaps, in the natural history of these
animalcules, is the power they possess of remain-
ing dormant for an almost unlimited period of time.
Immense quantities of Infusoria in the form of
mould, apparently dried up to dust, are long capa-
ble of reanimation ; some of the Rotatoria will
remain for years together motionless and apparently
lifeless, if buried in earth or thoroughly dry sand,
and yet may be so preserved that, on the applica.
tion of moisture, they revive and swim about as
actively as at first. Some Rotifers have been
alternately dried and rendered dormant and then
revived by the addition of water, twelve times with-
out any apparent diminution of their activity. Pro-
fessor Owen mentions having witnessed the revival
of an animalcule which had been preserved in dry
sand four years. p
With regard to the purposes which these invisi-
ble beings are destined to effect in the economy of
nature, we will content ourselves with quoting the
words of Dr. Mantell, who, in the “Thoughts on
Animalcules” before us, has presented a vast deal
of information on the most interesting genera and
species of the Infusoria, and clothed it with that
fascinating garb, that persuasive eloquence, with
which he has been ever wont to impart knowledge.
“We may, indeed,” he says, “take cognizance
of some of the obvious results of the operations of
these living atoms: such, for example, as their
influence in maintaining the purity of the atmos-
phere and of the water, by the conversion into their
own structures of the particles liberated by the
decomposition of the larger animals and vegetables
and in their turn becoming the food of other races,
and thus affording the means of support to crea-
tures of a higher organization than themselves.
We see, too, that many species after death give
rise to the formation of earthy deposits at the bot-
toms of lakes, rivers, and seas, which, in after
ages, may become fertile tracts of country and the
sites of large communities of mankind. But in
this, as in all attempts to interpret the mysterious
designs of Providence, we are but as “beings
darkly wise,’ for it is probable that the most seri-
ous maladies which afflict humanity are produced
º peculiar states of invisible animalcular life.
"rom some periodical and exaggerated condition
of development, particular species, too minute for
the most powerful microscope to descry, may sud-
denly swarm in the air or in the waters, and pene-
trating the internal vessels and organs, exert an
injurious influence of a specific character on the
lining membranes and ſluids of the human frame:
and from this inscrutable agency, may, possibly,
originate the cholera, influenza, and other epidemic
iseases.”
In the course of this article we have alluded
briefly to many other discoveries effected hy the
microscope, and we cannot bring it to a close with-
out showing that its revelations are not confined to
the worldson worlds of microscopic beings existing
evervwhere around us. We need not again advert
to the minute cells of which the organs of all ani-
als are made up, but there are some other, points
connected with the organization of the higher ani-
mals with which the microscope has made us
acquainted, to which we will proceed to draw the
reader's attention. And, first, with regard to the
blood. Examined by the naked eye the blood
appears to be perfectly fluid and homogeneous;
but if it be spread in a thin stratum upon the object-
plate of a microscope, and viewed under a lens,
~ *
460
THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS REVELATIONS.
having a magnifying power of between 200 and
300, it will be seen to consist of two distinct and
heterogeneous parts, viz., a transparent yellowish
watery fluid, and a number of solid corpuscules of
extreme minuteness suspended in this fluid. To
the fluid portion the name serum is given; the
minute corpuscules are spoken of as the globules
of the blood. These globules are membranous
sacs, inclosing a solid flattened nucleus in the form
of a disk in their interior. Their form and dimen-
sions vary among animals of different species, but
in the same animal they all bear the strongest
resemblance to one another. In the Mammalia
these corpuscules are smaller than in any other
class of animals, and in form they are circular.
In birds the globules of the blood are elliptical, and
larger than in the Mammalia; in vertebrate animals
with cold blood the globules are also elliptical, but
their dimensions are much greater, and vary more
extensively in different classes. In the Invertebrata
the globules of the blood are more or less regularly
circular in shape, and are also of very considerable
dimensions. ow, observation and experiment
have proved how important is the action of these
globules upon the living tissues. It appears to be
especially owing to the presence of the globules,
that the blood owes its power of arousing and
keeping up vital motion in the animal economy.
We observe, in fact, that if an animal be bled till it
falls into a state of syncope, and the further loss of
blood be not prevented, all muscular motion quickly
ceases, respiration is suspended, the heart pauses
from its action, life is no longer manifested by any
outward sign, and death soon becomes inevitable;
but if, in this state, the blood of another animal of
the same species be injected into the veins of the
one to all appearance dead, we see with amazement
this inanimate body return to life, gaining acces-
sions of vitality with each new quantity of blood
that is introduced, by-and-by beginning to breathe
freely, moving with ease, and finally walking as it
was wont to do, and recovering completely. This
operation, which is known in surgery under the
title of transfusion, proves, better than all that can
be said, the importance of the globules of the blood
to the living tissues; for if, instead of blood, serum
only, deprived of globules, be employed in the
same manner, no other or further effect is produced
than follows the injection of so much pure water,
and death is no less an inevitable consequence.
But results equally remarkable have been observed
in reference to the size and fºrm of these globules.
Thus, if the blood introduced into the veins of a
living animal differ merely in the size, not in the
form of its globules, a disturbance or derangement
of the whole economy, more or less. remarkable,
supervenes. The pulse is increased, in frequency,
the temperature falls rapidly, and death, in fine,
generally happens in a few days. The effects pro-
duced by the injection of blood having circular
globules, into the veins of an animal the globules
of whose blood are elliptical (or vice versä,) are still
more remarkable: death then usually takes place
amidst nervous symptoms of extreme violence, and
comparable in their rapidity to those that follow the
introduction of the most energetic poisons.
Our knowledge of the circulation of the blood
has also been greatly increased by the microscope:
not only has a vascular system and circulation been
detected in many of the lower animals, but we
have also obtained satisfactory proof of the exis-
º, tence of minute vessels, termed capillaries, connect-
ing the arterial and venous system in the higher
*
classes of animals. The phenomena of the pas"
sage of the blood from the terminations of the artºº
ries into the commencement of the veins through
the capillary vessels, are highly interesting an
important in many points of view ; for the immº.
diate respiratory change which the venous bloo
undergoes in the pulmonary vessels, and all thos”
alterations of composition which accompany nuti'ſ
tion, growth, secretion, and other organic processº
connected with the systemic vessels, occur in th9
smallest ramifications of the pulmonic and systemiº
circulation, and the morbid state of inflammation, tº
well as the various pathological changes which
occur as its consequences, are intimately connected
with an altered condition of the capillary system.
In plants, too, the microscope has enabled us tº
detect a circulation of the nutritive fluids, which is
twofold—the one a general circulation of the cells;
and the second, termed cyclosis, which is a revolu.
tion of the fluid contained in each cellule, distinct
from those surrounding it. This latter phenomº
non, which is most remarkable, can be observed in
all plants in which the circulating fluid contains
particles of a different refractive power or intensity,
and the cellules of sufficient size and transparency.
Hence all lactescent plants, or those having a milky
juice, with the other conditions, exhibit this phe"
nomenon. The following aquatic plants are gener
ally transparent enough to show the circulation in
every part of them: Nitella hyalina, Nitella trans-
lucens, Chara vulgaris, and Caulinia fragilis.
Another curious phenomenon, entirely revealed
to us by the microscope, cannot be passed over."
silence. We allude to what is termed by physiolº.
gists, CILIARY MOTION. In a previous portion 0
this paper we described the cilia of the Infusory
animalcules, which in most species served them dº
organs of locomotion; and it will be furthe;
remembered that Ehrenberg gave the name 0
Rotatoria to one class, from the peculiar arrangº
ment of these small filaments. It was originally
supposed that these minute organs were confinº.
to the lower forms of animals; but further investº
gation has clearly shown that ciliary motion is.”
phenomenon which prevails most extensively "
the animal kingdom, having been found in tº
highest as well as the lowest members of the
zoological scale—even in man, not only ciliºſ
motion, but even the situation and form of the cil."
have been discovered. The organs or parts of thº
body in which the ciliary motion has been asſº
tained to exist may be referred to four heads, wº."
the skin or surface of the body, the respiratory:
alimentary, and reproductive systems; but it '.
only in the respiratory system, in the nose *
larynx, that cilia have been as yet detected in In”.
The function of these organs is to convey fluids.”
other matters along the surface on which the gi.
are placed, to renew the water on the respir".
surface of animals with aquatic respiration, ºr'."
in the Infusoria, to carry the animal through the
fluid.* º
But to enumerate the whole of the discover”
effected by the microscope would require vºl.
For our knowledge of the minute structure ºf .
various organs in plants and animals, and of º
beauty and perfection of design exhibited throug"
* A detailed account of cilia and ciliary mºi.
utterly impossible within the limits of a paper, .
in its nature; but we would refer the reader, Wºº ".
he interested in the matter, to the article “Cilia," " r
“Cyclopædia of Anatomy and Physiology,” by high
Sharpey, the most complete on this subject with whl
we are acquainted.
My childhooD's TUNE.
out the whole of creation, we are entirely indebted
to this instrument. In the present paper we have
confined ourselves to a brief review of some of the
most important of its revelations made within the
period of a few years. Its continued use and the
researches of naturalists into the infinitude of the
organized creation have been the means of bring-
ing to light great numbers of living beings, of
whose existence, but a few years back, we had no
reasonable proof. From the chilly regions of the
glaciers, with their colored snow, to the pools of
'gypt, with their living forms; from the waters of
the Cattegat to the sunny waves of Mexico; from
the bergmehl of Finland to the brown mould of
Newmarket; has the inquiring mind of the natural-
ist drawn evidence of the all-pervading principle of
life. Forms, from whence the essence of vitality
has long since departed, have given up their rem-
nants from the chalk, and beings invisible to the
naked eye of man have been summoned from their
entombments in their flinty sarcophagi. The chaos
of old systematists has passed away, and a structure
of truth and beauty has been formed from its hetero-
geneous materials. And while contemplating the
discoveries effected by the microscope and its elder
sister, the telescope, we may indeed exclaim in the
eloquent words of Dr Chambers —
“While the telescope enables us to see a sys-
tem in every star, the microscope unfolds to us a
world in every atom. The one instructs us that
this mighty globe, with the whole burthen of its
people, and its countries, is but a grain of sand in
the vast field of immensity ; the other, that every
atom may harbor the tribes and families of a busy
population. The one shows us the insignificance
of the world we inhabit; the other redeems it from
all its insignificance, for it tells us that in the leaves
of every forest, in the ſlowers of every garden, in
the waters of every rivulet, there are worlds teem-
ing with life, and numberless as are the stars of the
firmament. The one suggests to us, that, above
and beyond all that is visible to man, there may be
regions of creation which sweep immeasurably
along, and carry the impress of the Almighty's
handſ to the remotest scenes of the universe —the
other, that, within and beneath all the minuteness
which the aided eye of man is able to explore, there
may be a world of invisible beings; and that, could
we draw aside the mysterious veil which shrouds it
rom our senses, we might behold a theatre of as
many wonders as astronomy can unfold; a universe
within the compass of a point, so small as to elude
all the powers of the microscope, but where the
ALMiglity ruler of all things finds room for the
exercise of his attributes, where HE can raise
another mechanism of worlds, and fill and &Illſlate
th ith evid f His glory !
em all with evidences o g G. T. F.
From the Athenæum.
My childhood's TUNE.
AND hast thou found my soul again-
Though many a shadowy year hath past
Across its chequered path since when
I heard thy low notes last!
They come with the old pleasant sound
ong silent—but remembered soon,
With all the fresh green memories wound
About my childhood's tune! ,
I left thee far among the flowers
My hand shall seek as wealth no more;—
*
461
The lost light of those morning hours
No sunrise can restore.
And life hath many an early cloud
That darkens as it nears the noon,-
I}ut all their broken rainbows crowd
Back with my childhood's tune
Thou hast the whisper of young leaves
That told my heart of spring begun,
The bird's song by our hamlet eaves
Poured to the setting Sun:
And voices heard—how long ago!
By winter's hearth or autumn's moon;
They have grown old and altered now—
All but my childhood's tune !
At our last meeting, Time had much
To teach, and I to learn; for then
Mine was a trusting wisdom, such
As will not come again.
I had not seen life's harvests fade
Before me in the days of June –
But thou—how hath the spring-time stayed
With thee, my childhood's tune
I had not learnt that love which seemed
So priceless might be poor and cold;
Nor found whom once I angels deemed
Of coarse and common mould.
I knew not that the world's hard gold
Could far outweigh the heart’s best boon :-
And yet, thou speakest as of old,
My childhood's pleasant tune
I greet thee as the dove that crossed
My path, among time's breaking waves,
With olive-leaves of memory lost—
Or shed perchance on graves.
The tree hath grown up wild and rank,
With blighted boughs—that time may prune;
But blessed were the dews it drank -
From thee, my childhood's tune!
Where rose the stranger city's hum
By many a princely mart and dome,
Thou comest—even as voices come
To hearts that have no home.
A simple strain to other ears,
And lost amid the tumult soon :- .
But dreams of love and truth and tears
Were in my childhood's tune!
Stranorlar, Oct. 1846.
FRANCES BRowN.
What Helps not, Hunts.--A vain thought arose
in my heart; instantly my corruption retains itself
to be the advocate for it, pleading that the worst that
could be said against it was this, that it was a vain
thought. *
And is not this the best that can be said for it?
Remember, O my soul, the fig-tree was charged not
with bearing noxious, but no fruit. Yea, the barren
fig-tree bare the fruit of annoyance, cut it down,
why cumbereth it the ground? Wain thoughts do
this ill in my heart, that they do no good.
Besides, the fig-tree pestered but one part of the
garden; good grapes might grow at the same time in
other places of the vineyard. But seeing my soul
is so intent on its object that it cannot attend two
things at once, one tree for the time being is all my
vineyard. A vain thought engrosseth all the ground
of my heart; till that be rooted out no good medita-
tion can grow with it or by it.—Fuller. *...*
%
*
º-
:
462
THE BELLE.
From Tait's Magazine.
THE BELLE.
PART SECOND.
THE winter was over and gone. February had
passed away blandly. March, though now and
then bursting into a fit of tears, or puffing out his
cheeks into a roar, had been, on the whole, less.
obstreperous than usual. And now balmy April
was come, with all its delectations of sea and
shore, sunny skies, freshly germinating woods,
fields and wastes green with shrubs, and gay with
flowers, and pungent with aroma; rocks, old walls,
antique roofs, and the superficial roots of ancient
trees dressed in the softest mosses, or mailed in the
liard lichens which had protected them from the
cold; and the singing birds were busy in the ilex-
groves, and the nightingale, the nightingale was
come !
These delights if thou wilt give,
April, I with thee will live.
Early on one of those inspiriting mornings, Mr.
Forsyth had strolled away through the pine-woods
at the back of the Foz, then dipped into a little
oaken valley near the siege-battered, ruinous vil-
lage of Lordello, and emerged into the road, and
avoided the village by crossing a runlet of water
that works a mill, and twists and capers among the
crevices of vinc-shadowed rocks. Thence, making
a considerable circuit, sometimes through bye-lanes
and the intrenched roads which had bebn the lines
of the besieged on the north and east sides of the
city, and sometimes up and down the craggy
heights in that direction, he found himself, to his
surprise, on the St. Cosme road, much farther
from the Foz than he had had any intention of
going ; for he was close to the city, and at the
extreme southern end of it. Thus finding himself
in the suburbs, he entered the city by a square
which had been recently laid out as a promenade,
and was ornamented with choice flowers, shrubs,
and a handsome marble basin with a jet d'eau, of
which the spray fell, in diamond showers, upon
gold and silver fishes that were darting about the
fountain, while gaily-dressed dames and damsels
were seated round it. One side of the square was
a convent, which is a Pension for young ladies;
another is a church of considerable pretensions to
architecture, but ruinous and unfinished. The two
other sides are occupied by tall, but squalid houses;
the whole being a fair specimen of Portuguese good
and bad taste, of energies disproportioned to means,
of elegance and squalor in unsightly approximation,
and of spirited designs left half executed, and bear-
Ying the melancholy appearance of youth in ruins.
The square, which is called the Garden of St. Laz-
arus, was filled with citizens in their holiday garb,
and crowds of peasants in the gayest and most gro-
tesque costumes, as rich in contrast of colors as
any costumes of the Swiss cantons, and in gold
ornaments far richer, though the effect might not
be altogether so pleasing. It was the Saint-day of
St. Lazarus. In the church was a miraculous relic
of the saint, an arm and hand, in wood or wax, to
which some strange legend was appended, and
which a man, who stood in a red silk surplice near
one of the altars, presented to be kissed by kneel-
ing devotees, each of whom, after having kissed it,
deposited a copper coin of ten or twenty reas (a
halfpenny or penny) in a tin box held by another
man in a white muslin cassock. Mr. Forsyth
‘edged his way into the church through the crowds
of pilgrims and sight-hunters, and through the
formidable squad of cripples who lay about the
church door; and he established himself by .
lateral altar, in a good position for the view of *
that was going on at the opposite altar, where the
arm of St. Lazarus was exhibited. Among the
devotees came a person whose striking countenanº
and figure did not harmonize with the mummery hº
was practising. He was a tall, meagre man, 0
middle age, with closely-shorn black hair, end."
mous black whiskers, dark splendid eyes, well-
defined thin eyebrows, finely regular features,
though visage somewhat lank, and extremely,
darkly pale but for a fierce consumptive-looking
flush of blood in the centre of each cheek. Wha?
was this man! a poet, a hero, or a bandit! He
was dressed in the neat uniform of the queen?
volunteers—brown trousers, a brown jacket face
with light blue at the cuffs and with white at the
collar. He knelt, took the image in his hands;
kissed it mechanically, threw, rather than dropped
his reas into the gaping mouth of the begging-box,
so that the coin clattered as it fell; and then hº
rose with a blustering, contemptuous air, an
pushed his way out through the mob. Three
minutes later this man returned, and was standing
in earnest conversation with Senhor Pinto, very
near Mr. Forsyth, when the latter observed them.
Senhor Pinto advanced, smiling, and the man fol;
lowed. Pinto shook hands with Mr. Forsyth, and
requested permission to speak with him out of the
church. Mr. Forsyth, who had seen enough 0
the ceremony, acquiesced, on which the volunteer
pioneered the way, rudely enough elbowing the
people right and left to clear the road for the twº
gentlemen. When they got into the square, Pinto
informed Mr. Forsyth that he had heard he was tº
want of a cook, and that Manoel Gomez, the to
volunteer, a Galician, the best cook in Oporto, was
now out of place, and ambitious of serving him:
That man a cook! Mr. Forsyth marvelled, but
gladly hired him. He had been half-poisoned by
the nasty, greasy messes usually prepared for him
by the unskilful artist whom he was about to dis"
miss. After a day or two, Manoel Gomez wº
president of Mr. Forsyth's kitchen, and gave great
satisfaction in his art, although his manners wer”
rather too rough and independent for his neº
employer's taste. He was also a cheat: . but ſº
Portugal there is nothing but paciencia for that
evil; for in domestic expenses a stranger is almº
at the mercy of the easy conscience of his cook,
whom he supplies with money to go to market ſº
everything edible, and who delivers such an *.
count as may suit his notions of honesty betwee"
man and master.
Manoel Gomez was particularly useful on *
occasion which soon called his culinary accoſ".
lishments into active exertion. A regatta on tº
ouro was about to take place, and good cºº
are important personages on such occasions. f
auspicious day was to be Wednesday the 17th.”
June, and great were the preparations for the fe8-
tival. A handsome boat was built, to be given "
the four rowers of the first of six boats that W*
to contend for the prize. At a convenient statº:
called the Bicalho, or Little Point, near the,”
bank of the river, opposite Massarellos, three
spacious barges, with awnings and furniture, Yº.
fastened together in line, and moored so as to form
two long rooms; one for viewing the race and 19.
dancing, and the other for refreshment. Coº.
for a hundred persons were laid in the latter, under
THE BELLE.
463
..i
the superintendence of a gentleman well qualified
for the task. The barges were ornamented with
flags, and a military band of music was bespoken.
wo young gentlemen, one the spirited projector
of this plan, and one the promoter of all gayeties,
were the directors. There were two other stew-
ards and four ladies-patronesses, and these ladies
were to present the prize-boat in due form to the
victors. The crews of the second and third boats
were also to receive gratuities in money, and the
three last a smaller indemnity for the loss of their
day's work. The prize-boat, gay with its new
paint, its blue-striped awning, and its Portuguese
and Fnglish flags, and complete with oars and
sail, was moored in the centre of the river opposite
the triad of gala boats, the tria juncta in uno. The
weather, as is usual at this season in this favored
latitude, had been perfectly fine, and the ladies,
ortuguese and English, prepared their best dresses
and bonnets for display. Nothing was talked of
earnestly among them for some previous days but
the regatta, the charming regatta.
At last the wished-for morning dawned, but
“heavily in clouds came on the day big with the
fate” of bonnets and of gowns. The air was
oppressively close, and the black masses of vapor
lowered and gathered round, nearer and nearer,
investing the city like an army of Vandals, as they
were. But it was decreed that the expectants
were to be happy, and most of them defied the ill-
omened aspect of the clouds. About mid-day car-
riages drawn by oxen came down to the river side,
with a gravity of motion less suited to the light
hearts they carried, than to the ponderous march
of the clouds. Lighter vehicles, drawn by mules,
were whirled, rapidly to the embarking points.
Sedan-chairmen came trolling eagerly with their
gaudily colored lady-boxes, and their willing cap-
tives, dames of fine attire. Boats were ready to
receive them, and plied actively to and from the
tri-bodied reception-boat, that showed its huge
length upon the water “like some sea-monster
come to sun itself.” But, alas! where was the
sunt Have patience perhaps it will shine out
yet. The numerous merchant vessels and other
craft in the river were crowded with gazers; so
were the rocky hills that overlook the Dºuro, and
the shady grove of Lombardy poplars on the strand
of Massarellos.
But who is this? what thing of sea or land?
Female of sex it seems,
That so bedecked, ornate, and gay,
Comes this way sailing
Like a stately ship -
Of Tarsus, bound for the isles
Of Javan or Gadire, -
With all her bravery on and tackle trim,
Sails filled and streamers waving?
It is a Lusitanian Donna seated on a donkey,
which is nearly extinguished by the burden, and
lackeyed by a liveried servitor, who seems in a state
of solution by heat with his efforts to keep pace
with the sprightly, though almost invisible ass on
which his great and gorgeous mistress is mounted.
hat a treasure for a Turk would that sleek
giantess be . But a few heavy drops of rain, and
a low rumbling growl from the skies, give warn-
ing that the clouds have brought their artillery
Within bearing-distance of the devoted water party.
c ass's head is wisely turned homeward, and the
ady disappears, while the melting footman toils
after her in vain, as panting Time did after Shaks-
É. according to Dr. Johnson. Two of the
2nglish ladies-patronesses have not yet arrived,
and are also doomed not to arrive—the lady of
the grand magnolia-tree, and the most fair sister of
the projector of the water-feast. Never mind
numbers have arrived, and here they are “all
together in spite of the weather,” under their can-
vass-lined and flag-lined water-tent, crowds of reso-
lute pleasurers. Boats full of spectators surround
them, and among the most ornamental is Mr.
Elphinstone's new and well-rigged boat, with its
seventeen flags—its first appearance on the aquatic
stage. There is one lady-patroness at her post,
Mrs. Stanley. Music strike up ! ... God save the
king ! Rule Britannia! Donna Maria's Hymn !
the Battle of Assegeira! Bravo!
The rival boats are in line, ready to start. Blue,
purple, orange, yellow, are the rowers’ colors.
Make your bets, ladies and gentlemen ; lose or
win Torloni's shopful of gloves. The signal-gun
is fired, and away slip the racers,
And down comes a showel
Of rain that might deluge the world in an hour !
It comes rushing through the canvass roof of the
three-barge palace. Alas for my wife's best dress!
alas for my daughters' new bonnets! alas for wet
feet and wet shoulders' alas for the doctor's bills'
alas, alas for everything! Now comes the thun-
der, peal on peal reverberated by the rocks; the
lightning darts and quivers round the Serra Con-
vent; it writhes like a fiery serpent round the lofty
head of the Clerigos Tower; it flashes nearer,
nearer, into our very eyes. It plays and whizzes
about and around us; and a fiery bolt, red-hot, has
just plunged, hissing, into the river. Is there an
earthquake? No; it is a sky-quake, and a water-
quake, and a heart-quake for the ladies. Poor
dear dripping pullets, how they tremble! And it
is a knee-quake for some of the men. Even Mr.
Stubbs, who is not easily frightened, owns that it
is unpleasant, and rejoices in the breadth of brim 's
of his, Pennsylvanian hat. But he kindly says,
“Don’t be alarmed, ladies; there is no danger
from lightning while it rains.”
“But why?” asks a pale, shrewd, little femi-
nine quaker of fourteen.
“Because,” says Mr. Stubbs, “because—that
question really puzzles me—because the aqueous
element acts like an extinguisher upon the electric
fluid.”
“Heavens, what a flash ''... .
“Extinguisher, say you?” ejaculates a blue-
stocking spinster; “marry, call you that an ex-
tinguisher 1’’
“Marry indeed,” interjects Mr. Spence ; “how
can a woman talk of marrying at such an awful f"
hour as this 1” *
“Pray, Mr. Stubbs, don't keep so near me,”
says Miss Leslie. †
“why I have not got a lucifer-match in my
pocket.” º
“Perhaps not, sir, but
shower-batſi.”
“Oh Miss Leslie how can you say so? That
is the wolf and the lamb over again; the stream
that runs from you to me. You are a head taller
than I am.” º
“Yes, and so your hat is making a sluice of my
back.”
your hat is a perfect
“Miss Devon,” cries Senhor Pinto, peevishly,
“your parasol is taking the starch out of my shirt.
collar.”
+.
º
464
THE BELLE,
“Choler is unseasonable here,” says the ever-
punning Mr. Spence.
“What a sagaciously chosen position this is for
a pleasure party,” observed Senhor Pinto, who
was in very bad humor. He was addressing Mr.
Forsyth, and it was plain enough that he meant the
reverse of what he said.
“Why not 1” asked Mr. Forsyth: “the day is
most untoward, but the place seems convenient
enough.”
“Convenient,” replied Pinto ; “oh, very ! You
are under a lime-kiln that puffs down upon you
the suffocating breath of Tartarus, in the shape of
volleys of smoke, at every squall from the south.
You are near the old burial-ground of the English.
That is ominous. You are as near as possible,
also, to the old lazaretto ; and, better still, this
lazaretto is now a powder magazine. What if a
spark of lightning should fall there 4 Very con-
venient indeed ''”
“Spare the ladies’ nerves, Senhor Pinto ;
probably most of the persons here are ignorant of
the objectionable circumstances you mention.”
“Yes, yes,” said Pinto, “and I’m off in the
first boat I can get into.” -
But the racing-boats are coming back; they
have struggled stoutly for the prize in spite of the
thunder and lightning. “Where 4 where ! I
can’t see the boats.”
“Who can see through such walls of water-
spouts!”
The purple has won
Nature's bully
champagne.
Hour after hour, and no cessation to the floods
—not of champagne, but of thunder-water, that
pours through the unhappy canvass on the more
luckless silks and muslins; and the thunder
rattles, rattles and roars, among the answering
hills and over the turbid waters. “Good Jupiter 1’’
exclaimed Mr. Stubbs, who, after his consolations
of champagne and something stronger, was what
Miss Fanny Kemble called How comed you so,
indeed “Good Jupiter, we are not all deaf; you
need n't bawl so loud! You preposterous light-
ning, we are no cynics wanting your assistance to
find honest men by daylight ! We are no mid-
night voyagers near a ee-shore ; we are moored
in harbor in the face of day: put out your revolv-
ing light; you are only wasting gas. You, rain,
we are no Mussulmans, and don't want washing
all day long ; enough is as good as a feast; do be
quiet! You won't! Well, we drink your healths,
you three amiable graces, fire, air, and water
lightning, thunder, and rain, your healths' and
better manners to you.” tº
And Mr. Stubbs suited the action to the word,
and tossed off another bumper, of ancient port,
when, lo! he lost his balance and tumbled into the
river, and would have been drowned, but for the
resence of mind of Miss Leslie, who held down to
É. her parasol, which he luckily grasped the end
of, and held on by, till Manoel Gomez, Mr. For-
syth's cook, jumped in, and clutching him by the
waistband of his trowsers, flung him back again
into the barge, at the feet of Miss Leslie, Mr.
Stubbs jumped up, as if nothing had happened.
“But, oh my hat, my hat " he exclaimed. It
was floating down the river. The good-natured
Portuguese boatmen went aſter it. There was
another race between two of their boats for Mr.
Stubbs' hat, and it was such a neck-and-neck race
that the hat, when overtaken, was nearly being
Imperial purple, thou art
Now for cold collations and
drowned by the scramble of the several boatmeg.”
get hold of it. It was at last brought back. Mr.
tubbs gave twenty moidores to Manoel Gomeº
the man who had saved him, and ten moidores."
the crews of the boats that had saved his hº
This, however, was not done till the next day, for
Mr. Stubbs was as generous and as brave when hº
was sober as when he was How comed you so, *.
deed? But now, when his plaguy hat was on?”
more restored, he threw himself on his knees tº
Miss Leslie, and vowed everlasting fidelity to hº
at the risk of breaking Miss Devon's heart; thº
jumping up again, he apostrophized his hat with
jolly indignation, “Ah, my fine fellow, you though;
to make a voyage without your master, did you
I'll dance you dry, however.”
He clapt it on his head, and dance he did. Aſ
when the cowardly sun, that had hid himsel
during the storm, ventured to peep out again "
four o'clock in the morning, there was Mr. Stubbº
dancing the gallopade, with Miss Leslie for hiº
partner, and there was the whole party dancing *
merrily as birds glance and sing among the tree*,
after a dewy night. The Douro fishes, that had
been kept awake all night by those indefatigablº
feet, went away in shoals fifty miles up the rive.
into Spain, resolved rather to trust to the merºy
of Zumelacarrégui and the Carlists, than to liº
under foot of the constitutional dancers of Oport0,
the heroic city. .
“And is this all you have to tell us of your
regatta!” I hear some amiable reader cry who
belongs to the numerous family of the fault-finder8
—“Why, it is nothing but the old story; it alway?
rains at a picnic or a regatta.”
Yes, I answer, it does in your climate, in you!
eternally weeping woods, and on your foggy coast”
and hazy lakes, my British reader; but in Portº.
gal in the leafy month of June—in the land 9
the melon and vine; in the port of port wine ; the .
thing was as unreasonable as it was unseasonablº:
“Such a day as that,” as Mr. Spence afterwards
protested, “ was a monstrosity in nature, an uſ”
natural monstrosity.”
A merry place was Oporto, especially for a yeº.
or two after the horrors of the siege. At the risk
of surfeiting my readers with trifle, I must dedi-
cate a few pages to recollections of one of the mos.
remarkable entertainments I ever witnessed in thº'
quarter. It was given by an English merchant, *
the picturesque mansion of Freixo, on a scale sº
extensive that it required more than ordinary
courage and liberality in a bachelor to undertake."
The trouble must have been immense, for the
donor of the fête knew too well what he was abou"
not to take care to superintend and direct all th?
preparations himself. In the neighborhood, 9
F. or of Paris, or Vienna, a fairy festival.”
the most exquisite perfection can be got up ºf
promptu, without the least demand on the host ſo:
any exercise of ingenuity, or indeed for any Pº.
sonal trouble whatever. The silver wand works
magic. Not so in the land of the Lusitanian. N*
, * Thunder storms and heavy showers are not º:
quent here in summer. But such a day, as this wº O-
very rare indeed. A respected friend 3f mine, the O
testant clergyman of the English congregation at 9.
who did not mix in, nor perhaps approve of these ſº.
parties, alarmed for his neighbors by the state *ºn
weather, imprudently came out to an elevated spoº, ;
which he could examine their position on this...".
While doing so, he was struck by lightning, and 9 .
his servant whº had followed him. "Happily neither
them was seriously injured.
THE BELLE.
465
ºnly must particular directions be given to each
*nd all of the mechanics, artists, purveyors, and
*rvants, but the execution of every order must be
Watched by the eye of the master, or the chances
Will be ten to one that it will be left undone, or
One by the rule of contrariety, and never up to
time. Such, at least, used to be the case in these,
* in more important matters. Mr. Herbert, the
§entleman who gave this splendid fete, had lived
°ng enough among these good-natured, ever-
tomising, never-minding people, to spare himself
*ouble on this occasion; consequently, his perse-
Verance was rewarded by the good taste and ele-
§ance of the arrangements, though his patience
**śnearly exhausted. $ *
'irst, as the owner of the untenanted mansion
$f Freixo lived at Lisbon, Mr. Herbert called upon
ls representative at Oporto, to request his per-
ission to use the house and grounds. The old
ºrtuguese assented, not only with courtesy, but
With downright cordiality. “Sir,” said he, “I
ink you for your politeness in condescending to
"sk leave to make use of the Freixo House. For
*veral years it has been uninhabited, except a
ºnall portion of the offices in the occupation of the
fºrmer; and, during all those years, it has con-
*antly been the custom, both with my own country-
°n and women, and with yours, to assemble sum-
"ºr-parties there, whenever it suited their fancy,
Without deigning so much as to cause it to be
ºted to me that they were doing so on my sup-
!ºsed sufferance; and truly, though I was annoyed
* these liberties at first, I soon became reconciled
9 the matter, till at last I almost considered that
e public had established a prescriptive right to
§e that house, and those grounds, whenever they
Pleased. I am much obliged to you, sir, for
aving gone through the form of acknowledging
my delegated rights of seigniory. Do what you
Please with the Freixo.” g
he Freixo is a curious, not very ancient, but
ºcient-looking, large, square mansion of stone,
"ith buttresses, and turrets, and pinnacles, orna-
ented with a multiplicity of stone carving, in a
*yle of architecture of which it would be difficult
° define the prevailing order—composite it is, but
lºt of the privileged orders. It is, however, a
most quaintly handsome and dignified dwelling,
*tuated at a league up the river from Oporto, and
§h the same side of the river as the city. It stands
|ºt far from the edge of a line of bank which is ºut
own to the river in stair-terraces, and defended
º the side nearest to the water, by." wall, and a
tone balustrade, within which is an oblong garden,
ld out in square beds, with walks between. In
... centre of this garden is a ſºuntain leaping up
to air, and falling in a circular show ºr of pris-
*tic vapor into a huge stone basin. The various
alks and arbors above and below the house, and
"der the wing nearest to Oporto, are perfumed as
"Sual by orange, lemon, and citron trees, and over-
ºld with vines. The principal arbor, behind
* house, also boasts of a profusion of sculpture,
d of one or two grotto-like recesses, where
. satyrs, and bacchanals, are carved in groups
aughers among vine-leaves; and it is, often in
° of these fanciful nooks, that a party of careless
°uths and lasses take their refreshment, forming
ºup of real life, in perfect keeping with the
'ill life of the chubby children of the sculptor's
j , above and about them. For the sculptures
mouldings, as works of art, when examined in
detail, we will not venture to say much, though
the general effect is pleasing. For the live faces
and forms of many of those joyous groups that we
have seen in this charming place, much, much
might be said. But we are calm as Erebus, and
leave raptures to Mr. Stubbs.
It was along this walk that Mr. Herbert planned
his morning-dinner room. ...The dancing was to
take place in the house. His arrangements were
well-nigh completed, and some scores of game and
poultry were already slaughtered for the feast,
when, two days before that for which he had
issued his cards of invitation to about three hun-
dred persons, the heavens began to lower, and
presently the rain fell copiously. Mr. Herbert,
resolved not to give a land repetition of the regatta,
put off his party, and gave away his turkeys and
partridges. The weather brightened up ; again
the day was fixed. Twenty-four hours before his
friends were to meet him, the clouds again de-
scended, and extinguished all hopes of favorable
weather for the morrow. Once more Mr. Herbert
postponed his day, and distributed here and there
his poultry and his joints, his game pasties, and his
jellies, and all the et-cetera of unkeepable things,
that had been cooked ; for his banquet was now
much more advanced in preparation than before.
His courage was crowned at last. On the day a
third time fixed, the sun rose in the best of humors,
and never perhaps did the Douro exhibit a livelier
or lovelier scene than on that day ; for the water
was alive with boats, not only with those that had
white canvass awnings or painted wooden cover-
ings, and were bearing the guests bidden to the
feast, but with many others freighted with spec-
tators. It chanced also, on that fine morning, the
first after bad weather, than an unusual number of
the large wine-barks of the Upper Douro, each
with its great square sail, blanched by many an
earnest sun, and full with a fair breeze, were work-
intº way majestically up the flood.
From the Freixo House and terraces could be
seen to the utmost advantage, all the varieties and
accidents of the winding river, with its variously
shaded currents and eddies, and the steep banks,
and the oaks and pine-trees of the opposite shore,
With the green valley of Quebrantes, and, in the
distance, the blue Arouca hills, and on the east,
behind St. Cosme's, the sullen hills of Wallongo.
The prospect was altogether enchanting ; but few,
perhaps, of the crowd of pleasurers thought about
it, though even the most insensible, or the most pre-
occupied, must have unconsciously felt its witchery.
hose of the party who came by water were
admitted through a large area on the east front of
the building; those who arrived in carriages, by
one of the Quinta gates. All came up the superb
double flight of stone steps, and so, entered the
great hall, which was chalked for dancing, and
where two ladies, a tall and elegant Brazilian, the
wife of the governor of Oporto, and an English
lady, were in attendance with Mr. Herbert to re-
ceive a company, which was composed of nearly all
the English of the place, and a much larger assem-
blage of Portuguese. The musicians, disposed in a
gallery above, struck up a symphony, which some-
what lowered the tone of º greetings. Qua-
drille sets were then formed, and things went on as
usual, smiles, attitudes, compliments, graces, and
grimaces; the usual trivialities were uttered, some-
times with more meaning in them than met the
ear; the bland jest, and sly sarcasm, were bandied
466
THE BELLE,
to and fro, while non-dancers, old and young, sat
or stood thronged near the walls, some simpering,
some languishing, some yawning, and some won-
dering, when breakfast would be ready. They
“had begun to arrive” about eleven, and the danc-
ing commenced at mid-day. Senhor Pinto was in
his glory; he was well known to all his country-
women, and not a little in favor with most of them.
He was not sorry at this opportunity of showing the
English ladies how popular he was with the natives.
He was always trying to make impressions and to
fan jealousies and feuds about his dearly loved and
thoroughly graceless self; and yet there was cer-
tainly something superior about him, both in man-
ners and mind, when he chose to put out his
strength with a view to conquest. Don Alvarez,
too, was in much request with the dancing damsels
of both countries, if flattering eyes are to be trusted.
Mr. Stubbs had entangled himself in a knot of en-
gagements to dance, before the arrival of Miss Les-
lie; when she did arrive, she saw at a glance that
all the men she preferred dancing with were en-
gaged, and, whether from indifference or coquetry,
she almost immediately escaped from the room,
contriving to carry off with her by far the most
interesting blonde beauty of the whole assembly, a
young English widow lately returned from a visit
to Lisbon, a lady whose loveliness was of that
sweet seraphic character, that awes the presumption
of ſoplings, while it enforces their admiration.
Nothing could be more different than the style of
Mrs. Lumley's beauty, and May Leslie's. The
latter, dark, haughty, and somewhat scornful, the
other so delicately fair, so spiritually amiable, so
gentle to all, yet so guarded from all impertinent
familiarities by a matronly simplicity, as effective
for self-protection as Miss Leslie's haughtiest ex-
pression of reserve. Mrs. Lumley had lost her hus-
band, who was one of Don Pedro's auxiliary Eng-
lish officers, about three years previously. He was
killed by almost the first shot that was fired on
Oporto during the siege, when he had been married
only two months.
These two lovely young women ensconced them-
selves on a stone seat in a retired and -obscure cor-
ner of the Quinta under a vine shed, only open to
the river; of which their retreat commanded a fine
reach. They were in earnest conversation, when
Senhor Pinto, whose triumphs among the ladies
were incomplete unless they were witnessed by
the two most beautiful Englishwomen of Oporto,
stealthily approached. He was looking for them.
He heard their voices, and concealing himself be-
hind one of the vine-leaf curtains that hid them from
view, heard the following dialogue and remarkable
confession : 4.
“He is certainly a singular man,” said May
Leslie, “and so unlike all the men whom I have
ever scen, especially those that we know here,
except one or two, who mix less in our society
than even he does, that he interests me in spite of
myself, for I think him plain: don't you, Mrs.
Lumley?” *
“She cannot mean me,” thought Pinto : “I mix
in all societies, and am not plain. She cannot mean
Alvarez either, for the same reasons. It must be
Mr. Forsyth.”
He listened eagerly for the reply.
“He is not handsome, certainly,” said Mrs.
Lumley, “nor is he young, two cardinal sins, I
should have thought, with a girl of your youth
and beauty, May; but I agree with you as to Mr.
Forsyth; there is nothing common-place about
him. He is a gentleman in every good sensº i.
is not only a gentleman fashioned in sociº.
he is one of Nature's gentlemen; he has a lº
at once gentle and proud. I like that sort of 8
tlemen.” V6
“So do I,” said Miss Leslie, “yet I .
by my own impertinence taught that man to "
IIlê. *
. Pinto's worst passions were roused. He º:
in abruptly upon the ladies; they were startled: ".
that warned him of his indiscretion. He said." 8
voice smooth and honeyed,—“So, ladies, you esca.
from us tiresome every-day sort of persons, ...",
pare notes on the merits of a stranger. Tha
rather hard on old friends; you should
your secrets to be overheard.”
Miss Leslie gave him one of her
tempt could not have been so perfectly exſº
in words. Mrs. Lumley mildly answered, t !".
not without a blush, “We were talking 0
Forsyth, and praising him ; but we ha"
secrets, Senhor Pinto. Let us go to the dam”
May.” 33
It was now two o'clock, and breakfast `.
announced ; the company were ushered intº th9
immense long tent that had been prepared ".
terrace with so much elegance, such an admº.
arrangement of drapery, banners, and flowers; th9
it looked like a picture in a dream. “And y
breakfast? for that,” said Mr. Spence, and .
thought with him who did not say it, “is the iº.
tant thing after all.” Well, covers were la
three hundred persons, and every place was 9
pied, yet there was no inconvenient pressurº
the breakfast was such as might have made
exclaim, though this was no Timon's villa-
looks : º
eSSC
e 10
C sº
and
opº
Is this a banquet! this a genial room?
This is a temple and a hecatomb
beef was not the staple thereof. Music, .
healths, and complimentary speeches, prinº
from the polite Portuguese, enlivened an hº
two after the repast, and then the dancing W
sumed in the hall; parties strolled abou
grounds; coffee and other refreshments were *.
about ten o'clock; and the party broke up * teſ,
night, returning as they came, by land or W?
lighted by a radiant moon, and a galaxy of *...al
This merry fête was succeeded by a tº.
event. Among many of the visiters who wº
turning by water all the way to Foz were thº. re?,
lies and their guest Mrs. ñº. Don Alvº re-
Senhor Pinto, and Mr. Forsyth. Don Alsº,
turned in the boat of the commandant of the tyle:
Castle, with whom and his daughter he had º of
Pinto, who had officiously persisted in being ".d to
the escorts of the three ladies just mentiº" W
their boat, was stepping in after them, as iſ!'.
one of their party, though he had arrived with ugly
of his own family. Mrs. Leslie, whom her ".
ter had informed of Pinto's espieglerie in the
ing, promptly prevented him by saying, “I bº.
#. Senhor Pinto, but we have no room"?
Forsyth is coming with us.” º is own
Mr. Forsyth, who had just stepped into hº ise;
boat, alongside theirs, was rather taken by sº.;
but he had tact enough to perceive that he SC4
wanted, so he at once passed over and took . O
by Mrs. Leslie, politely requesting Senhor Pº,
use his boat if he could not find his own: #
which was really intended as a civility, Wºº
taken by Pinto for English insolence, and 8
* - x-
Only that this was a sacrifice to the Graces, and 0 ;
y
0ſ
you!
Mr.
15°
alled
- *
w' . . . . . . . .* *
* , 4- -
- *
& , -
ºt r * .
* r * : * : * ~ * £º-
THE
BELLE
467
. even more than the exclusion from the ladies'
ºt. But the marked preference shown for Mr.
*syth's company was what galled him most,-at
3. moment, too, when he had resolved to punish
t * Leslie's pride by making himself irresistible
...ts. Lumley, on whom also he had long had his
"ws, for he was as presumptuous as he was un-
Pºincipled. This long midnight cruise down the
"ºr would have been, he thought, the most favor-
º opportunity possible to insinuate himself into
* good graces of the fair young widow. And he
Was superseded by Mr. Forsyth, the man whom he
ºtest. even more than he did the handsome Don
Alvarez; Mr. Forsyth, the man who had so griev-
º y mortified him formerly, and who now, as he
ºuld have it, added insult to injury by the mock
...iesy of offering him the service of his boat!
lº, however, bowed and accepted the offer, while
º Gomez handed a cloak to his master, and
. ºn followed Senhor Pinto into Mr. Forsyth's boat.
ºppened that, in the confusion of departure, Don
Alvarº."ha i.e. i. Forsyth's cloak, and the
Ono just handed to him by Gomez belonged to the
"stilian.
into, in a low conversation with Gomez, now
*oached him for having disappointed his expec-
*ons. As to what those were, the man's answer
.. explicit.—“If I had found the stranger in
se service you placed me, the dog you described
§. the account might have been soon settled.
§y moidores is a handsome bribe for the death of
lºg . But it is poor pay for poisoning a man. I
... your moidores and mean to keep them. If any
. should happen to bite you, Senhor Pinto, send
Or me, and I will cook his dinner for him. Then
* account will be straight.”
... Rascait" said Pinto, in uncontrollable rage, “I
w have you strangled.”
... No, you won't.” replied Gomez bluntly, “you
will think better of it.”
in into was silent till the boat was near the land-
§§place. He then said in a low, anxious whisper,
At least you will not betray me, Manoel.”
sº. The moidores you gave me guarantee yºur
“et,” said the cook: “I will not betray you.
..Then, good night, Manoel.” : -1.4 73
Good night, Senhor Pinto, a very good night.
Pinto jumped ashore and vanished. . . Gomez
*ted to look for his master, who arrived in about
lººter of an hour, and accompanied the ladies to
ºr door before he went to his own.
ºut Don Alvarez had discovered that he had not
*ºwn cloak, and on examining that which he had,
the torch-light of the man who opened the castle
º, he saw that the name Forsyth was marked
jle of the cloak; on which he told his friends
h * previously to retiring to his lodging at the inn,
§ would go at once to the Englishman's house,
i. was but a little way off. When Mr. Forsyth,
owed by Gomez, reached his own detached resi-
*ce, he found the doors still closed, and a man
W ‘ended on the pavement. It was Don Alvarez,
ho had been stabbed by some person that had been
ing in the shadow of a garden wall opposite,
§ºlved till the Spaniard felt a knife in his side.
...fºlds of the cloak had somewhat weakened the
jºbut he was already nearly insensible from loss
Ini blood. Gomez exclaimed, “None but that
§ºrable Pinto could have done this!” But Mr.
ºsyth's dismay prevented his attention to what
Auttered. No time was lost in rousing the
S º
§: servant who was in charge of the house;
on Alvarez was laid on a bed on the ground-
floor, while Gomez was despatched for a surgeon.
Both Dr. F and an able }. practitioner
were at this season at the Foz, and in a few minutes
both were in attendance. They were inspecting
the wound when the commandant arrived from the
castle, where Gomez had also left a message. The
medical men saw that the case was dangerous.
They remained all the rest of the night in the house,
after requesting the commandant to retire, and to
prevent any assembly in the street when the affair
should become known, as quiet was indispensable
to his wounded friend. The commandant placed a
soldier on guard at the door with the necessary
orders, and set about to discover the assassin. But
who was to discover him 1 The deed was probably
unwitnessed. Gomez had, perhaps, guessed rightly;
but his exclamation had been unheeded or not under-
stood by his master; and, on cooler reflection, he
did not choose to repeat it, though he had no doubt
that Pinto was the assassin, and that the blow was
meant for Mr. Forsyth. Don Alvarez might sur-
vive, and Manoel Gomez could and would prevent
ºw attempt upon his master by the same
&lſl(1.
The next day a false report of the death of Don
Alvarez brought a magistrate, attended by his
secretary, to make a preliminary inquiry into the
circumstances. But investigation was in this case
a mere form, and nothing could be elicited in the
present condition of the sufferer. If he should die,
and the suspected person could be named, this
magistrate's duty was to give an order for the arrest
of the latter, who would be conveyed before a jury,
and the proper judicial officer, by whom the accusa.
tion would be confirmed or not, (similar to the finding
or throwing out of a bill by our grand jurors,) after
an examination of witnesses. ; the charge were
not found, the accused would be released at once ;
if it were, he would be sent to trial before a court of
judicature, composed of six judges, whose decision
would be final, subject only to the pleasure of the
sovereign.
The consternation at the Foz, and chiefly among
the numerous friends of Don Alvarez, may be
imagined. A thousand rumors and misrepresenta-
tions were in the wind. Some political enemy in
Spain might have suborned the assailant; or it
might have been an attack of which the object was
merely robbery, and the ruffian might have been
alarmed before he could secure his booty, for Don
Alvarez had lost nothing but his blood. This was
the more plausible suggestion, because night robbers
were very frequent after the siege, though murder
was very rare. Disbanded soldiers and other
prowlers infested the streets and the suburbs; the
police was wretched, and after it was strengthened
by military patroles, the number of robberies was not
few, and there were doubts whether several of them
were not committed by these very guardians of the
public safety. Civil jurisdiction has improved since
that time. The suburbs of Oporto are not more
angerous now at night than those of London,
though the temptations to outrage are greater, for
the Öporto streets, and roads are ill-lighted, or not
lighted at all, and the watchmen or soldier-police
are comparatively few and inefficient, so that there
is far less danger of detection for the robber.
Nowhere did the news of that outrage fall more
heavily than in the residence of Mr. Leslie. When
some rash newsmonger abruptly announced to the
three ladies that Don Alvarez was murdered, Miss
Leslie betrayed far more feeling than might have
been expected from the belle and the coquette.
46S
THE BELLE,
She betrayed a secret which even her nearest inti-
mate, Mrs. Lumley, was far from suspecting. She
burst into teafs, and wrung her hands, in the utmost
agitation. “Where, where?” she cried; “let us
go and see him. Is he dead? Oh, mother, what
have I to live for 1'.' The bolt was shot. That
anguish of mind, those words were genuine, and
could not be explained away. Mrs. Lumley was
astonished. Some recent conversations with May
Leslie had half convinced her that Mr. Forsyth was
her favorite, and Mrs. Lumley, even at that distress-
ing moment, was not sorry to be quite assured that
she had been mistaken. Her sorrow for Don Alva-
rez, if less acute and less absorbing than Miss
Leslie's, was as sincere. But when she was soon
afterwards informed that the Castilian had been
stabbed at the door of Mr. Forsyth, and was now in
a precarious condition in that gentleman's house,
her agitation was almost equal to her friend's.
Miss Leslie had now a hope of the possible
recovery of Don Alvarez, and it gradually fortified
and calmed her. Mrs. Lumley felt some undefined
terror at the association of Mr. Forsyth's name and
residence with the horrible crime. Almost every
hour messengers were sent to inquire into the state
of Don Alvarez. The few particulars of the attack
on him were soon understood, though no one but
Gomez suspected the hand that dealt the blow.
Senhor Pinto, after the ineffectual visit of the
magistrate was known, presented himself at Mr.
Forsyth's door, and left his card as one of the
inquirers there!
Many hours had not passed before Mrs. Lumley
and May Leslie were in perfect intelligence. Miss
Leslie's passion for her Castilian lover had revealed
itself so suddenly that it might seem that
“The passion of a moment came
As on the wings of years;”
but it was not the passion of a moment. The flint
from which that sparkle had been struck might
never have confessed the fire within it but for some
such violent collision with disaster. Miss Leslie,
the belle and the coquette, might but for this event
have been able still to deface her heart of woman
with vanities; Don Alvarez might have been long
without discovering that he was the true object of
her preference among a crowd of admirers, and Miss
Leslie might, even to herself, have only acknowl-
edged him to be
“More loved than any, though less dear than all.”
The dagger aimed at the life of Don Alvarez cut
the complicated knot of May Leslie's self-love.
Don Álvarez recovered, and the Belle was in due
time the reward for all his sufferings. In the con-
ſlict of political factions in Spain, though the star
of Don Carlos has not regained the ascendant, the
personal interests and fortune of Don Alvarez, one
of his most loyal partisans, rose to prosperity by
circumstances out of the scope of this narrative.
The name of May Leslie has ceased to exist. She
is one of the most admired wives of Madrid, the
wife of Don Alvarez, and the mother of young
Hidalgos. On the same day that the English Belle
and Castilian cavalier, both Catholics, were wed in
the cathedral of Oporto, Mrs. Lumley was married
in the English chapel to Mr. Forsyth, the hermit
of the Foz.
Here ends, or should end, my story; but where
is Mr. Stubbs'! Miss Leslie's marriage did not
take place till several months had passed after the
attack on Don Alvarez; but the positive fact of her
ut
engagement became known to Mr. Stubbs º:
two months after the date of that alarm. 30th
Leslie communicated the cruel tidings on tºº. ds
of November, and in less than an hour ań.
a remarkable catastrophe befell the disco".
Stubbs. He was hurrying, in exceeding Pº.
tion of mind, over the Pontoon bridge that coºp.
Oporto with Villa Nova. He had got half .
across the bridge when he suddenly paused, . ſ:0;
whether he should proceed and visit his wine-lo ſer.
or then and thence throw himself into th".
The latter was a fearful alternative; but the glo
and wildness of the weather, suiting the gº.
habit of his soul, rather encouraged him to tº d iſ,
plunge. The flood-gates of heaven had 90°.
Spain; down came the melted snows of the SP".
mountains in a gigantic current that brok” i0
banks of the Douro, and then carried away Pº.
of the soil from the Upper Douro, and so º it
along in muddy haste it reached Oporto, whº.
snapped the chain of the bridge; when away." thé
the boats, some to the Arsenal, and some "...is
bar. Three or four men, besides Mr. Sº...?
were on the bridge at the moment that the crash
the current let the boats loose with their s”
superstructures of plank and railing, whilº.
red; those men found themselves suddenly cº, at
down over the lower part of Villa Nova, for
was submerged in a moment—and then, 2% *
down to the Arsenal, where their truant fragӼ:
of a bridge drifted ashore, and they were quº ut
their fears, after a compulsory water-trip of º
a mile and a half. But a single boat, wº eſ!”
cover and its fore and aft fence of railings, the ing
tral boat in which Mr. Stubbs was coºleº.
suicide, settled his doubt, by detaching itself º
the rest and launching itself with Mr. Stubbº'
the stream.
“Perfidious bark, and built in the eclipse' 3%
It bore away the little poet to his extreme asº.
ment: it went whirling, eddying, and waveſ it
hither and thither, but never stopping-ºo:
seemed inclined to land him at Gaya; now it S
away to the opposite coast of Miragaya, t ſ!
fluctuated between Massarellos and Bicalh9.
wavered at the Arsenal, then darted down º:ianti”
Jew
the bar as if determined to make a trans”
voyage and carry him back to his wife aſ
York, in spite of his remonstrances. It." No
awful period of Mr. Stubbs' life. His life ºw
gambler in his senses would have staked º
crown on his chance of safety against Portº...o
the Algarves. , Poor Mr. Stubbs' as he stood.”.
verge of eternity, like some reluctant wretº £
demned “to walk the plank,” placed as it .
a lofty stage above his whirling boat, that * in
bound for the Atlantic, if it could escape swº".
among the rocks and quicksands of the bºr, "...der
think of all his sins, of inconstancy to the *. On 5
sex: Did he think of all the maids and mº" ad
whom his oily tongue and persuasive. Yº ragſ
flattered and deceived, and of his pretty little VII. S;
spouse in America, and repudiated marriage.
faithless as the bonds of Mississippi! He di ºhen
did; and he was in an agony of contrition" . mp
his runaway wooden hippopotamus halled..."the
upon the Cabedello and jerked him off *...i
sands, where he executed a somerset that wº.
have won applause for the clown at Astley. ..]:
gasped; he grasped the sands which seemed " and
in his fingers; the muddy salt waves Pººj;
almost choked him; he liſted up his headin ang"
THE BELLE.
º 469
he *cºvered his breath, and got upon his legs, and
s *** fast as soft, wet sands allowed, for he seemed
"king at every step; but at last he got to firmer
fºund, and stood safe, just below a well-known
"mark, the gray, smooth stones of the Cabedello,
i ºre, at many a joyous picnic, he had triumphed
"the smiles of May Leslie, and, inspired by cham-
ſle, made verses to her eyes.
*t here he was on the wrong side of the river,
had a full hour's leisure to return thanks for
Scape, and to rest, before the tide turned, and
* boatmen from the Foz ventured off" and
"ght him across. Mr. Forsyth, the only Eng-
iman that lingered there, received him at his
M "se, where the excellent cookery of his friend,
*"oel Gomez, and some choice beverage, half as
ld as himself, speedily restored to Mr. Stubbs the
p losophic temper that made him consent to live
to endure .
find
his 6
80 II)
bro
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
*hat flesh is heir to.
his affairs calling him to England, and his wife
$ºlling him to New York, he embarked for Liver-
d "in about three weeks after his last adventure,
"d the sailing vessel in which he was a passenger
pitching in the Bay of Biscay, on the 25th of
*mber, a festival on which he had for several
"ccessive years of his jolly bachelorhood been a
*st at the table of Mr. Leslie. This recollection
ºkening all his tenderness, compelled him, in
*ºf the inconstancy of the young May Moon,
*ddress to her a farewell lyric, which he for.
ºrded to Oporto by the first packet. Somehow
. ºther a copy of the poem, got to New York
"fore the poet; and it is said, that on his arrival
th te, the first salute that he received from his little
.* was not the kiss of peace, but a salute from
* Open palm, administered with such conjugal
*d-will that it is one of his cheeks blash
*let for his Christmas carol. Like the horse:
aler, who, when he was warranting a filly “free
...vice and quiet in harness,” received from her
kick which made him swallow his front teeth,
§ Stubbs, while yet tingling with the smart º:
tº young Xantippe's palmy greeting, exclaimed,
ºtty little playful creature!” iſ d
tº subjoin the immortal verses which procure
...Mr. Stubbs so warm a testimony of his wife's
"hate of its merits, and of her correct notion of
j true intent and meaning of the heroic motto,
jºam qui meruit ferat It was Mr. Stubbs' first
"d last
SEA LYRIC.
A Christmas day on Biscay's Ba
Is sorry cheer, May Leslie
A roaring breeze and raging seas,
Are music drear, May Leslie
Our moaning bark, like Noah's ark,
Is all alone, May Leslie :
The waste of surge to ocean's verge,
Is all our own, May Leslie
3.
Skies, sea, and wind were fair and kind
But yesterday, May Leslie
But now astray they force our way
On Biscay's Bay, May Leslie'
The sea and wind are like thy mind,
A fickle pair, May Leslie
The changing skies are like thine eyes,
So false and fair, May Leslie
Within Oporto's orange shades,
And citron bowers, May Leslie
Are maids of beauty dark, and maids
As fair as flowers, May Leslie :
And one there is above them all
With charms endowed, May Leslie
A maiden dark, and fair, and tall,
Of spirit proud, May Leslie
Her eyes are as the lightning bright,
In arrowy freaks, May Leslie
Enkindling blushes with their light
On her own cheeks, May Leslie
And then the magic of her smile,
That smile of smiles, May Leslie
Which still invites and still delights,
And still beguiles, May Leslie
Though far away from sunny shores
And sunnier eyes, May Leslie
I toss where angry ocean roars
To blackening skies, May Leslie
That stately form, in every charm
Qf perfect grace, May Leslie
Before me glitters through the storm
I see her face, May Leslie
Bºmark, the gale has ceased to rail;
he wind has veered, May Leslie,
Out bark so gay now knows her way,
North-westward steer'd, May Leslie.
I fill the glass, a health to pass,
Though far at sea, May Leslie
A health to Porto's fairest lass, º
And that's to thee, May Leslie
woMAN's Lot.
On say not woman's lot is hard,
Her path a path of sorrow :
To-day, perchance, some joy debarred
May yield more joy to-morrow.
It is not hard—it cannot be,
To speak in tones of gladness,
To i. the sigh of misery,
And soothe the brow of sadness.
It is not hard sweet flowers to spread, *
To strew the path with roses,
o smooth the couch, and rest the head,
Where some loved friend reposes.
It is not hard, to trim the hearth
For brothers home returning; .
9. Wake the songs of harmless mirth,
When winter fires are burning.
It is not hard, a sister's love
To pay with love as tender;
When cares perplex, and trials prove,
A sister's help to render.
It is not hard, when troubles come,
And doubts and fears distressing,
To shelter in a father's home,
And feel a mother's blessing.
It is not hard, when storms arise
Mid darkness and dejection,
To look to Heaven, with trusting eyes,
And ask its kind protection.
Then say not woman's lot is hard,
Her path the path of sorrow;
To-day, perchance, some joy debarred
May yield sweet peace to-morrow.
Juvenile Scrap-Book.
THE HISTORY OF ST.
JAMES.
GILES AND ST.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
SNIPETON liked to be duped. He hugged him-
self in the khowledge of his weakness, mightily
enjoying it. And so, he suffered his wife to nestle
close to his chair—to place her hand upon his shoul-
der—to look with earnest, pleading eyes upon him
—to talk such fluent sweetness, melting his heart!
And whilst Clarissa assured him that, in a playful
moment, she had placed the miniature about the
housekeeper's neck, that it was a wickedness, a cal-
umny, to think otherwise—that, in very truth, it
would cause her—his wife, the wife he so professed
to lºve—such pain and remorse to think suspiciously
of Mrs. Wilton—Snipeton, that learned man as he
deemed himself in the worst learning of the world.
—that sage, who picked his way through the earth
as though its fairest places were all the closelier set
with gins and snares—he would not see the sweet
deceit in his wife's face ; he would not hear the
charitable falsehood ſlowing from her lips; no, he
would be filled with belief. He would commit a
violence upon his prudence and blindfold her. She
might rebel and struggle somewhat ; nevertheless,
she should wear the bandage. + º-
This wise determination still grew in his heart;
in truth, the soil was favorable to the deceit: and
therefore next morning, enjoying the amenities of
breakfast, Mr. Snipeton assured his wife that—
whatever his thoughts had been—he now felt the
deepest, sweetest confidence in Mrs. Wilton. She
had shown herself a most considerate gentlewoman,
and he should ever respect her for it. “Poor
thing ! I never knew anything of her private his-
tory—for private histories, my dear”—this tender-
ness had become almost familiar to the husband—
“private histories are very often like private wasps'
nests; things of danger, with no profit in 'em ;
nevertheless, she always appeared to me too good
—yes, too good for her situation. That's always a
ity;” and Snipeton continued to breakfast very
#ily.
“True, husband, true,” said Clarissa; “such
includlities of fortune are very sad.”
“Very inconvenient,” cried Snipeton; “for you
see, my dear, people who are too good for their em-
loyment are generally too bad for their employers.
#. is no such lumber in the world as broken-
down gentility. Always out of place—never fit for
anything. A decayed gentleman, as he's called, is
a nuisance; that is, I mean, to a man of the world
—to a man of business. For you see, there's
always impertinence in him. He always seems to
be thinking of what he has been—you can't get
him to think of what he is. He becomes your
clerk, we'll say. Well, you tell him to call a
hackney-coach, and he sets about it in a manner
that impudently says to you—‘ Once I kept my
own carriage " You order him to copy a letter, or
what not; and he draws down the corners of his
mouth to let you know that—‘Once in his day, he
used to write cheques!” Now this is unpleasant.
In the first place one doesn't like any insolence
from anybody; and in the next, if one happens to
be in a melancholy, thinking mood, one does n't
like to be reminded by the bit of decay about one,
what, for all one knows—for it's a strange world—
one may drop down to one's self. A decayed gen-
tleman to a rich man is-well—he's like a dead
thief on a gibbet to a live highwayman. , Ha! haſ
What's the matter?”—asked the mirthful man, for
he saw Clarissa shudder at the illustration, though
so very truthful and excellent to the maker. “To
be sure, I'd forgot; you’ve a tender heart—I love
you all the better for it—and don't likº ...
about such matters. And then again I’d ſº
to be sure, what a fool I am!”—And
Snipeton remembered that, in his virtuous
ation of bankrupt Plutus, he had forgo” ition
away by the dazzling light of simile—the £9.
of Clarissa's father; had, in the heat of *.
ſº id
failed to remember that he had bought ". '.
victim of the necessities of her parent: "...ds.
amed
Snipeton, as he thought, made immediate
For taking his wife's hand, he pressed it §: 3.
derly, kissed her, and then repeated—“W
fool I am l’’ very
(Now this confession—a confession that the .
wisest of us might, without any hesitation, "...in
himself three times a day; and we much ".
whether the discipline so exercised would nº lai
with it more profitable castigation than aught b6
on with knotted rope—this confession was ſº cºeſ
expected of so sage and close a man as 1. º 6°
Snipeton. Some sudden satisfaction must hº legs"
trayed him into the avowal ; some unexpected? Its
ure, tripping up habitual gravity, and show.
unthought-of weakness. Much, indeed, "...is
wife of his bosom, as he would call her—andd shº
not for do not rocks bear flowers?--much a eV
marvel at the humility of her husband thº ther
for a moment, placed him on the flat level with "i
men. . But great happiness, like great sorrº'...le
Sometimes knock the stilts from under us: a º
stilts, upon which so many of us walk abroad,
Aking
and at home too; though the world, prosº.
in its blindness, will often not perceive how
tall we are.) ed
“But the truth is, dear Clarissa”—con".
Snipeton—“I had a sort of respect for Mr. d m0!
ton, and though I often spoke of it, I really há ſtem
the heart to turn her from the house. I ".
threatened it; but it's a comfort to ...", ºd
I could "nt have done it. Now she 's gone
it.”
“Gone l’’ exclaimed Clarissa ; ;notoſ”
“Discharged herself, my dear,” said Snº
as upon his defence. “I found this upº. g
breakfast table.” Hereupon Snipeton, unfºld.
note, placed it in his wife's hand. Silently: "... I
trickling tears, she gazed upon the papº none
shall have no objection to give her a charactºr ve
at all; for I feel very easy about the plate, lat
no doubt, though I’ve made no inquiry as Yº is 115
all 's safe to a salt-spoon. Not that she "...at
where she's gone; nevertheless, I feel my hº.
ease about the property. Come, come, now . ttach
be weak—don't be silly. You should no ºrs
yourself in this way to a servant. It's a jo
—worse than weakness.” Thus spoke s".
to his wife, who had sunk back in her ºrg
and, covering her face with her hands, was “
iteously. † he
p At # moment Dorothy Vale moved i.
room. “Will mistress ride to-day! the ma"
to know.” º
“Yes, she will. Yes, my dear you wº., ten-
peated Snipeton, moving to Clarissa, and .ring,
derly placing his arms around her; and shud cs b%
she endured him. “You hear; let the hº.
ready in half-an-hour. Go.” And Dorothy mon"
but not a thought the faster for the thundering e Oſl
osyllable discharged at her. “You 'll sº º i!C
my way to town | Some way; not far: no "...ch
or so. 'Tis such a morning; therº. "...or'
heaven come down upon the earth. Such.” Clar
You jitake health with overy breath. Th"
Il"—re.
THE HISTORY OF ST.
471
GILES AND ST. JAMIES.
Issa?” And again the old man threatened an em-
*e, when the victim rose. -
hi Be it as you will, sir,”—said Clarissa—“ in
. fan-hour, I shall he ready.” And she left the
0m.
sº was Snipeton delighted with her obedience ;
now, he paused in his triumphant strides about
° room, to listen. Iſad she really gone to
* Chamber? Ashamed of the doubt, he walked
e faster—walked and whistled. And then he
i as so happy, the room was too small for his felic-
. ; he would forth and expand himself in the gar-
wº IIe so loved a garden ; and then he could
* amid the shrubs and ſlowers, with his eye
Pºll the window that enshrined the saint his soul
Š0 ºverently bowed to. How frankly she yielded
"his wish Every day—he was quite sure of it
ii * was becoming a happier and happier husband.
* looked forward to years and years of growing
º To be sure he was growing old ; but still
º onward, the nearer the grave, the less we
° of it.
“If you please, sir,”—said St. Giles to his new
"ier, as he entered the garden—“do you put up
º the horses in the city?”
S No ; your mistress will como back,” said
"lpeton.
“Alone, sir!” asked St. Giles; and the hus-
lº, as though the words had stung him, started.
Alone why, no ; dolt. Alone º’” There
§. something, hideous in the question; some-
. that called up a throng of terrors. . Clarissa
."le, with the world's wicked eyes staring, smil-
º: winking at her
b Humph! I had forgotten. As yet, we have
"t two horses. Fool that I am 1'' A second con-
ision, and yet early day! And Snipeton; mus-
; walked up and down the path; and plucking a
"Wer, rolled it betwixt his finger and thumb to
... his meditation. She had consented—so
ily, blithely consented to his wish, that it would
...ºruel to her—cruel to himself—to disappoint her.
in ow, my man, be quick. Run to the lask, and
jºy name get a horse for yourself. In a day or
li º, we must see and mount you—must see and
... upon a decent penn'orth. Quigl: Wo
º n't keep your mistress waiting. And harkyo!
.* my last orders now. When you return,
you will ride close—very close to your lady:
"Close that you can grasp the bridle : the horse
§. be skittish ; and we cannot be too cautious.
y °y me; and you know not how you may serve
ºlf. Go.” St. Giles ran upon his errand,
. Snipeton—after {l turn OT two, after another
. § at the chamber-window where it so strangely
"nforted him to see, through the curtain, his wife
lºs and repass—walked towards the stable. He
ºn to hum a tune. Suddenly he stopt. . He
* Rever thought of it before; but—it was a whim,
8 °olish whim, he knew that—nevertheless he now
...embered that his wife never sang. Not a single
§º, Perhaps she could not sing. Pshaw!
here was an idiºness of the heart that always
g-somehow. And thus, for a minute, Snipe-
pondered, and then laughed—a little hollowly,
"t still he laughed—at the childishness of his folly.
H T. Snipeton was by no means a proud man.
was not one of those incarnate contradictions
*, in the way of business, would wipe the shoes
th * Customer in the counting-house, yet ring up
...yant to poke the fire at home. , No ; he
to º proud. He refused not to put his hands
's own snuffers if the candle, or his own con-
venience, needed them. And so, entering the
stable, and seeing the mare yet unsaddled, he
thought he would make her ready: And then he
patted and caressed the beast as the thing that was
to bear the treasure of his life: even already he
felt a sort of regard for the creature. He was
about to saddle the animal, when he heard, as he
thought, his wife in the garden. He hurried out,
and found Clarissa—already habited—awaiting
him. And still his heart grew bigger with new
pride, when he saw his wife; she looked so newly
beautiful. What wondrous excellence she had
Under every new aspect, she showed another
loveliness If he could only be sure that so sweet
—so gracious a creature loved him—him—so old
and—and—so uncomely a man And then she
wanly smiled ; and he felt sure of her heart : yes,
it was beating with, a part and parcel of, his own
—pulse with pulse—throb for throb–their blood
commingled—and their spirits, like ſame meeting
flame—were one
“Why, Clarissa—love—you never looked so
beautiful—never—indeed, never,” said Snipeton ;
and the old man felt sick with happiness.
“Beautiful, master, is n't missus 4” said Becky,
and with her opened hands, she smoothed down the
folds of the riding-dress, as though it was some
living thing she loved ; and then she gazed at the
beauty of her mistress, believing it would be wrong
to think her quite an angel, and just as wrong not
to think her very near one.
“Your horse is not yet saddled, love,” said
Snipeton, taking his wife's hand, “not yet,
dearest.”
“Bless you, master, now missus is drest, I'll
saddle her,” cried Becky, and she ran to the
stable, Most adroit of handmaids ! Equad to tie
a bobbin as to buckle a girth ! And ere St. Giles
arrived from the Flask with his borrowed steed—it
had a sorry, packhorse look, but, as the landlord
assured the borrower, was “quite good enough
for him ;, who was he?”—the mare was ready.
* “Well, 't will serve for to-day, but next time
we must do better than that,” said Snipeton,
glancing at St. Giles' horse; and then he turned
to lift his wife into the saddle. Untouched by his
hand, she was in a moment in her seat; another
moment, nay, longer, Snipeton paused to look at
her; he had never before seen her on horseback.
At length the riders went their way, Becky, hang-
ing over the gate, now looking at her mistress—
and now, with red, red face and sparkling eyes,
bobbing her head, and showing her teeth to St.
Giles, doing his first service as groom to Snipeton
—and doing it with a sad, uneasy heart ; for he
felt that he was the intended tool for some mischief
—the bound slave to some wrong. And with this
thought in his brain, he looked dull, and moody,
and answered the eloquent farewells of Becky,
with a brief, heavy nod.
“Well, I'm sure " said Becky, as she thought,
to her own snubbed soul.
“What's the matter?” asked Dorothy Vale,
º stood rubbing her arms, a pace or two behind
Cr.
“ Nothin'. What should be I never lets
anything be the matter. Only when people look
‘good bye' people might answer.”
“Haſ child,” replied Mrs. Vale, with an ex-
traordinary gush of eloquence—“men upon foot is
one thing—men upon horseback is another.” How
it was that Mrs. Vale condescended to the utter-
ance of this wisdom, we cannot safely say: for no
472
THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
thrifty housewife ever kept her tea and sugar under
closer lock than did she the truths unquestionably
within her. Perhaps she thought it would twit
the new maid—the interloper—brought to be put
over her head. And perhaps she meant it as a
kindly warning : for certainly, Dorothy felt her-
self charitably disposed. Mrs. Wilton had left the
cottage ; and of course that girl—that chit—
could never be made housekeeper. However,
leaving the matron and the maid, let us follow the
riders.
Great was the delight of Snipeton, as he ambled
on, his wife at his side ; her long curls dancing in
the air ; the nimble blood in her face ; and, as he
thought, deeper, keener aſſection sparkling in her
eyes. Never before had he taken such delight in
horsemanship ; never had felt the quick pulsation
—the new power, as though the horse communi-
cated its strength to the rider—the buoyancy, the
youthfulness of that time. And still he rode; and
still, at his side, his wife smiled, and glowed with
fresher beauty, and her ringlets—as they were
blown now about her cheeks, and now upon her
lips, how he envied them —still danced and flut-
tered, and when suddenly—as at some blithe word
dropt from him—she laughed with such a honeyed
chuckle, she seemed to him an incarnate spell, at
whose every motion, look, and sound, an atmos-
here of love and pleasure broke on all around her.
º. old man At that delicious moment, every
wrinkle had vanished from his brow and heart.
He felt as though he had caught time by the beard,
and had made him render back every spoil of youth.
His brain sang with happiness; and his blood
burned like lava.
And so rode they on ; and Snipeton little
heeded—he was so young, so newly-made—the
steed that, with asthmatic roar, toiled heavily be-
hind. They crossed the heath—turned into High-
gate, and with more careful pace descended the
hill. Every minute Snipeton felt more precious, it
was so close to the last, when he must leave, for
some long hours, his life of life —
(Now, is it not sad—we specially put the ques-
tion to the Eve whose eyes may chance to rest
upon these ink-stained thoughts—is it not a matter,
tears being upon hand, to weep over, to think of
love in love's paralysis, or dotage! Love, with
cherub face and pale gold locks, may chase his
butterflies—may, monkey as he is, climb the Hes-
perian timber, pluck the fruit: he is in the gay
audacity of youth, and the tender years of the
offender sink felonies to petty larcenies. But love
—elderly love—to go limping aſter painted fancies
—to try to reach the golden apples with a crutch-
stick—why, set the offender in the pillory, and
shower upon him laughter.) .
We have written this paragraph whilst Mr.
Snipeton—in the king's highway, and moreover
upon horseback—kissed his young wife, Clarissa.
Although the man kissed the woman through a
wedding-ring—a lawful circle, and not a Pyramus
and Thisbe chink—we have no excuse for him,
save this, it had been dragged from him. She-
º highwaywoman—had madé him surrender
his lips by the force of death-dealing weapons. He
was about to separate from her. . He took her by
the hand—grasped it—she looked in his eyes, and
—we say it—the old husband kissed his young
wife'
“Caw—căw—caw ('' At the very moment—
ea, timing the very smack—a carrion crow flapped
its vans above the heads of man and wife, and
nº ū; y? and
hovering, thrice cried “caw—caw—caw: tell 10
then flew to the northward, it might be ſº
gossip crows of human infirmity; it might .
coward scandal, to feed upon the dead. How.
the married pair separated. He would retur" .
—very early that day—to dinner. And shºe
gently amble homeward; and—as she k".;
was the treasure of his soul—she would tº him
careful not to take cold. She would promº
ay, that she would. ” said S.
ton in a low voice to St. Giles ; then ag.
and again he kissed his hands to his wife.”.
“She might look once behind,” thought.Sº
gravely; and then he smiled and played wº
whip. It was not impossible—nay, it wº
likely—she was in tears; and would not show nd
sweet, delicious weakness to the servant.
ti-
still Snipeton paused and watched. How .
fully she rode 1 Straight as a pillar ! And how nd
fluttered,”
feather in her hat sank and rose and th9
how his heart obeyed the motion, as thou
plume were waved by some enchantress. St
He wished he had taken her with him * t
Mary Axe, what Ride with her through.
city ? And then he recoiled from the very hº.
of the thousand eyes opened and staring at hº 00
though by very looking they could steal the b eſs.
they gazed at-recoiled as from so many day
Still he watched her. Something made h".
the sudden, unquiet. And then, as if * card
moment it had only struck upon his ear, he ".
omeſ”
the clanging cry of the crow. Another m ge;
and he loudly laughed. Was it anything straſ nd
he asked himself, that crows should caw
then again he looked gloomier than before..... he
He would go home, he thought. For onº
would make holiday, doing double work,'...
morrow. Yes; he would not toil in the go"...as º
to-day. And now she had turned the lane: .
too late. Besides, business was ever jeº"he
revengeful. Love her as you would for yeº
beldam brooked no after neglect. She woulº.
her dues—or her revenge. And with this dº 35
Snipeton stuck his spurs to his horse, and,..,ed
though as he was riding to Paradise or a h"
er cent. :1os t
p “I ask your pardon, ma'am,” said St. Gilº.
Clarissa, about to put her horse to its spee"; I ask
master told me to follow close, and—ideº aſſ!”
our pardon—but 'tisn't possible, mounted * * No
łº had a hard bout to keep up, as tº:
offence, ma'am,” said St. Giles, very humº. 50
“Oh no ; we shall soon be at home-... 16
far,” answered Clarissa; and her altered lºº. ºr
mournful voice surprised him. It was p. deſ),
cheerfulness had been assumed; for, on the *.i.
she looked wearied, sick at heart. Poor É. #
woman! perhaps it was parting with her "...it .
No ; that generous thought was banished, sº. ſoſ
rose. Already St. Giles had a servant's º ntly
his young mistress; she spoke so sweety,” {l éd
to all about her. And then—though he hº º
but one evening with his fellow-servant, Bººdy
had learned from her so much goodness of, her;
of the house. Again and again he lºoked *"...he
it was plain, she had overtasked her spiri”
looked so faint—so pale. 're no
“Dear lady—beg your pardon-but Y. .ilop
well,” ºil, St. Giles. “'Shall I try and 8
after master!” * no
“No—no; it is nothing. A litle fatiguº.
more. I am unused to so much exercise"
THE HISTORY OF ST.
GILES AND ST. JAMES. 473
...ing In Oro.
Let us hasten home,”—and con-
TO
§ling herself, she put her horse to an amble, St.
be * whipping and spurring hard his wretched
; to follow, that nevertheless lagged many
is behind. A horseman overtook him.
tell ly good man,” said the stranger, “can you
..ºle the way to Hampstead church!”
i don't know—I'm in a hurry,” and in vain St.
... Whipped and spurred.
hºttumph! Your beast is not of your mind; any
'Twould be hard work to steal a horse like
...wouldn't it?” asked the man.
Steal it!” and St. Giles looked full in the
*ker's face, and saw it one indignant smile.
"...ºy he had met that man before.
to Some, fellow, you know me?” said the stranger.
"Ce would have done me a good turn. I see—
..yºu recollect me. Yes; we are old acquaint-
ºre we not!” * * +
he No, sir; I know nothing,” said St. Giles, but
kn shook with the lie he uttered Too well he
* the man, who, with looks of triumphant ven-
*e, scowled and smiled upon him. It was
bºtt Willis; the murderer loosed from his bonds
ºf magic tongue of Mr. Montecute Crawley.
§00. , sir, you’ll not stop me. For the love of
... ss, don't, sir,”—and St. Giles trembled, as
"ſh palsied.
sº 9, the love of goodness! Ha! haſ For the
ſºlo * the gallows, you mean. Now, listen to me;
i.eturned transport. That lady must not go
80es to her home. Nay—’tis all settled. She
Jºot back to old Snipeton—the old blood-sucker!
hat 's flat.”
hat do you mean?” cried St. Giles, stunned,
ered.
We ly meaning's plain—plain as a halter. When
mºst met, you'd have put the rope around my
º, Raise one cry—stir a foot faster than 'tis
§ Will, and—and as sure as green leaves hang
the boughs above you—so surely—but I see
§ cººlerand-yºs, you are no fool, master
§d s
ºwſ.
tles, though Hog-lane was your birth-place
chool, and Mister Thomas Blast—you see, I
your history—your only teacher.”
“Do what you will ! Hang, gibbet me, you
sha’n’t lay finger on that blessed lady,”—and St.
Giles, throwing himself from his useless horse, ran
like a deer after his mistress, Willis, with threats
and curses, following. St. Giles, finding his pur-
suer gained upon him, suddenly stopt, and as Wil-
lis came up, leapt at him, with the purpose of
dragging him from the saddle, and mounting his
horse. In a moment, Willis, beneath his assailant,
was rolling in the dust; but as St. Giles was about
to leap upon the horse, he was levelled to the earth
by a blow from Tom Blast, who—he was a wonder-
ful man for his age —sprang with the agility of
youth from a hedge. *
“What!” cried his early teacher to the prostrate
St. Giles—“you’d do it agin, would you! Well,
there never was such a fellow for stealing horse-
flesh ' You was born with it, I suppose,” said the
ruffian, with affected commiseration, balancing the
cudgel that had struck down the vanquished—“you
was born with it, and—poor fellar—it's no use a
blaming you.”
In a moment, Willis had remounted his horse, and
shaking his clenched fist over St. Giles, galloped off.
“How now !”—gasped St. Giles, his sense
returning—“how now,” he cried, opening his
eyes, and staring stupidly in the face of Blast—
“what’s the matter? What’s all this 1”
“Why, the matter is jist this,” said Blast.
“Your missus is much too good for your master.
That’s the 'pinion of somebody as shall be name-
less. And so you may go home, and tell 'em not
to wait dinner for her. It’s a wickedness to spilo
meat.”
“Tell me—where is she—where have they
carried her—tell me, or—” and St. Giles, seizing
Blast, was speechless with passion.
“I’ll jist tell you this much. Your lady's in
very good company. And I’ll tell you this, par-
ticularly for yourself; if you go on tearing my
Sunday coat in that manner, I know where the con-
stable lives, and won’t I call him " With this
dignified rebuke, Mr. Blast released himself from
the hands of his captor, who, with a look of stupid
misery, suffered him to walk away.
sº tract on Apostolical Loosing and Binding;
b i. by the Rev. W. Blackley, B. A., is published
it.ssrs. Hatchard. The design is to show that
§. passages in the gospels giving power to the
§.'s to remit and to retain sins, the commission,
tle." Words plainly imply, was limited to the apos;
§ Another point insisted on with more force, and
$1 jed at more length and with more learning-
§. give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of
bel. . and whatsoever thou #. bind on earth shall
ºn .ld in heaven, and whatsoever thou shalt loose
D; $ºth shall beioosed in heaven.” It is shown, as
lº"ghtfoot had before demonstrated, that “bind-
tº, and “loosing” were terms in frequent use
f. the Jews, and meant bidding and forbidding,
& Ҽ and refusing, declaring lanful and unlawful,
Sissiºw, as Peter was expressly charged with a
$n.ſo the Gentiles, (see Acts X, in which he is
tº Sornelius,) it is argued that it was nºcessary
wi. to have authority to declare to the Gentiles
lº. lawful and unlawful, and how far it was
§ed them to dispense with Jewish ordinances.
Rºument is developed with logical skill and
º, supported by express texts, as well as by
*Adºleral tenor of Scripture. Protestant in spirit
tº clusive in reasoning, this able little tract
° texts it takes up from the mystery which
apparently surrounds them, and which has given a
kind of color to the usurpations of Rome, and the
claims of Papal infallibility.—Britannia.
ºmsm–
IN STORM, STEER on.—The mariners sailing with
St. Paul bare up bravely against the tempest, whilst
either art or industry could befriend them. Finding
both to fail, and that they could not any longer bear
up into the wind, they even let their ship drive. I
have endeavored in these distemperate times to hold
up my spirits, and to steer them steadily. A happy
R. here, was the port whereat I desired to arrive.
ow, alas ! the storm grows too sturdy for the pilot.
Hereafter all the skill I will use, is no skill at all, but
even let my ship sail whither the winds send it.
Noah's ark was bound for no other port, but preser;
vation for the present, (that ship being all the har-
bor,) not intending to find land, but to float on
water. May my soul, (though not sailing to the de-
sired haven) only be kept from sinking in sorrow.
This comforts me, that the most weatherbeaten
vessel cannot properly be seized on for a wreck which
hath any quick cattle remaining therein. My spirits
are not as yet forfeited to despair, having one lively
spark of hope in my heart, because God is even where
he was before.—Fuller.
474
NEWS OF THE FORTNIGHT. f
NEWS OF THE FORTNIGHT.
DR. CHALMERs delivered a lecture in Edinburgh,
on the 13th October, on the education of the work-
ing classes. The place of meeting, Dr. Brown's
church in Broughton Place, was filled to over-
flowing. This, perhaps the closing one of Dr.
Chalmers’ public orations, was strongly marked by
his characteristic earnestness, practical knowledge,
fanciful discussion, colloquial manner, and warm
benevolence. The main points on which he in-
sisted were, the advantage of the “territorial sys-
tem,” and the expediency of allowing men to do
good in their own several methods without binding
them to your peculiar views. By the territorial
system, he means that regard should be had to the
education of people in their own districts, rather
than to their numerical collection in schools. The
latter plan, he argues, merely applies to the sur-
face of society, and does not search the evil to the
bottom, nor bring the remedy home to every part
where it is wanted. The Ragged Schools of Lon-
don—excellent institutions—apply merely to the
surface, and do not tell substantially in diminishing
the dense ignorance of the poorest classes in the
metropolis. A town ought to be divided and sub-
divided into districts until each parcel contains no
more than (say) twenty families; and then you
will be sure that you have got hold of every one to
teach. On the merits of many ways he spoke in
this manner—
“There are two ways of drawing the people
within the pale of gospel privileges; either way
may be good. You may take your way, and I will
take mine, and let each be tested by their own
results. We may illustrate this by an example.
A number of people, we shall suppose, are starving
in the Hebrides for want of food. To satisfy the
craving demands of these poor people, a previous
point is to be determined upon, as to how food is to
be conveyed to them. Some may recommend sail-
ing-vessels, and others steamers; both ways may
be good ; but by any way give the people food, for
they are perishing with hunger. The great mass
of the people are starving for spiritual food; then
any way by which their wants can be supplied
ought to be had recourse to.”
He lauded the object of the “Evangelical Alli-
ance,” united prayer; but doubted the continuance
of the body if it were to do no more than meet in
London, express fine sentiments, and disperse—
“I have no idea of a thousand ministers being
brought to London, and hºnestly and sincerely enter.
ing into the object of the Saviour's prayer, and being
indiſſerent to our Saviour's last, and parting pre-
cept, “Go and preach the gºspel to every creature
under heaven;' a precept that might as well be
fulfilled by filling up the vacancies in Christendom
as by going beyond its limits... Both are best : let
not the one come in conflict with the other. But I
say that the filling up of the interval between one
great meeting and another, by the method now
recommended, would have greatly sped forward
the object of the Evangelical Alliance; and unless
they get something to put their hands to, I do pre-
dict that it will be a failure, and will just sink
down into what its enemies call it, one of the the-
atricals of London—just a great exhibition for the
delight and admiration of the cockneys, who will
talk of it in this way, ‘Here are people coming up
from all the provinces, and oh is it not a beautiful
sight!" and there the thing terminates.”
Dr. Chalmers made an interesting statement
regarding himself-
:...intſ
“I am under the physical necessity of dº:
to make any public appearances in all time cº
This is about the last time that I will ever º:
such an assembly. My reason for stating thisiº
the moment it was heard that I was going to a ºl
a meeting in this place, many proposals were * eſ!
to me to address meetings elsewhere. I have bC 8
requested to repeat the lecture to a meeting'''.
held in the Leith Mechanics Institution. º
that it will be understood that I have not phy"
strength to address assemblages here and the "...
the task unfits and unnerves me for work for *
after. This is the last time I will address i
meeting beyond the limits of the West Point, ""
I regard as my peculiar province. I could nº
this occasion refuse to comply with the reques' 4.
Dr. Brown, that I would come and hold conv"
tion with him and his people.”
He closed with a personal allusion to ot
two men who formed the most prominent reº
tions in the retrospect of his religious minist” ()
more than half a century. One was the fall.
Dr. Brown; the other his uncle, good old Dº
zer Brown— ion iſ
“In the midst of my last meeting with hº 15,
this world, in his own parlor, I left him in *.
weeping, as Paul did before him, over the pe.
tics of those who bear the name of Jesus—week” º
like a child, and with all the tenderness of woº.
hood, because of the divisions which then, ſº deſ
heat of the voluntary controversy, rent as e56
the ministers of the gospel. May the spirit of th sy
Christian patriots be revived in our land; an that
their mantle fall on the present generation, gº
a catholic and pervading charity may at le.
abroad among the churches, and that the .
may say of us what they said of the primitive lºw
ples of our faith, ‘Behold these Christians,
they love each other " —Spectator, 24th Octº
lers’
olleſ’
of
** 6
THE Bishop of London held a visitation º
clergy of the metropolis, at St. Paul's Cathe 0ſ.
on Monday, 19th Oct. After pravers, and a sº. hop
preached by the Reverend Dr. M'Caul, the º
pronounced the benediction. Proceeding thentº.
within the communion-rails, he delivered his tºº.
He commenced by referring to recent diffe.
now happily subsiding, in connection with "ºn
servance of the rubric. He defended the posſ }{0
he had taken at the last synodal meeting...eaty
advised now, as then, and as he had done ...
years ago, a more strict observance of the ". ten"
To maintain harmony, however, he would ‘...ºf
himself with adrising, and abstain from º ſyW
strict obedience to the law. He exhorted the “§ ãº
against the introduction of unauthorized ſº.
gestures in the celebration of divine service : "...gr
them against books of devotion or confessº, onlè;
piled on the principles of the Church o juced
by which “weak-minded persons” were * an
into error. IIe caution d them against joini", ºr
association or confraternity for the pºp. sub.
tual intercession.” The bishop alluded to º
ject of Papal infallibility and supremacy, aſ “..."this
his hearers to master the arguments *"...sing
doctrine as the keystone of Romish error... the
onwards, he combatted the theory by whº rope'
Christian Scriptures were degraded from the p f the
eminence as a final and conclusive revº. aſ!”
Divine will, to a mere vague, obscure, impº". uoted
nouncement of God's counsels; and hº. malis'
Müller to show the opinions held by Rº".
professors of this th ory in Germany. ...” yers
cated the opening of churches for daily P*
NEWS OF
475
THE FORTNIGHT.
º the subject of spiritual destitution in the metrop-
º e had stated ten years ago, that there was a
§"lation of not less than 1,380,000 to be provided
OW While there was church-room for only iA0,000.
"g to the exertions since made, there is now
..modation for 410,000; leaving still 970,000
ºiled for. Much, therefore, remained to be
§ed. The bishop expressed a hope that the
for facilitating the punishment of clerical offend-
**troduced into Parliament last session, would
§ º ecome a law. He adverted to the subject of
* education. He adhered to his previously ex-
tººl opinion, that religious and secular instruc-
...ºught to be blended. But if the state attempts
ſo ºvide education for all, the difficulties arising
ti the spread of dissent would certainly render
.**itably necessary to separate religious and sec-
t : instruction. Altogether, therefore, he thought
sº “that the state should continue to assist,
tº. An increased measure of aid, the voluntary
is of individuals and societies,” and not enter
to º a “new system.” In conclusion, he referred
$ºn * increased activity and hostility of the dis-
xi.; and to a certain number of perversions.”
Ch "havere blazoned forth by the Roman Catholic
§§ºh. These, being the result of manifest efforts
is..." great enemy of mankind, he looked upon
£y 4.
sº ºnce of increased energy on the part of the
lati ished church ; and he finished with an exhor-
"to pious diligence.—Spectator, 24th Oct.
sº ulterior consequences of the Spanish mar-
alº.ºuestion do not seem to be taking a turn at
§§ ..ºrable for the position supposed, to have been
§e ned by Lord Palmerston. Austria and the
"an powers, it is understood, remain passive.
i. will not join in any protest against the mar-
§ of Queen Isabella or her sister, because they
Boy "tely refuse to recognize the queen as rightful
Qul feign of Spain. This is not what France
lºwish; but it is almost as untoward for the
"lta * minister as he could have feared, and is a
tº.” upshot of his confidence in the pºwer he
Mjºlstºia. Her very martinet exactness,
ls. made her seem so trustworthy, renders her
jº to him at this juncture. Perhaps Austria
§. Sorry to allow France to busy herself III
"; and so postpone all disputes on the Rhine.
ty . §ia is said to stand by England and the trea-
tes. Strecht; certain contingent rights in the suc-
tº to Schleswig and Holstein making Russia,
ties.**once, highly sensitive on the score of trea:
0. "" their maintenance generally.—Spect., 24th
º banquet was given to Mr. Cobden, at
jº, on the 14th Oct., by the Society of Econ-
S. Many speeches were made in favor of
º of trade; and one by Mr. Cobden was
"high ºldly applauded, though spoken in English,
°W present understood.
º: Committee appointed at the recent meeting
kin ºvangelical Älliance in London, “to ascer-
§et " convene the members of the Alliance in
ho.º.d Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland,
lid.” to form the British organization at a time
º"...tº be determined by them,'...ºffsed
*"...Manchester as the place, and Wednesday,
i."h of November, as the time for that pur-
T **
* Gazette de France and La Réforme directly
charge Queen Christina with employing the sol-
diers, and the fleets of Spain to place one of her
sons by Munoz upon a transatlantic throne, usurped
from one of the young republics of the west—Ecu-
ador. “Such an expedition,” says the Daily
News, “has been already mentioned as contem-
plated, but the news has now acquired such con-
sistency that it is difficult to call it in question. It
is said that General Flores, under the orders of
Christina, has already collected a fleet of ten ves-
sels and a body of four thousand men at Santander.
The officers and soldiers composing this corps have
been drafted from the Spanish army, with their
arms and baggage complete. They are enrolled,
not by General Flores, but by the government of
Madrid.” It appears that recruits are also prepar-
ing to leave Ireland to join the expedition.
EveRY day's mail from Ireland hrings new
proof of the miserable incompetency of the men
who most enjoy public favor in that island to meet
the exigencies of the times; and Mr. O'Connell
continues to be facile princeps among his country-
men. It seems now tolerably plain that govern-
ment have ascertained that there will be such a
supply of food in the country, and have provided
for such employment of the people at wages, as to
have guarded against starvation. There is sub-
sistence for the people, and none who will work
need starve. There is not abundance, or the cheap-
ness of abundant years. There is dearth through-
out Europe, and the British ministry cannot decree
a special abundance for Ireland. Nor have the
Irish people been so accustomed to superſluity that
a season even of short commons is to be regarded
as an extraordinary hardship. It would be hyper-
criticism to say that the arrangements in Ireland
are not on the whole as good in the way of pallia-
tives as they could well be. t
The Irish, however, are a race displaying in
about equal proportions the qualities of helpless-
ness, importunity, and impatience. They have
inordinate notions as to the omnipotence of any offi-
cial authorities. If helped by a government, they
9xpect to be put in a condition of absolute ease.
Reāssured against the certainty of starvation, they
begin to grumble at the means by which they are
rescued, and seem disposed actually to prefer
starvation to “task-work;” why, does not appear,
unless it is that “task-work” apportions earnings to
industry. Many of their public representatives en-
courage these wretched grumblings, and none more
cordially than Mr. O'Connell. º
Called upon for counsel in the hour of ..";
O'Connell betrays a singuar lack of resources. He
has no counsel but that of the veriest demagogue.
He denounces the profits of “mercantile men;”
he urges government to beat down the price of
food, to “establish dépôts and scatter them in dif-
ferent parts of the country;” declares Lord John
ussell unequal to the crisis, and calls for Sir Rob-
ert Peel. And this cry appears to be founded on
no calm and intelligent appreciation of Sir Robert
Peel's statesmanship, but solely on the fact that he
introduced Indian corn into Ireland; Mr. O'Connell
not perceiving the broad distinction between intro-
ducing samples of an unknown and available supply
of food, and a wholesale tampering with the perma-
nant operations of commerce in a way that would
paralyze trade and really #. the supplies. Called
to advise and act, Mr. O'Connell shows himself
unable to do anything but agitate.
# * | * * A giant in
agitation, he is a child in counsel.
And this
476
NEWS OF THE FORTNIGHT.
wretched nonsense is mingled with idle declama-
tions against political economy, Sir Randolph
Routh's temperate explanations, which are called
“heartless lectures;” the whole spiced with idler
jokes. -
It is Ireland's fate to suffer for the folly of her
countrymen, or it might almost serve them right to
seize this juncture for granting the boon for which,
amid all their misery, the poor people are weekly
º; Mr. O'Connell in advance—repeal of the
nion.—Spectator, 31st Oct.
The first accident from the use of gun-cotton is
reported. Mr. Lancaster, son of a gun-maker in
Bond Street, was experimenting with the explo-
sive material; he loaded a gun with eighty-three
grains of the cotton and an ounce of shot; on firing,
it exploded, and the experimenter was slightly
wounded in the arm. The gun used had been pre-
viously proved with an ounce of powder and a ball
fitting the bore.—Spect.
A correspondent at Lyme Regis, Mr. George
Waring, points out an old record which shows that
gun-cotton is not altogether a new invention.
“None of those chemists who profess to be discov-
erers of the gun-cotton have acted ingenuously if
they have stated that the method of preparing it
has originated entirely with them. When I found
in the method given in your paper that nitric acid
was the agent employed, I remembered having read
of a similar process and result; and, referring to a
chemical memoranda book, I found the following
entry made six or seven years ago.
“‘Artificial Bitter, (prepared by digesting indi-
go, silk, &c., in nitric acid,) is crystallizable, burns
like gunpowder, and detonates when struck with a
hammer.—Brande, p. 925.’”—Spect.
GUN Cotton.—The further experiments made
with this explosive substance all tend to show the
ease with which it may be manufactured, and its
powerful effects. . At the recent meeting of the
Cornwall Geological Society, Mr. R. Taylor gave
an account of a series of experiments which he had
made with it in some of the Cornish mines. He
went, accompanied by Professor Schönbein, to a
granite quarry, near Penryn. The surprise and
incredulity of the workmen were very great, and
highly amusing. When he charged a hole with
some of the cotton, they thought he was doing a
very absurd thing, and one of the men offered to sit
on the hole for a pint of beer. They had two holes
prepared; the quarrymen weighed out the quantity
of powder required to charge their hole, and he
weighed out one quarter of that weight of the cot-
ton. Their hole was fired, and produced its effect
completely; our hole was fired, and, to their great
amazement, tore the rock to fragments—in fact,
doing more than was required, the charge being too
great. They had next two strongholes in a very.com-
pact part of the rock. Thirteen and a half ounces of
powder were required, and the corresponding hole
was charged with three ounces of the cotton; their
hole was fired first and did its work well, and the
cotton being fired did its work well also, the men
saying that it could not have been done better. They
tried some other experiments with the use of sand
and wedges, and the whole of the experiments were
uniformly successful when the charge of cotton was
equal to one fourth of the requisite weight of pow-
der. Other experiments were made in regard to its
effect on the air of a mine; and the iron mine of
- eſ
Restormel was selected. They first tried an º: 0
iment in the extreme end of the adit level, º
seven hundred fathoms from the entrance. hand
holes were selected; one charged with a four h6
# the other a sixth of the weight of gunpow €ſ two
navies said would be necessary; they fired tº sai
holes, which tore their ground, and the minºj
it was quite satisfactory. They told him º 0
powder had been used they could not have gºir.
the place for three quarters of an hour ; bº and
Taylor went in instantly with the two captai. ſt-
Professor Schönbein, and experienced no incº".
ience whatever except from the *.
that was no inconvenience to the men. Exper” 3ſº
were then made in shooting, and pheasants.” º:
tridges were brought down as well as by using j
der. The charge of powder he should use ..s
be seventy-six grains, and he used nineteen ºf
of the cotton. One quality of the cotton "...is
great importance to miners; it was not so *.
affected by the damp as powder. It was nº * b6
manently injured by being wetted, but mº" the
washed and dried, and its explosive power * is
same as before. The singular properties "...to
substance, and its ease of manufacture, have!” of
a number of preparations of it. Mr. T. Taylº.
New Bridge-street, publishes the following .
best formula for its preparation:—“Mix in aſ: acid
venient glass vessel 13 oz. by measure of nil.
(of the specific gravity of 1.45 to 1.50) wit 80)
equal quantity of sulphuric acid (sp. gr. º of
When the mixture has cooled, place 100 gº. th9
fine cotton-wool in a Wedgwood mortar ; | "...on
acid over it, and with a glass rod imbue the º 33
as quickly as possible with the acid. As * acid,
the cotton is completely saturated, pour off the t 33
and with the aid of a pestle quickly sº
much of the acid from the cotton as possible. ...hly
the mass into a basin full of water, and lº. 0ſ.
wash it either in successive portions of wat ite:
under a tap, until the cotton has not the slig and
acid taste. Finally squeeze it in a linen c.
dry it in a water-bath. Mr. Taylor states "...ted
grains and a half of a rather inferior cotton pº d
a bullet from a two-grooved rifle through. et.
board an inch thick, at a distance of sevent} aking
Persons should, however, be very careful " he cmi-
experiments... Mr. Lancaster, the son ºf... or
nent goldsmith in Bond-street, was this .*.per,
gaged with Mr. T. Taylor in making so. and
iments on the projectile power of gun-to" º of
several charges of 50 grains each, with 15 °. gu"
shot, had been fired from a strong 14-gººgº
with perfect safety, when, on increasing t *...”iors;
to 83 grains and one ounce of shot, the g". ster;
with great violence. The sleeve of Mr. Lº"...oral
coat was torn through, and he receive m 000
slight wounds on the fleshy part of his." "...dot.
of which, we are happy to add, are of a te had
character. The gun used by Mr. Lanº.wder
been previously proved with an ounce 9
and a ball fitting the bore.—Britannia.
y
; :
-- a 5
Tºxplosive PAPER.—A chemist at Bedº
to have manufactured, upon the proº...r, thº
fessor Schönbein, of Bale, an electrical *. th9%
property of which is much more explosiº
of cotton.
w *m- ioleſ'
Mucii attention has been excited by * . th9
paper in La Presse, formerly one of the º: e tº
war-party journals; it has now been "% the
rail at É. The Presse exults, on
“THOU, God,
seesT Me.”
477
º France, in having acquired Spain as a friendly
§ ºn the southern frontier; boasts that, without
*ing public law or diplomatic courtesy, an
§ish intrigue has been discomfitted ; avers that
| land's odious policy, of maintaining her power
seeping the states of the continent within a net
Ult Internal embarrassments and doubts as to the
. has been entirely exploded. The alliance
CO º, placed France at the tail of England and
the government so much unpopularity is also
end : France returns to her natural alliance
the states of the continent—
on.We wish to sum up in a few words our entire
ion on that subject. We are convinced that,
"er or later, a contest will take place between
Q * Continent and that power which uses it for her
purpose under favor of its divisions. This
"lºst will be particularly a maritime contest; and
º that the naval power of Spain is destroyed, we
&ll only Russia that can lend us that efficacious
ºt in Europe which the United States are re-
.."g for us in America. . It is our opinion, in a
.." that for the repose of Europe lt IS necessary
..!he colossal power of England be reduced;
...hat this power will not fall except under the
0 * alliance which her three natural enemies will
... day form—namely, France, Russia and the
"ed States.”—Spect.
at an
With
{ {
3. § Wolff–Lord Palmerston has appointed to
D; *śship in the Foreign Office a son of the Rev.
. Wolff, whose recent and humane visit to Bok-
*sºt be fresh in the recollection of our readers.
Qm.
ºrieſ: PINAcorneRA At MUN1ch.—A letter
. Munich, of the 12th instant, says, that on that
Jºhe King of Bavaria laid the foundation-stone
tº new Pinacotheka, or picture-gallery for mod-
...Paintings, to be erected at his own private cost,
Which is to contain no pictures painted before
S.ºneteenth century. His majesty, before pla-
§ the first stone, made the following address —
| "...new Pinacotheka is to contain pictures of
Pºin *nd of coming centuries. The higher art of
the ºng had fallen into decay, when suddenly in
Phºe neteenth century it rose again in Germany, a
She "IX from its ashes; nor did she come alone ;
si...he hand-in-hand with the other arts and
ºjº, Art is not destined to be regarded as an
tººt of luxury; she must be manifest to all, and
º º life; then only is she what she ought to
isis. With joy and pride I look upon my great art-
lo. The deeds of the statesman will have been
i. sunk in oblivion, but the works of the artist
is... ºvermore.” His majesty's speech was ºn-
Wer *" by loud cheering. The following articles
ºlone Placed by his majesty in the foundation
§on `-An engraving of the building; its destina-
lai.” China, a portrait of his majesty, on porce-
'*nd thirty-six historical medals—Eram.
lºan RecREATION.—The King of Prussia
tº stated from Berlin, devoted no less a sum
int.”0,000l.to the formation of a covered garden
pro. Centre of that city, to be used as a winter
pe.*ade by its inhabitants. A regulated tem-
W Ratu § y
'ar sº º
i.". climes cultivated in this truly royal de-
T“Literary Gazette.”
sº Blind Travellen.—The celebrated blind
tour." Lieutenant Holman, returned to this
wa.” 9n Thursday week, after an absence of up-
ºf six years, during which time he visited
* is to be maintained, and rare exotics of
Portugal, and Spain, Algeria, and all the places in
the Mediterranean, penetrated Egypt and Syria,
crossed the desert to Jerusalem, and finally made
an extensive tour through the least frequented
parts of the southeast of Europe, including Hun-
gary, Transylvania, Servia, Bosnia, &c. As on
all former occasions, this extraordinary man trav-
elled perfectly, alone: . He has returned in perfect
health and spirits.--Liverpool Mercury.
SUBTERRANEAN TELEGRAPH THROUGH THE ME-
TRopolis.-The Electric Telegraph Company, it is
said, intend forthwith to establish a central tele-
graph station at the company's depot in the Strand,
by means of which communication will be obtained
from one point to all parts of the country. In the
company's act of incorporation the thirty-fifth clause
empowers them to lay down and under any street
any pipes or tubes not being of larger size than
three inches bore, for conveying or conducting the
wires of the electric telegraph. In pursuance of
those powers they intend to extend the wires from
the several railway stations in London in the way
described by their act of parliament under the
streets of the metropolis. The extension of the
telegraph on the Southwestern Railway will be
first commenced.—Britannia. -
“THOU, GoD, SEEST ME.”
“When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou
knewest my path.” Ps. 142 : 3,
My God! whose gracious pity I may claim,
Calling thee “Father”—sweet endearing name !
The sufferings of this weak and weary frame,
All, all are known to Thee.
From human eye ’tis better to conceal
Much that I suffer, much I hourly feel,
But, oh, this thought does tranquillize and heal,
All, all are known to Thee.
Each secret conflict with indwelling sin,
Each sickening fear, I ne'er the prize shall win,
Each pang from irritation, turmoil, din,
All, all are known to Thee.
When in the morning, unrefreshed I wake,
Q; in the night but little rest can take;
This brief appeal submissively I make—
All, all is known to Thee.
Nay, all by thee is ordered, chosen, planned,
Each drop that fills my daily cup, thy hand
Prescribes for ills none else can understand;
All, all is known to Thee.
The effectual means to cure what I deplore,
In me thy longed-for likeness to restore,
Self to dethrone, never to govern more;
All, all are known to Thee.
And this continued feebleness—this state
Which seems to unnerve and incapacitate, .
Will work the cure my hopes and prayers await;
That cure I leave to Thee.
Nor will the bitter draught distasteful prove,
While I recall the Son of thy dear love ;
The cup thou would'st not for our sakes remove,
That cup he drank for me.
He drank it to the dregs—no drop remained
Of wrath—for those whose cup of woe he drained,
Man ne'er can know what that sad cup contained;
All, all is known to Thee.
And welcome, precious can his spirit make
My little drop of suffering for his sake;
Father! the cup I drink, the path I take,
All, all is known to Thee.
478
THE PENINSULA AGAIN–SPANISH MARI:IAGE QUESTION.
THE PENINSULA AGAIN.
THE great barometer of foreign politics has taken
a suddenly downward course, and we have once
more a specimen of those panics, which every post
from the south of Europe used to bring us. We
imagined ourselves free from a renewal of these
fears and fluctuations; but that politician who is
at once the most restless and the most artful now
in Europe, has again conjured up a storm. It
has not burst, indeed ; but the clouds are rising,
and the air has become charged with electric mat-
ter. The public remain still unconcerned. It is
most unwilling to believe that any act of a French
king, with a people to quiet, and a throne to con-
solidate, would in his last days be ventured, which
might bequeath civil war and universal jealousy to
his offspring. The more sensitive portion of the
public, however, whose fortune rests on the .
of peace, has taken the alarm ; and the Spanis
marriages, celebrated in Madrid by the combat of
bulls and bravos in the Royal Placa of Madrid,
is now to be celebrated in a more costly shape
by the struggles of bulls and bears in our Stock
#.
It is impossible, in fact, to touch Spain without
at the same time shaking Portugal—impossible to
take the moral and administrative tutorship of one,
without finding the health and the existence of the
other Siamese twin of the Peninsula affected by it.
Whoever doctors one must doctor the other. Na-
poleon felt the necessity, and under that necessity
he sank ; for could he have limited his efforts to
Spain, they might have been crowned with a dif.
ferent result. Louis Philippe too felt the necessity,
although he took a different mode of meeting it.
Instead of sending armies towards the mouth of the
Tagus, like Napoleon—the king of the French,
when entering upon the moral and matrimonial
conquest of Spain, sent an able emissary with full
credentials to master and to guide the court of Lis-
-bon. His majesty represents himself as the natural
guardian of all the Coburgs, as of all the Bourbons,
and as the only political doctor for crazy thrones.
The English are too liberal in their ideas, absurdly
recommending that constitutions should be re-
spected, and “charters be a truth.” Louis
Philippe, therefore, has undertaken, through M.
Dietz, to save the throne of Portugal, as well as
that of Spain. And the result, we have much
fear, will be fatal, first to the popularity, then to
the thrones, of both queens.
In Portugal this result is pretty manifest. There
the queen has been spirited by French and Spanish
councils to make what is called in the language
of the Tuileries a counter-revolution, to dismiss
ministers, some of whom at least had the full con-
fidence of the liberals, and to call to office in their
place the very men ejected by the people not a year
since. The people have not seconded the court
move. The queen's uncle declares against it.
The towns rise; the municipal guards arm. And
if Portugal could manage her own aſſairs without
affecting her neighbors, these matters might be
considered as complete. *
But this popular triumph, this defeat of the
counter-revolution in Portugal, shakes the card-
house that the French have built up in Madrid.
The chief, indeed the sole support of the Bresson
regime, consists of the young officers and military
party; these have but the one mode of counter-
acting Portuguese liberalism, viz., by marching
against it, and employing an armed intervention.
Thence proceeds the panic which startles .
exchange. The old situation of the French a;
English governments recurs again ; the or.
possession of Spain, and anxious to bring Pºº.
into harmony with its despotic rule; the *
determined, as in the days of Mr. Canniºn
defend Portuguese independence, even by P. ſº.
bayonets, if necessary. All this begets alar
That it may give rise to nothing more serious .
be hoped. Count Bresson must be told, that."
ever uncontrolledly he may dispose of Spºº .
its royal family, he must leave Portugal to it?".
influence. And the British government, whº .
pelled Espartero to abandon his warlike thº".
against Portugal, in order to open the Dourº.
not fail to be equally peremptory and syº.
with the governments of Isturitz and Go”
Bravo.—Eraminer, Oct. 31.
-wºº. --º-
SH
PALMERSTON AND GUIZOT ON THE SPANIS
MARRIAGE QUESTION.
t
THE Revue des Deur Mondes publishes wº
purports to be an authentic account of thº.
spondence between Lord Palmerston and M.9% are
and if it is so, we know for the first time what 0°
precisely the positions taken up by the two 1p
matists. Lord'Palmerston, standing on the trº
Utrecht, insists that the marriage is a violatioſ' ld
that treaty; and demands that a renunciations.
be made, for the children of the Duc de Mont .
and the Infanta Luisa, of the right to succeed.”
Spanish throne. This claim appears to us º
offensive and absurd. If Lord Palmerston aw” h6
ly adhered to the letter of the treaty, pe.g.
might claim to disqualify the issue of the nº.
altogether; but if he hesitated to adopt so *.
gant a course, he might at least have left tº àich
ties concerned to make their election as tº...on
succession they would abide by ; or the dº.
might have been left to proximity, which ...}
have pointed to the renunciation of the *
throne.
M. Guizot insists that the marriage is
tion of the treaty; and quotes some preº.nc
intermarriages between the Spanish and the Fr b6
branches, which are interesting, and appeº" máſ"
cogent. He maintains that the issue of the laus'
riage would not be disqualified; because the . of
securing the Spanish throne to the desceni.peſ:
Philip the Fifth cannot be invalidated by the thé
ation of another clause—the renunciation * to be
Duke of Orleans. This argument seems tº...'...u
quite untenable. The children would be *, 50°
cessors of the Duke of Orleans, for whom he ould
lutely renounced the throne of Spain. Tºjº
without hindrance, succeed to the throne of if the
as members of the Orleans branch ; tı" ºffer
Spanish succession is secured to them º .. 3.
clause, then they might succeed to both thron.'to
result which it was the very object of the tººden
prevent. The general qualification is º 5
by the specific disqualification. The treal. iii
the Spanish heritage to the successor. .
excepting such as come within the specific
ciations by Louis and the Duke of Orlºº.
It may be quite true that this would be."...ain
ticipated operation of the treaty ; and, it .
that such obsolete niceties would not be.”
erently regarded by the Spanish.
nations; who now have a voice in."
which they did not possess at the begiº,
eighteenth century. Both peoples have
In O yº.
dents º
THE POOR OLD QUARTERLIES.
47ſ.
*ted in a way that shows their independence of
b *: dynastic treaties. Isabella occupies her throne
*Qr and suſſerance of the Spanish people.
...Philippe holds his sceptre by the declared
Wi of the "rench people ; who altered his title,
thholding the territorial designation enjoyed by
*s the Fourteenth. These considerations leave
uizot's technical argument as unsupported
th *er; but they touch the substantial merits of
* cºse
º French statesman says that he shall appeal
8 * the British minister to the British nation:
an appeal would be effective exactly in pro-
n to the absurdity of Lord Palmerston's posi-
unt, by the rules of common sense, it is quite as
ºnable as M. Guizot's ; it is indeed more fanciful
.."rºtchety; and it labors under this disadvan-
p. that it is an aggressive, and mischief-making
*tion. It makes a demand that it would be silly
...t, awkward to retract, impossible to enforce,
*pt by war; and the British nation will never go
"at for Lord Palmerston's right to regulate the
*nish succession—Spectator, 24th Oct.
Fºllo
THE POOR OLD QUARTERLIES.
"E two octavo volumes that issue four times a
* are in the political press what the Duke of
...tle and the Marquis of Lansdowne are in
jºinent : every politician was familiar with them
t hin his childhood, and begins to wonder at their
*ning so long on the scene—especially when
*thing escapes from them which reminds him
ti their obsolescent condition. The veteran pe.
§. have just put forth manifest signs of
y.
s: hé Quarterly Review winds up its Qctober It ul IIl-
b. With an article on the “Close of Sir Robert
tes S Administration”—a manifesto aiming at the
..ºration of the tory party. It attacks Sir Rob-
i. Free-trade scheme of revolutionary 1ſt In OVºl-
.."... tries to show statistically that it is doomed
*ilure at home and abroad ; assails “the new
tº theory in Ireland,” namely, “to force the
i. 9 on dearer food;” and expands into a direct
em º upon Sir Robert himself. The reviewer
Of [. latically declares, even now, entire conviction
pl. purity of the statesman's motives, but º
i. abberrations. The censor accepts for his
th. M. Capefigue, “a man of ability, who,
ºf. strangely ignorant, as most foreigners arº,
a.details of our social and political life, is still,
and sketches
lil b l h r
§ € Seen, a very keen observeſ,
tr 3. y The
* º ſº * -: a-- ? 3
i. outlines with a curious felicity.
...'"ºwer º from M. Capefigue,
W quotes a passage fr g # -
i. before the session of 1845, describing Sir
rt
tº. Peel as ceding under the prº of the
tha al party to “that financial revolution which
Fº . all the combinations of the government of
i. ºld, and tends to destroy the British aristoc-
lº. On that point, “M. Peel estun homme
i.ement commode, puis que sa doctrine GSt
njºmment ceder lorsque l'opinion se pro-
º ... and, “if the radicals persist,” says the
tº, cited, “he will go on until he shall accom-
ºfter ºréforme absolue, with annual parliaments,
º !e fashion of Cobbett and Hunt. The re:
a. ** also quotes from Dr. Arnold; who
$ &
sº has an idea about currency, and a distinct
w.” about it; and therefore on that point I
trust him for not yielding to clamor. But
about most matters, the church especially, he seems
to have no idea ; and therefore I would not trust
him for giving it all up to-morrow if the clamor
were loud enough.”
In short, Sir Robert Peel is pronounced by the
Quarterly to be a “temporizing utilitarian,” and
the arch-traitor among his colleagues. He is evi-
dently prepared to go beyond Lord John in the pro-
cess of innovation; ready to advance—such is the
construction of the reviewer—even to the “general
confiscation of property” by “the new plausibility
of direct graduated taxation,” to repeal of the
Union in Treland, and “ the total overthrow” of
“all our existing institutions,” to “anarchy and
agony.” “Let us therefore endeavor to recon-
struct, under happier auspices and with safer guides,
ºur Protestant protectionist majorities of 1841.”
Treat leniently the hundred-and-twelve gentlemen
who “permitted themselves to be involved in Sir
Robert Peel's abberration:” call them not “apos-
tates;” they may yet be reclaimed.
This, then, is the object of the paper—to rally
the broken-up tory party; and in order to do that
it is thought practicable to reconvert the “Peel-
ites,” estimated for the next parliament at the re-
duced number of “thirty.” To facilitate such a
result—to make it look at all feasible—perhaps also
to deter Sir Robert from supporting the present
government against the tories—much pains are be-
stowed on an attempt to persuade himself that he
is politically ruined ; that he ought to retire from
public life; that he is, in short, quite shelved.
The reviewer is a sleeper awakened; he does not
see the march of events since he last mingled in the
living world of politics; he thinks all the change is
a special treachery on the part of one man, not the
natural growth of time. This ignorance of what
is actually passing around brings him to a double
reductio ad alsurdum, by which his paper is self.
refuted. He positively thinks that Sir Robert Peel
is hors de combat, and that the tory party can once
more be evoked. He neglects to show what voca-
tion such a party would have—what it could do
practically with the concurrence of the people; and
without such º vocation no party can exist
in a state. The possibility of reviving the tory
Party under Lord Stanley is as morbid a dream as
the extinction of Sir Robert Peel. There is a
farce in which the hero is persuaded, against the
£vidence of his senses, that he has been dead and
buried, and is a ghost. But then, that worthy per-
Son was not quite so wide awake as Sir Robert
P eel. o farce writer has gone to the extent of
rečnthroning Queen Anne.
The Edinburgh Review furnishes a still more
flagrant case of sleeper awakened—or rather, of
sleeper dreaming. It begins with a paper on “Pro-
posals for examining the Irish Poor-law,” based
upon Mr. Poulett Scrope's letters to Lord John
Russell; to which, however, the reviewer scarcely
replies. The article is a mere further appendix to
the reports by the poor-law commissiºners of inquiry;
it is composed with all the great ability that marked
those documents, uttered with all the facile and un-
questioning self-confidence. that distinguished the
heyday of Edinburgh political economy. It is as
though, on being awakened from profoundest slum-
bers after his toils, the writer incontinently began
to pour forth a few sheets more of the same staple,
without reference to subsequent events or the
march of opinion beyond his station. Mr. Scrope
is in truth but little noticed ; his name often occurs,
his writing is quoted; but it is merely as a provoca-
480
TRUE DIPLOMACY.
tive to a further torrent of the old text of 1834.
Posterior years have passed in vain for the philos-
opher; he belongs to the last generation, and can
only talk as they talked in his day. He stands by
the old dogma of 1834—that “compulsory charity,”
that is, relief, “must be rendered less eligible than
independence” for the laborer; “it must be made
painful, and therefore is degrading.” Many may
still think so, but the doctrine begins to be greatly
doubted; the reviewer talks as if it were still un-
questionable. He learns nothing from the last
decennium, but that in fact the poor-law of England
has not been rigidly carried out, and that therefore
its expenditure has gradually increased; effectual
repression and cheapness being the test by which
he judges a poor-law. He speaks with fond regret
of the system “which has acted so well in Scot-
land ''” The actual state of Ireland, those terrible
exigences which demand instant remedy, are pooh-
poohed or passed silently by. The writer smiles
superior, and calmly rebukes the impatience of peo-
ple who, witnessing starvation, calls for food. His
thesis is altogether negative ; he suggests nothing
to be done—throws out no trace of a suggestion for
active measures: yet he does not show that there is
in the present condition of Ireland any living prin-
ciple that would enable the state of things to right
itself. He is as indifferent to actual events, as
much absorbed in abstract and partial calculations,
as a Laputan.
If they go on at this rate, the Quarterlies will
soon discover that, in the province of politics, they
have really become obsolete. We suspect that
one cause of their intellectual retardation is to be
found in the very fact of trimestrial publication. It
has a tendency to beget two kinds of staleness. The
Morning Post justly lays claim to the substance of
the paper in the Quarterly Review; it is in fact the
thunder of the Post, all accumulated for one reëx-
plosion at second-hand. You have had it all before,
as occasion arose, hot and hot, in the Post, and do
not require a repetition of these doses by wholesale
—so many two-ounce draughts prescribed to be taken
once a day, and then readministered by the barrel.
Able as the writers of the Post may be, interesting
as it may be to peruse their lucubrations fresh from
the pen one by one, we suspect few would sponta-
neously take up a file of the journal for the last
two years, or even the last three months, and read
it over again.
The overt staleness of the poor-law paper in the
Edinburgh Review is ludicrously confessed. It
was, we are told in a postscript at the end of the
volume, “wholly written and printed early in Au-
gust last; which is here mentioned to account for
its taking no notice of the subsequent proceedings of
Parliament respecting its subject.” So, composed
in the spirit of 1834, it was actually written months
ago; and the editor has thought it no shame to be-
tray the reader into wading thrºugh a paper that
would have been stale even in his July number,
but is quite out of date for October. . .
This will never do, in our days of railway speed.
That speed may indeed be conducive to rash con-
clusions, but, rightly used, it is...even still more
available for just retrospection. The rapid course
of the train gives you a more intelligible maplike
view of your route as a whole ; you see better the
connexion between causes and results. . If superfi-
cial and dull observers are not allowed so slow a
contemplation of the present—if rash spirits are
more indulged in rushing on to a collision with the
future—quick penetration has the advantage of a
*.
more lively sense of the past. News pours iſ, º:
by fits and starts, but regularly, day by day—ma"
rials for opinion; and the process of maturiº.
undelayed by easterly winds, storms at the º:
of Good Hope, or even long breaks in the iº".
change of statesmanlike views between Engl.
France, and Germany. The newspaper press
received a proportionate improvement. Cº.
newspaper with a quarterly periodical of the l gº
generation, and certain, differences will be §
rent: compare them now, and you will prob" |
find no difference in the tissue of the writing. . .
we have said, you have the quarterly day by a.
a little fresher in kind, too, than old toryism of 2ſ,
cient whiggery. *
If the Quarterly Reviews would survive, º
must, we fear, cease to be quarterlies, and vouch: ſt
their lucubrations by more rapid instalments. Exe
the monthlies are felt to be stale almost as sº.
published. Throughout England there is one .
view that is more quoted than any quarterly- ſ]
that is the Parisian fortnightly Revue des_º.
Mondes. The reason is, that with an equally hig
standard of literary power, it keeps even pace W.
the times—with events, and with the demands 30
march of opinion.—Spectator, 24th Oct.
TRUE DIPLOMACY.
It is surprising to find any English publicist º
his stand, as Lord Palmerston is reported to h3
done, upon the treaty of Utrecht; for it sº.
impossible to take so false a position without ove
looking the subsequent history of three coun".
parties to the compact—France, England.”.
Spain. Three main principles of the treaty.
longer possess for those countries any vital *.
tence. First, the treaty-making authority hº
tually changed its source: international rel”
are no longer matters purely dynastic, but.
become affairs of popular interest and º:
Secondly, it is presumed by the treaty, that tº uſ!"
pose of the royal family is to dispose of the “”
try; which was true while the country wº. y
counted the property or “possession” of the ſº y
but is no longer true of France or Spain, or 9
country of Western Europe; the government In-
with the country, not the country with the gº”.
ment. Thirdly, the treaty proceeds upº, ; a
understanding that the succession to the thronº #
thing to be settled by royal personages as ºn *
entirely within the dictation of their class; but licy
has ceased to be a substantial verity in the Pº.
of Western Europe; and the three countries º
cerned in the Utrecht treaty are eminent º:
to the contrary. The object, therefore, which
to establish “a balance of power” in the stºº
Europe, at a time when the monarch coul thé
“L'état—c'est moi,” is no longer attainable b.
treaty; even if that balance of royal familiº.
practicable, it would not serve any substant**.*
pose, for it would not be a balance of state.º.
none of the free countries of Western Europe.
state concentrated in the person of the mºsh
Before the eighteenth century, indeed, the º
people had twice deposed their sovereign, ... ſºm
in the second instance diverted the success”
the direct line; but the case of England ...tly
exceptional. It is no longer so. France hº . 3.
followed England; having had a decapi.
restoration, a second revolution, and an *jº
of the crown to a junior branch. Louis, P. th9
professedly holds his crown by the will 0
ions
©
TRUE DIPLOMACY.
French people; whose example may be said to
have renº Dngland from the list of exceptional
§ses. And the reform bill was a tangible asser-
tion of the fact that the doctrine of popular govern-
"ent had been affirmed. It is difficult to make
$ºod queen Isabella's title to the crown under the
Pragmatic sanction; it rests upon two very differ-
* things—the ancient national usage of Spain,
ich is not a Salic law,) and the sufferance of
°, living Spanish people. Transfer the sanction
§ the Spanish people to the Count of Montemolin,
§n he might enter Madrid to-morrow.
: This alteration of authority involves an alteration
* the practice of diplomacy, such as we see at
Work. Formerly, diplomatists acted by means of
!hreats or bribes addressed to princes. Genuine
Sºuth, substantial interests, could only be touched
tidentally. The aim in a diplomatic bargain was
conceal the true obiect on either side ; and we
* told various tales about the address of diploma-
§§§ in overreaching each other—their power of
sinuation, their command of face, their tact at
ºcealing their own motives and penetrating those
, their antagonists. Such tactics might succeed
ºth royal persons, because individuals have defi-
hite objects to lose or gain apart from the material
*rests of nations, and they are amenable to per-
ºl interests. But it is different with peoples;
*h whom the substantial, genuine, material inter-
*s are the objects, the beacon and end of diplo-
*y. With the peoples we must now deal in all
*rnational relations—with them through their
"Yernments de facto. What that government
.*ll be, we no longer arrogate the right to choose;
° accept it as we find it. We can only interpose
. modify it when by a direct (not a constructive)
"stile attack on our own material interests, a
eign country provokes actual war and is con-
ºred; or when the foreign nation invites us to
ºld it in reconstructing its machinery of govern:
§ent. "An arrangement between obsolete and
ºposed dynasties can give us no right to initiate
"ºh interference. *
t follows from these altered premises, that diplo:
jºy must have altered in its mode of effectual
§ration. It is no longer a bargaining between
.nºes to dispose of nations for the benefit of their
Júl possessors; but it is a convention between the
Presentative servants of a nation to make such ar-
"gements of international intercourseas shallevolve
i" greatest mutual benefit for the several peoples.
i. therefore, deal with substantials, not prº-
m $ºs; it must, to succeed, not only arrange to
*ke the intercourse beneficial, and to make the
º it mutual, but to make cach nation fully
°rstand and confess that the arrangement is
...ally beneficial. That mutual intelligence is
º to be brought about by threats and bribes, but
§ly by the most open and . representa-
HS i. is that office performed by ſlippant
{{ * º
sº." disguising impertinence and threats in a
. of polite circumlocution and obscure insin:
ºn! . The system has failed recently, and
; signally, in France, Spain, Brazil, and the
i. States. The bullying of 1840 nearly be-
sº. us into war; the attempt to force anti-
jºy upon the Spanish colonies betrayed our gov-
in ment into technical blunders, and even into deny-
i. is very treaty, by which a stand is now
tº the bullying with the United States about
* right of search” proved untenable, while
jºus friendliness settled the disputed north-
boundary and the Oregon claims; and a change
481
from the endeavors to coerce Brazil by bullying to
a more generous policy is already in progress.
While this change proceeds on either shore of
the Atlantic, what sort of progress is made with
the northern powers, who still stand by old treaties
and dynastic bargains! What stability even is
secured! Nome. We make little progress in that
quarter; none that is not immediately connected
with the substantial interests of the several peoples.
In that region, where the spirit of such treaties as
that named from Utrecht still survives, the “bal-
ance of power” is a farce. Poland is eaten up;
Austria totters; Prussia threatens to absorb Ger-
many, first doubled up for the purpose into a Zoll-
yerein; Russia feeds its gigantic bulk by Swallow-
ing province after province. The balance of
power is a farce in the north; because it is felt
that the dynastic bargains and arrangements cannot
be final or conclusive, and the real balance of power
—the developed strength of the peoples—has not
been evoked. The great check on royal aggres-
sion is popular power and intelligence. A people
with moderately cultivated intelligence can soon be
made to know that international injury is mutual.
Besides, the very multiplicity of a great nation is
an impediment to active aggression. The trug
balance of power is its cquable diffusion throughout
nations, which is a real thing; not arbitrary ar-
rangements to bind and cramp royal holders of
office.
It is alleged that Louis Philippe acts in an oppo-
site sense—that he has outwitted England, in order
to attain his private ends; his affected concessions
to English views being no more than a “bait.”
There is, perhaps, some truth in the complaint,
though the evil is not to be remedied by a queru-
lous style of lamentation. There is this distinction
in the conduct of Louis Philippe and the British
government, that the latter has acted upon public,
the former upon private grounds. The French
Ulysses has throughout his life manifested a curious
aptitude in falling on his legs; he has contrived to
seek personal objects, and yet to keep up appear-
ances and maintain his credit. His early precep-
tººs taught him an active and practical optimism.
Whether it was as school-master in Geneva–as
knight-errant sailing about the Mediterranean, and
marrying, all for love, but most advantageously, into
a throned family—as a volunteer in America—as a
rºyal gentleman of modest mien in France—or as
Qitizen king, he has always shown that he could
fully appreciate his actua position, and was pre-
pared to make the most of it. This repeated
success may have exaggerated his confidence in
arranging everything according to his own wishes,
and have fostered his self-seeking. But he is
really a wise as well as a crafty man. He has
always made his occupation for the time being “a
business,” and has always thoroughly understood
it. Since 1830, he has made kingship a business.
He has used it, incidentally, to advance, his own
family; but he does so in a truly business-like way.
He 㺠custom by the diligence and punctuality
with which orders are executed: He may deal in
a little of the humbug or garnish of trading, but,
take them all in all, his goods are the best in the
market. No king could have done better, on the
whole, for French interests; or perhaps for English
interests. He has been a stopgap and bulwark of
limited monarchy; Securing, by moderating, the
rogress of liberal, opinion in Western Europe.
#. has been a standard of peace. Abolish him, or
any fit representative whom he may bequeath hig.
482
position, and England would have to cope alone,
on either hand, with the reaction of legitimacy and
the aggressive spirit of French aggrandizement.
Louis Philippe may pursue his private ends, but it
is mostly through the public objects and larger
interests of France. If we would discomfit him, it
must be by showing that our objects are more
thoroughly for the republic, broader, and more
ingenuously pursued.
M. Guizot threatens that he will appeal from the
British minister to the British people—from the
inferior to the higher authority, from the delegate
to the delegater; a very fair appeal. In like man-
ner, if we are really aggrieved by M. Guizot or
Louis Philippe, our right of appeal lies, not to a
musty parchment deed between the dispossessed
dynasties of France and Spain, but from the king
of the French to the French themselves. To
cnforce that appeal—to make our case irresistible
—the object of our international claims should be
reasonable, substantial, genuine, just, above board;
really interesting to the peoples, not some techni-
cality or point of form; intelligible, and actually
understood by the peoples.
Now, what country has taken the lead in estab-
lishing this new order of things! what country
insists that it will prove the most profitable to the
nations, and is prepared to make good that promise
in its own case?—England. On England, there-
fore, is it especially incumbent to cultivate the
altered style of international representation suited to
the altered condition of affairs, instead of wasting
her energies and her influence in idle and perhaps
mischievous references to the policy of old times
and its obsolete documents.-Spectator, 31st October.
From the Spectator.
TRAINING TO MURDER.
Murder is an article of domestic manufacture.
Not merely are the worst and most revolting cases
those of the domiciliary kind, not merely are the
direct instigations to crime found in the abodes of
the ignorant and depraved, but the murderous dis-
position is bred and nurtured in our homes. Some-
times you seem to discover it in a sort of abstract
form—the quintessence distilled and purified from
all adulteration. Such seem the cases that have
been rather common of late years, in which children
have died under parental ill-usage. One is reported
by the Sheffield Times. Francis Adams, aged one
year and seven months, was the son of a working
optician. The infant had been put out to nurse
twelve months ago, and had been taken home nine
weeks back; about three months ago it seemed a
hearty child; but since that time it had very little
appetite, and had been always thirsty; on Monday
week it had a fit, and died on Wednesday week.
A surgical examination detected bruises on the
body and head; under the bruises of the head was
found blood; and further under, within the skull,
the whole hemisphere of the brain was a mass of
coagulated blood. A coroner's jury summed up
the facts in this verdict— t
“That the child died from disease of the head;
but whether those injuries were caused by accident
or ill-treatment of the parents, does not appear; and
it is the opinion of the jury that the conduct of the
father and mother towards the deceased child had
been barbarous and unfeeling.”
The father said that the Šid had a bad temper;
and he added, “We have a little rod; but I have
|justified in using some “severity,” as it is 0°
©
TRAINING TO MURDER.
* # * t
not beat him to harm him." Other witness”
the inquest threw further light on the case. n:
Elizabeth Holt, servant to Mr. and Mrs. Adº.§
said that they behaved very well to the oldes' .
the youngest child, but very badly to the Onº ..eſ
has died. They both flogged it. The º eſ
generally flogged it with a rod, but the mº.
with a rope. After flogging it, she put it in * uf,
closet up stairs, sometimes for about an ho fe
The mother never washed or cleaned the child º f
self. The neighbors have been in when the mºſ.
was beating the child, and wanted to take thº.” it
from her. When the child was put in the cellº.
sat on the cold floor, and grazed its face on the “”
for it could not walk. ld
Mrs. Crosby, a neighbor, said that she nad to
the mother not to beat it so much. thé
Mrs. Royle, another neighbor, had been intº
house, and talked to Mrs. Adams about beating d
child. She had seen her with a cord in her h".
larger than the one produced. It had a knotº",
...; she saw a mark on the child's neck, .cd
wound on the ear which bled; and the blood trick
down its neck. Mrs. Adams was a violent te.
and laid all the blame to the temper of the chi
When the child was taken sick, its mother º:
very sorry, and said she would never beat a *
again as long as she lived. d;
The mother, therefore, was not simply a flº {0
we should much misconceive the case if we we?"
suppose that. But the child was troublesome *
“fractious;” and Mrs. Adams herself was hº st
temper. With the violent passions, the slig
loosening to the rein of self-command is *. º
beget a paroxysm of rage which propagates . me
Persons of cooler disposition or better discP full
would perhaps be unable to comprehend, thº.
force and literal truth of the expression that . it
passion “runs away” with you. When °.
has set in, the chances of recovering self-cº" ish
are doubtful. How desirable is it then, to a . 10
from common custom all practices which tº
evoke those stormy passions. W35
But Mrs. Adams evidently thought that *.
the less ferocious father thought that there W* ſ]
harm in keeping a rod for a baby; and eº; he
humane neighbor who interposed only des. e is
mother not to beat the child “so much.” T.
no misgiving as to the moral lawfulness of ſº.
a little child that could not walk ; none 0 .
people seem to know that all such violent º
are absolutely needless with young children, is:
that even with those who are older, personal ".
tisement is an admission of gross neglect at “...ot
when childhood is tender and ductile.” They dº ay
know that the utmost strictness of disciplin; º
be enforced on children, the most despotic in º
over them acquired, without a single act of .
The conditions to that moral control are pa. on,
diligence that omits no opportunity of º
(taking each fault committed by the child jar
an offence than as a symptom that an instal” .
ment of instruction is needed,) simplicity of “ ind-
ment, unvarying consistency, and unceasº.r.
ness. The last is the great talisman of º
But the other conditions are essential to a hig º f
of training; and they are the product of a. .
intellectual culture than was perhaps to be * uiry:
in the persons who were subjected to the inq and
They regarded ſlogging as one of the or.
“normafº resources of education; the only * ercly
they recognized was one of degree, and they "
SUNDAY TRAINS IN SCOTLAND-SCANDAL IN HIGH LIFE.
483
"id not know where “to draw the line.” We see
& fatal result.
tis terrible to think of the vast extent of needless
"sery inflicted on the young and helpless by the
ºrity that parents arrogato the right to use.
*ture to yourself the terrors of this poor baby—
* cowering under the rod—his shrinking from the
ºrce faces of estranged parents—his ungovernable
§§ony and irritation, provoking new inflictions—his
des air, in that dark cellar, where he “sat on the
ºld floor and grazed his face on the coals, for he
ºuld not walk”—his terrors at the strange sensa-
19ns attending the incursion of physical disease—
his perishing thus under woes unutterable by his
childish tongue, with none to rescue him ... His is
ºlot a solitary case; there are thousands like it—
hundrei, of thousands that differ only in degree.
Sor is the actual death the sole way in which
"urder is thus bred. "Our moral code admits and
*ognizes unkindness and anger as lawful attend-
*hts of the family hearth; anger and unkindness,
!" which first arise the murderous passions, foster
§m, and justify them by provocation and example.
Gre have been few murderers who have not been
* forth from their early home passionate, sullen,
§ callous; few whom intelligent training might not
** set, in their tender years, on a better path;
... whom kind, indulgent parents, might not have
*ouraged and caressed out of bad habits of mind.
i. an infancy of squalid neglect, with the rod and
* coal-hole as accessories, is likely enough to
" out dullards and murderers—creatures trained
"arry on the same system and propagate the
ºne breed. ſº
e provide a criminal code to chastise overt
ºrder a religious hierarchy to preach against
... passions; but we continue in many ways to
°p up the moral atmosphere that is prolific in
sh bad passions: we are only beginning to cleanse
* the squalid abodes of the poorer classes; we
We made no progress worth boast with education;
!y our very code of correctional discipline we sanc-
§ retributive vengeances; in our prisons, our army
... navy, we set examples of brutal chastisement;
* in our social customs generally we give free
º to that gloomy unkindness in the relations of
°which is the real source of most wrongdoing.
Su
O
SUNDAY TRAINS IN SCOTLAND.
The new Directors of the Edinburgh and Glas-
W Railway have announced their determination
*Qp the running of trains on Sundays, and the
...ish, public feels in a dilemma. Sir Andrew
§ew has stolen a march upon the more liberal
y; and north of the Tweed people scarcely dare
...! that they think upon the subject; for in nº
jºy on the face of the earth does the priesthood
iºise a more inquisitorial and despotic sway than
at section of the United Kingdom, which
Hºlways boasting of its “civil and religious
berty.
80
to
in Scºtland evinces many signs of a transition state
...tters of religions opinion; which is becoming
jºlly, but rapidly, liberalized. It has long
. deemed fashionable there, “comme il faut,”
the "long to the Church of England. . Doubts as to
§ai cal piety and morality of ascetic observances
i. ground. But the É. that entertain these
WO "ments has hardly attained the advancement that
ºld embolden it tº speak out: men mistrust, not
°ther's convictions, but each other's firmness
*lare convictions.
Thus, instead of directly attacking that compul-
sory observance of sectarian rules which the closing
of the railway would be, the opponents of the inno.
vation are busy in trying to show that it does not
facilitate but hinder a due observance of the Sabbath.
There appears to be no doubt that the railway is
actually used by persons going, to churches in the
large towns; and it is said that, among others,
numbers of Roman Catholics so used it. Perhaps
Sir Andrew Agnew and the rigid Presbyterians do
not consider attendance at a Roman Catholic place
of worship to be due observance of the Sabbath, but
rather desecration. in
Opponents of the change, however, might take
up broader and firmer ground. The closing of rail-
Ways on Sunday is not a general custom in the
United Kingdom; it is advocated by a majority
only in certain sects. When those sects take
advantage of any position which they may occupy as
directors of a railway, in order to enforce sectarian
observances upon the public at large, it is clearly
an abuse of opportunity and of authority. The
matter is one quite beyond the province of a railway
company, and proper only to be settled by the
public itself. Certain practices of society are
regulated through express laws by the legislature;
others are adjusted by public opinion; and in either
case, the result will conform more nearly to the
real state of national opinion than if an unrecognized
and self-appointed body undertake to settle usage
for the public. If “serious” persons object to
Sunday travelling, they cannot fairly enforce the
abstinence through the railway, but they should act
§ persuasion on the consciences of individuals.
hey should not stop the supply, but try to prevent
the demand. They have no right to anticipate the
result of such a task unperformed. If Scotland had
full conviction that railway travelling is sinful or
not decorous, decent people, the paying class, would
not travel by railways, and there would be no occa-
sion for compulsory stoppage. That there are rail-
Way travellers, proves that Scotland has not that
full and settled conviction; and for a railway com-
pany to drive the practice down the throat of the
Public, is an impertinent usurpation.—Spectator.
SCANDAL IN HIGH LIFE.
Scancely a month passes without some tale of
“Scandal in high life” bursting upon the aston-
ished world. It bursts out and is hushed up again
with equal abruptness; mystifies the ignoble vulgar,
and is forgotten. It assumes shapes so various,
that the cursory observer cannot classify the facts.
Perhaps it is, that Lady Adela or Lady Georgiana
as run away to be married; some mismanagement
on the part of parents saving to her Lydia Lan-
guish's doom, a marriage in the regular way,
“with consent of friends.” But even in this com-
mon class of irregularities each specimen varies
from its fellows. Now the young lady is supposed
to be in the nursery, and is found to be at Gretna
Green; as though child and parents were strangers
to each other—the parents not knowing even that
she had grown to be a woman-she treating her
“natural guardians” as a sort of natural enemies,
to be mistrusted. Now the evasive young couple
were to have been married by consent; but at some
day fixed by the coolest and most indifferent calcu-
lation of the friends aforesaid, without regard for
the impatience proper to youth. The public is fur-
ther scandalized by seeing a peer interpose to pre-
484
DIARY AND LETTERS of MADAME D'ARBLAY.
went the marriage, though quite regular in all legal
forms; and by seeing a beneficed clergyman shrink
from his duty at the importunate instance of rank,
Again, the public is thoroughly mystified by seeing
a young couple elope, and then married by the
father's chaplain; as though the parental consent
actually awaited the elopement. There is, to the
eyes of the uninitiated, strange forgetfulness of
natural sense and natural affections.
But happy the irregularities that end so happily.
It is not always so. More monstrous stories are
sometimes bruited. At one time the public learns
with amazement that in “high life” the imputa-
tion of light conduct is made with the utmost levity.
The commonest morbid personal appearances suf-
fice to entail upon a lady the open imputation of
expected maternity, though the ring is absent from
the finger and the maiden's conduct has been abso-
lutely irreproachable. Actions for criminal con-
versation make known the astounding fact, that
there is many an Othello in “high life,” only not
black—many a Desdemona, only not virtuous: the
case is so common that it needs no Iago to awaken
suspicion. You also learn that persons who, bear
titles, though they can scarcely claim that of gen-
tlemen, habitually listen to the most odious tale-
bearing of low servants, and set vagabond men as
spies upon the privacy of their wives. Nay worse :
you find that in those upper circles the memory of
former affection, of former worship, will not conse-
crate woman against the most hideous prying into
the secrets of the dressing-room; but that circum-
stances are dragged into open day which no exigen-
cies of evidence can justify. For there are facts
which a man would never expose to the cye of
strangers, though for lack of the exposure he should
ſail a hundred times in a court of law.
The public is puzzled, and on each occasion asks
what it all means ! “What can be the matter up
there?”—The causes are not very recondite.
Luxury and leisure may explain much. Superior
rank and superior wealth bring immunity from
common penalties, a sense of superiority to ordinary
restraints. In every class, the bulk of the indi-
viduals must be commonplace persons. With the
truly refined, that powerful restrainer good taste
prevails; but with the mob, the “great mob” as
well as little, the good taste which is a living prin-
ciple for the few becomes a dry set rule to the
many; the very multiplication of artificial refine-
monts misleads from the steadfast light of nature
inwardly shining : forms and etiquettes usurp the
place of natural affections, except where the instinc-
tive feelings are suddenly and vigorously evoked in
some way that overrides forms and etiquettes.
Large houses help to bºget personal separations
and estrangements in families... parents and children
are at times in the relation of lodging-house-keeper
and tenant; the child much in the position of a
tenant who cannot pay his rent and dreads to meet
his surly landlord on the stairs. What if such a
landlord stand in the way of a love-match 4 will he
be consulted. º
Sometimes men wake up from this sickly dream
of artificial “life” to look abroad upon the life of
nature: but it is when they stand on the threshold
of the tomb, to gaze back upon their fruitless path;
or when, overtaken by some calamity, they seek
the arms of nature to weep in them—to repent—
and Bulk. Strange, that # so seldom wake up
when it is in their power to do so for some good
purpose.
Are these irregularities to be reformed by a
*.
sterner severity! Alas! that would only id:
further evils. Happily, the age of domestic.”.
dies is waning. Most of the minor irregul".
recently made known—the elopements—have ileº
very judiciously followed by parental recº.
ment; and there has been an evident deº.;
show that no severity was contemplated. This
proof of a great and blessed change. ishing
There has, indeed, been a talk of abolishi
Gretna Green, in the hope of preventing run.
matches. Let the abolitionists beware. Iº.
larities of that kind not followed by marº.
would be a novelty in the history of the arist is
racy. Do not prevent Romeo from marrying.
Juliet: you would not abridge the number of .
nations, but you would convert the gallant int 4.
cowardly seducer, disgracing himself and his 9
The aristocracy is as yet tolerably free from thé
degradation—the ineffably base selfishness of 6
man who hesitates to make reparation " .
woman. Epicureanism has had its victims; :0
the shopkeeping calculation, how to obtain *.
without a chivalrous service in return, has †:
be learned. Many an erring woman of noble”
has been consigned to bitter misery and de”
the penalty of passion; but the aristocraº, ºr
not yet begun actually to furnish its conting.” that
the pavé. "And any Lovelace who may think
he can introduce an innovation of that sor'
better revise his calculations. :11, ob"
There is, indeed, one rule which, candidly 05:
served, will serve as a faithful clue out 9 fish"
social difficulties—the rule of kindness. . sº it
ness has its day of enjoyment, such as it is ; º
º. a heavier penalty than any other social offe th9
reary is the old age of the heartless. Iſ...
true Epicurean whose delights are not embº.
by the tears of others, save only the zest.” from
exquisite salt which human weakness disti”.
the eyes of happiness itself—Spectator, 24”
intſ.
From the Exam”
()
Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Alth";
“feelino,” “Cºcilia,” &c. Edited b
Vol. VI.-1793-1812. Colburn.
Another volume will complete this work.
reserve, till it appears, what may then. º: ed
fitly said. Why four years should have intº. it
since the last volume, we are not informed : 3.
is not difficult to imagine that much delay... of
found necessary, in the publication of a iary
private thoughts and conversations. ent ºf
Little Fanny Burney, in the commence". of
this volume, has become, at the matuſ.“john.
Niece.
forty-one, little Madame" D'Arblay. Th; "The
sonian circle are gone away into the pººl, ser
French Revolution has made everybody... their
ous. The Burney family are chiefly minº"...or"
own affairs, and that “honest fellow the "...in
is writing a dreadfully long epic poem abº" s and
omy. The chivalrous M. D'Ablay garºº. him
is very affectionate to his wife, who rewº, this
with a son, and, through endless º preſ;
diary, dwells and dotes upon her own...ºn of
maternities, with as much care and elabºji.
manner as if she were writing Epeling,” 1 boo
The drawback of this otherwise delight" ccuſ*
lies in that direction. You can new?" )6 ough'ſ
how much of its character or dialogue is º: jø
reliable for truthfulness. We have ...ing:
these court visits, for example, where overy ſ 8
so much cn beau. The truth is that
^, DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D’ARBLAY.
485
Fanny may toss her head as she pleases at rival
i. keepers, and may reflect with all becoming
B isfaction “ upon having very seldom met Mr.
ºwell, as I knew there was no other security
§§ all manner of risks in his relations;” but
º Boswell beats her all to nothing in the art of
tººling his readers of the truth of what he tells
W
tak e proceed to take a few extracts, and can hardly
of % what will not be likely to please. Every page
the book has entertainment of some kind in it.
CANNING COMES OUT.
{{
What an excellent opening Mr. Canning has
§ è at last ! Entre mous soit dit, I remember,
E °n at Windsor, that I was told Mr. Fox came to
º purposely to engage to himself that young
... from the already great promise of his rising
lities; and he made dinners for him and his
hew, Lord Holland, to teach them political les-
t §. It must have had an odd effect upon him, I
i.", to hear such a speech from his disciple.
* Lock now sends us the papers for the debates
*y two or three days; he cannot quicker, as his
* household readers are so numerous. I see
ºt nothing of Mr. Windham in them; which
sºme but I see Mr. Windham in Mr. Can-
ºp
M. D’ARBLAY IN HIS GARDEN.
{{
º sort of work, however, is so totally new
"m, that he receives every now and then some
ºf Merlin's disagreeable cºmpliments i' ºr,
Qu ºn Mr. Lock's or the captain's gardeners favor
| grounds with a visit, they commonly make
°wn that all has been done wrong. Seeds are
.ng in some parts when plants ought to be
*t Ping, and plants are running to seed while they
l, thought not yet at maturity. Our garden,
in ºfore, is not yet quite the most profitable thing
ū. e world ; but M. D’A. assures me it is to be
.*aff of our table and existence.
aft.* little, too, he has been unfortunate; for,
§ immense toil in planting and transplanting
he ºries round our hedge, here at Bookham,
the . just been informed they will bear no fruit
bill rst year, and the second we may be over the
... and far away!”
a "nother time, too, with great labor, he cleared
it. "siderable compartment of weeds, and, when
º'ºked clean and well, and he showed his work
an" gardener, the man said he had demolished
hºragus bed! M. d’A. protested, however,
.."g could look more like des mauvaises herbºs.
We His greatest passion is for transplanting:
§ºthing we possess he moves from one end of
Rºs §arden to another, to produce better effects.
& . take place of jessamines, jessamines of hon-
°kles, and honeysuckles of lilacs, till they have
ºnced juniºfar as the space allows: but
tu *her the effect may not be a general mortality,
fºr only can determine. . . .
hºtºsh is our horticultural history. IBut I must
ſº."hit that we have had for one week cabbages
§oid ºur own cultivation every day! O, you have
bad * how sweet they tasted We agreed they
with. reshness and a goût we had never met
ãºw ºfore. We had them for too short a time to
intº tired of them, because, as I have already
We kn they were beginning to run to seed before
O °W they were eatable.” -
to i. Madame D'Arbay was inconsiderate enough
*pt a tragedy, which was damned. But she
had her consolations, and describes them with an
amusing unconsciousness:
“The piece was represented to the utmost dis-
advantage, save only Mrs. Siddons and Mr. Kem-
ble; for it was not written with any idea of the
stage, and my illness and weakness, and constant
absorbment, at the time of its preparation, occa-
sioned it to appear with so many undramatic
effects, from my inexperience of theatrical requi-
sites and demands, that, when I saw it, I myself
perceived a thousand things I wished to change.
The performers, too, were cruelly imperfect, and
made blunders I blush to have pass for mine—
added to what belong to me. The most important
character after the hero and heroine had but two lines
of his part by heart! He made all the rest at ran-
dom, and such nonsense as put all the other actors
out as much as himself; so that a more wretched
performance, czcept Mrs. Siddons, Mr. IGemble,
and Mr. Bensley, could not be exhibited in a
barn.”
Cumberland, of course, hovered over the failure
with the delight of the crow for carrion; and, by
way of having a poor little woman, as we suppose,
“linger in her pain,” suggested reform, resuscita-
tion, and all sorts of desperate things. See, how
she is taken in by it, and writes to her simple old
father:
“Your conversation with Mr. Cumberland as-
tonished me. I certainly think his experience of
stage effect, and his interest with players, so im-
portant, as almost instantly to wish putting his
sincerity to the proof. How has he got these two
characters—one of Sir Fretful Plagiary, detesting
all works but those be owns, and all authors but
himself; the other, of a man too perfect even to
know or conceive the vices of the world, such as
he is painted by Goldsmith in ‘Retaliation!” And
which of these characters is true?
“I am not at all without thoughts of a futuro
revise of “Edwy and Elgiva,” for which I formed a
plan on the first night, from what occurred by the
representation; And let me own to you, when
you commend my “bearing so well a theatrical
drubbing,'. I am by no means enabled to boast I
bear it with conviction of my utter failure. The
piece was certainly not heard, and therefore not
really judged. The audience finished with an
unmixed applause on hearing it was withdrawn for
alterations, and I have considered myself in the
publicly accepted situation of having at my own
option to let the piece die, or attempt its resuscita-
tion-its reform, as Mr. Cumberland calls it.”
Which of the characters is true? Why did
Fanny D'Arblay need to be told that Goldsmith's
“character” was a piece of exquisite persifiago
and raillery; perhaps one of the finest instances of
that style in the whole range of the language 4
TIIE LITERARY CLUB.
“The club has been very much crowded this
season. Mr. Fox was at the last, and Windham |
who, coming late, did not put a good face on the
discovery : however, all were very loquacious and
good-humorod. We have vacancies. Poor Sir
William Jones has occasioned one—but black balls
have been plenty. Three or four d-lish democrats,
Dieu merci! have had the door shut upon ‘em.”
MADAME AND IIER CRITICs.
“Upon a second reading the ‘Monthly Review’
upon “Camilla,” I am in far better humor with it,
and willing to confess to the criticisms, if I may
*
486
DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D'ARBLAY.
claim by that concession any right to the eulogies.
They are stronger and more important, upon repe-
rusal, than I had imagined, in the panic of a first
survey and an unprepared-for disappointment in
anything like severity from so friendly an editor.
The recommendation at the conclusion of the book,
as a warning guide to youth, would recompense me,
upon the least reflection, for whatever strictures
I hope my kind father has not
suffered his generous—and to me most cordial—
indignation against the reviewer to interfere with
might precede it.
his intended answer to the aſſectionato letter of Dr.
Griffiths "-
CALEB WILLIAMS.
“We have just been lent Caleb Williams, or
Things as they are.’ Mr. Lock, who says its
design is execrable, avers that one little word is
omitted in its title, which should be thus—' or
Things as they are not.’”
THE GARRICKS AT LICIIFIELD,
“I went next to the Garrick House, which has
been lately repaired, stuccoed, enlarged and sashed.
Peter Garrick, David's eldest brother, died about
two years ago, leaving all his possessions, to the
apothecary that had attended him. . But the will
was disputed and set aside not long since, it having
appeared at a trial that the testator was insane at
the time the will was made ; so that Mrs. Doxie,
Garrick's sister, a widow with a numerous family,
recovered the house and 30,000l. She now lives
in it with her family, and has been able to set up a
carriage. The inhabitants of Lichfield were so
pleased with the decision of the court on the trial,
that they illuminated the streets, and had public
rejoicings on the occasion.”
Astronomer Herschel receives poet Burney at
Slough, and the poet after dinner unpacks his epic.
The scene is amusing, and the philosopher's re-
marks on poetry somewhat “overset” one still, as
they overset the worthy doctor on that memorable
evening.
“Your health was drunk after dinner (put that
into your pocket;) and after much social conversa-
tion and a few hearty laughs, the ladies proposed
to take a walk, in order, I believe, to leave Her-
schel and me together. We walked and talked
round his great telescopes till it grew damp and
dusk, then retreated into his study to philosophize.
“I had a string of questions ready to ask, and
astronomical difficulties to solve, which, with look-
ing at curious books and instruments, filled up the
time charmingly till tea, which being drank with
the ladies, we two retired again to the starry.
Now having paved the way, we began to talk of
my poetical plan, and he pressed me to read what
I had done. Heaven help his head my eight
books, of from 400 to 820 lines, would require
two or three days to read. He made me unpack
my trunk for my MS., from which, I read him the
titles of the chapters, and begged he would choose
any book or character of a great astronomer he
º ‘Oh, let us have the beginning.' I read
im the first eighteen or twenty lines, of the exor-
dium, and then said I rather wished to come to
modern times; I was more certain of my ground
in high antiquity than after the time of Copernicus,
and began my cighth chapter, entirely on Newton
and his system.
agement; said repeatedly that I perfectly under-
stood what I was writing about ; and only stopped
me at two places; one was at a word too strong
f
He gave me the greatest encour-
for what I had to describe, and the other at one.”
weak. The doctrine he allowed to be quite ort"
dox, concerning gravitation, refraction, reflex"
optics, comets, magnitudes, distances, revolutiº.
&c., &c., but made a discovery to me which, h3
I known sooner, would have overset me, and P.
vented my reading any part of my work: he ºl
he had almost always had an aversion to pºe;
which he regarded as the arrangement o º
words, without any useful meaning or adheren"
to truth ; but that, when truth and science wer:
united to these fine words, he liked poetry veſ
well ; and next morning, after breakfast, h9 º
me read as much of another chapter on Des Cº.
&c., as the time would allow, as I had ordered º
carriage at twelve. I read, talked, asked ques.
and looked at books and instruments till near "
when I set off for Chelsea.” his
That, of course, is a letter of the doctor's 19'.
daughter. We will now borrow one of the da".
ter's to her unmarried sister, which the reader ". 0
find very pleasant. Sister Charlotte is going. eſ
marry Mr. Brome, and proposing to take her low
on a visit to the D'Arbly hermitage, sister Fº"
thus replies:
“I need not say how I shall rejoice to see
again, nor how charmed we shall both be to ſº
a nearer acquaintance' with Mr. Brome; but, iſſ!
Heaven's sake, my dear girl, how are we to give lil gº
a dinner!—unless he will bring with him his pou".
try, for ours are not yet arrived from Bookhar”.
and his fish, for ours are still at the bottom of sº.
ond we know not where; and his spit, for ‘.
jack is yet without one; and his kitchen graº
ours waits for Count Rumford's next pamphlº.
not to mention his table-linen ;-and not to sp.
of his knives and forks, some ten of our poor?.
inal twelve having been massacred in M. D'Aº.
first essays in the art of carpentering —and .
nothing of his large spoons, the silver of our º 6
ones having feloniously made off undercover".
whitening-brush;-and not to talk of his *.
ours being not yet hired;—and not to start tººl
ject of wine, ours, by some odd accident, *
remaining at the wine merchant's COſ).
“With all these impediments, however, tº t of
vivial hilarity, if he will eat a quarter of aj.
meat, (his share, I mean,) tied up by a packthi and
and roasted by a log of wood on the bricks...I.
declare no potatoes so good as those dug "...i
d’Arblay out of our garden—and protest ou. i. n()
beer gives the spirits of champagne—and m. ill
inquiries where we have deposited the hºps.-
conclude we have emptied out of our table-clº *
and pronounce that bare walls are superior i tlé
estry—and promise us the first sight of hi. . sim”
upon visiting a new-built cottage—we sha". tagº,
cerely happy to receive him in our }.'s
where I hope to learn, for my dearest Ch*.xc
sake, to love him as much as, for his ow",
very long admired him.”
:00
º
for
Acraess”
THE PRINCESS AUGUSTA GOSSIPS ABOUT Mer
“The play they were going to was ‘Tºº, ºw
chant of Venice,” to see a new actress, }. Igen
much talked of—Miss Betterton ; and the . . thé
king, hearing she was extremely frightº... she
thoughts of appearing before him; ‘...it Oſl
might choose her own part for the first “”
in his presence. She fixed upon Portia. we wit:
“In speaking of Miss. Farren's ſº mind
the Earl of Derby, she displayed that X*. capé
which her state and station has so wholly *
The cotter's sunday, AND OTHER PoEMs. 487
lying; for, far from expressing either horror, or around me, or the sunshine of childhood passed
*ºtment, or derision at an actress being elevated |away.”
º, the rank of second countess of England, she #. was afterwards, sent for a short time by an
# me, with an air of satisfaction, that she was uncle to a country school, where Scott's Beautics
ºrmed she had behaved extremely well since her of Eminent Writers, which was the class-book in
jiage, and done many generous and charitable | use, introduced him to Gray, Parnell, Campbell,
°ions. Thomson, Scott, Byron, and Burns; but his uncle
ti ‘She spoke with pleasure, too, of the high mar-' soon died, and at about the age of eleven the boy
§º made by another actress, Miss Wallis, who had to exchange all this literary luxury for the side
º Preserved a spotless character, and is now the of a lone heath-clad hill, where he was employed
j of a man of fortune and family, Mr. Camp-] in tending cattle in the service of a farmer. He
º tº º - continued in farm-service for seven or eight years,
Af In mentioning Mrs. Siddons, and her great and passing from one master to another, and leading,
*ting powers, she much surprised me by intelli- he confesses, a wild and thoughtless life. At last,
§uce that she had bought the proprietorship of when not yet twenty, he married, and became a
ler's Wells. I could not hear it without some day laborer:
CO sement; it seemed, I said, so extraordinary a “I was married,” he writes, “in July, 1833;
...ination—so degrading a one, indeed—that of and it was in autumn, 1835, while serving for a
. first tragic actress, the living Melpomene, and few weeks in the parish of Belhelvie, about twenty
"ething so burlesque as Sadler's Wells. She miles from my home, that a small red spot made its
§ghed, and said it "offered her a very ludicrous appearance upon one of my eyes, and increased in
*ge, for Mrs. Siddons and Sadler's Wells,' | size and pain daily till the eye became almost blind.
§ she, “seems to me as ill fitted as the dish they I served out my time with much pain; went home
l a toad in a hole; which I never saw, but at Martinmas and put myself under medical treat-
*ys think of with anger—putting a noble sirloin ment, which proved of no avail. The other eye
eef into a poor, paltry batter-pudding !’” soon began to exhibit the same symptoms, and, in
is some satisfaction to think—considering how a few weeks, I was involved in all but complete
§y generations the authoress of Evelina saw rise | darkness.”
dia e, before the home that waits for all of us || In this state he remained for six months. As
iºd her in her eighty-eighth year—that “Miss soon as he recovered his sight, and some measure
ºrton” has not yet passed away; but that the of strength, he hastened to return to work:
§ C may still enjoy the mirth and humor which “It was the season of peat-casting,” he con-
jº upon the stage half a century since, in the tinues, and I remember well I went to the moss
uoyant spirits and cordial laugh of our admi-|[bog] of Cruden with my staff in one hand and my
an
*le Mºjº. spade in thesother. I was not indeed able to wheel
the peats to the lair, but I managed to cast fifty
The From the Examiner. ºl. .. ſº º: and gloried in my own
. ...aa, º, . Strength when I made out an hundred the next.
i.º. sº aſ: º: P“giºſ. For the last six months I had earned nothing, and
deen cottish Dialect. By PETER STILL, now, in two days, I had gained Is. 6d. Oh! the
| very thought was enough to effect a complete cure
in º little volume, both from its merits and the on my then stiff and feeble limbs. I continued to
jest attaching to the circumstances of the go on with my work, improving in strength slowly;
jºr, deserves more notice than it has attracted, but what I wanted of strength was made up by the
OW "ast in England. The author, who tells his ardor of a willing and contented mind, and that
i'story in a very well-written preface, was bºrn ardor prompted me to over-estimate and over-tax
fin.erburgh, in Aberdeenshire, in 1814; his] my strength.”.
j. being then a farmer there, and in comforta- . From his childhood he had been subject to occa-
§§rcumstances. “But by a lawsuit,” continues ºl, allºcks of partial deafness. And now he
i. “then pending between him and the pro- adds, “I lost my hearing in the course of a single
i.ºr of his farm, he became the poorest man in afternoon, while working on that same desolate
Jarish; the expenses of litigation, though the and dreary mine; and it was the general opinion
i. was finally decided in his favor, having of the people in the neighborhood that I over-
jºed his whole property.” The old man spent worked and hurt myself, and thus caused my deaf.
Sti 'est of his life as a day laborer; and young |ness. His deafness continues complete and
i.as indebted for nearly all the little eduº |ºppºrently incurable. The attack was followed in
lent he received, to the pious counsels of an excel- the first instance by an illness which kept him, for
mother, and, yet more especially, to his three more years, from working or earning any-
jal grandmother, who appears to have more thing ; and ; health has been ever since precari-
ing *ly charged herself with his intellectual train-lous and broken. His privations and sufferings, it
i.’ º may therefore be supposed, cannot, have been
ble Her memory,” he says, “was an inexhausti- light; but they have been bravely borne. His
tº." Eazine of choice sayings, anecdotes, prov- |unpretending, unostentatious narrative proceeds:
tº...ales, and old ballads; and my mind became | . “It would answer no good purpose were I to
le...", with many of these long before I had give a detail of the sufferings of my wife and chil-
§§ to spell my own name. I can yet vividly dren during these years of sickness and privation;
ha." The bright sunny summer evenings when I | yet they can never be eſſaced from my memory,
§ºwa * myself down beside her on, the green, nor the thoughts they inspired altogether forgotten.
deli . ſºil banks of Ugie, and listened with When able to leave my bed, and often when I was
§ {ful emotions to her ever-varying anecdotes not, I endeavored to amuse myself, and in some
have *s; or the long, dark winter nights, when I degree managed to wean my thoughts from brood-
bj"en up my whole heart to her songs and ing over my afflictions, by attempts at verse-
°, ere the cares of life had yet crowded making. Poetry had always been one of my chief
488
The cotter's sunday, AND OTHER PoEMs.
delights, even when a child, and my first attempt
at rhyming was made in the course of the winter,
1835–6. I then found it a source of amusement
and even pleasure ; and now that I was deaf, the
complete silence with which I was surrounded did
not in the least degree detract from the same feel-
ings of gratification. On the contrary, as deafness
continued year after year, I became more studious,
and more ardently attached to my hobby. I also
became much devoted to reading, but was often
sadly puzzled how to procure books, and have
often walked a distance of fourteen miles to borrow
a volume ; and that too on days so exceedingly
wet and stormy that my fellow-laborers could not
go out to work. Chambers' Edinburgh Journal,
with occasionally a look of a weekly newspaper,
was, however, for a long time almost my whole
reading. When I had nothing to read, I wrote ;
and in the spring of 1835 I published a few poems
for the first time ; necessity compelling me to do
so, in the hope of realizing as much profit as might
keep my famishing family from absolute starvation.
This hope was so far realized ; but the publication
was of no permanent benefit, and, my health be-
coming somewhat improved, I struggled on,
through debt, ditches, and disease, up to the
autumn of 1843, when I was again thrown off
work by a return of the before-mentioned trouble
in my head. During the winter of 1843–4 I earned
nothing.”
In the following spring, however, he got a little
better, and published another small collection of
º which was fortunate enough to fall into the
ands of some persons of station and influence,
under whose patronage the author has been enabled
to bring out the present volume, and at the same
time, he informs us, to indulge in many comforts
which were previously beyond his reach, and also
to continue the education of his children, which
otherwise he could not have done.
lous way in which all this is related shows that we
have here at least the mens sana, if not the in
corpore sano ; and that hopeful heart which has
been described as, if not itself a source of poetical
inspiration, yet making the best atmosphere for the
growth of poetry.
“A cheerful life is what the muses love
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.”
Mr. Still's poetry is not of a highly imaginative
or impassioned character; nor perhaps would he
have written poetry at all, if others of his country-
mon of greater original genius had not done so in
their native dialect before him. But, although he
may have been prompted by the example of his
predecessors, and also indebted to Burns and others
for the models which he has usually followed, he
is very much more than a mere clever imitator.
The substance of his poetry is made up of what he
has himself observed, experienced, and felt. It is
a true song, coming from the heart as well as from
the lips of the singer. It is one, too, of con-
siderable variety of note; many of the pieces are
in a light and sprightly strain, others are tendor or
sºlemn. In all of them the ease and propriety of
the expression, and the superior mechanism of the
verse, are remarkable ; in these formal excellen-
cies, indeed, which may be regarded as analogous
to what is called execution in music, Mr. Still may
be advantageously compared with any other recent
writer of Scottish poetry. There is no other
whose poetry is so uniformly correct, flowing and
harmonious. The piece entitled The Cotter's Sun-
The unqueru-
day seems to be the one which he himself rates
the highest. It has been objected, he intima”.
that this poem is too close an imitation of Duº"
Cotter's Saturday Night; and he does not deny
that there is something of imitation in it; Ҽ's
he adds, “I humbly think it contains at led." 3.
much imitation of nature as it does of Burns.' d
may be most fairly described as a sequel, or set.
part, of Burns' poem, not unworthy of its ".
nal. The conception and manner are derive"
from Burns, or formed upon what he has writted .
but the description is true to nature and full
genuine feeling. The following stanzas may sº
for a specimen :
“The solemn service o'er, a happy pair, ſº
Communing with themselves, they homeward go:
While balmy round them breathes the evening”
The sun's declining rays now slanting low :
The wee-things meet them wi' a fervent glow
O' infant love, that knows nor fraud nor guile,
An' blithely tell how granny did bestow
Her hoarded gifts, their little hearts to wile
Frae care an' thinkin’ lang, an’ keep them
the while.
bles!
“Meanwhile, wi' hoary locks, the age-bent damº
Stands in the evening sun before the door,
An’, while the bairnies welcome mammy ham”
Recalls to mind the happy days o' yore, 8
When she, fu' blest, wi' him that's now no mº"
Returning frae the holy house o' prayer,
Had wont to meet her ain blithe infant core,
That now are parted far, some here, some thº.
| Some in the green kirk-yard, an’ some she ke”
where.
“Sad wi' the thought she seeks the ingle neuk,
An' heaves a secret sigh unkent to a’,
Syne bids the cottar bring the holy book, º
An' read the text and psalms ere gloamin fa’i
Close to her chair he willingly does draw,
The soul-inspired mandate to obey;
The wee-things standing, in a ruddy raw,
Their leal-loved granny's reverent looks suº'to
And down she bends her ear attention dº”
pay.”
Many of the songs and other shorter piece
also very happy. We would particularly "
two cordial tributes to the author's brother P
William Thom.
s aro
otice
00k,
(Old German.)
SIIould you meet my true love,
Say—I greet her well ;
Should she ask you how I fare,
Say—she best can tell.
Should she ask if I am sick,
Say—I died of sorrow ;
Should she then begin to weep,
Say—I'll come to-morrow.
# ſk-
Thomas CLARKson.—The memoirs of this º
able man omit to mention that he was a 9 º ..º.
of the Established Church. Such, neve."... but
the fact. He was made a deacon in enº jught
his exertions in the cause of emancipalºo.ºrs,
him into connexion with many estimablº 9. ex:
whose views he imbibed to a very cons. e
tent. The consequence was, that he dropp a cle!”
title of “Reverend,” and ceased to officiate as
gyman.
LITTELL’S LIVING AGE.-No. 135.—12 DECEMBER, 1846.
PRUSSIAN WAR SKETCHES.
(Blackwood's Magazine contains an article on Prussian
M ilitary Memoirs, from which we copy a few sketches.]
WHILst wandering over the field of battle, fol-
lowed by Zänker, his sergeant, Von Rahden heard
* Suppressed moaning, and ſound amongst the
rushwood, close to the bank of a little rivulet, a
$orely wounded French soldicr. The unfortunate
ellow had been hit in three or four places. One
all had entered behind his eyes, which projected,
Oody and swollen, from their sockets; another had
shattered his right hand, and a third had broken
the bones of the leg. He could neither see, nor
"hove, nor die; he lay in the broad glare of the
Şın, parched with thirst, listening to the ripple of
e stream, which he was unable to reach. In
Qart-rending tones he implored a drink of water.
1x-and-thirty hours had he lain there, he said,
Suffering agonies from heat, and thirst, and
"ounds, “ In an instant Zänker threw down his
knapsack, filled his canteen, and handed it to the
"happy Frenchman, who drank as if he would
never º off. When at last satisfied, he said
Very calmly, “Stop, friend one more favor; blow
ºy brains out !” *i. at Zänker, and made a
Sign with my hand, as much as to say, ‘Is your
§un loaded !” Zänker drew his ramrod, ran it into
e barrel quite noiselessly, so that the wounded
han might not hear, and nodded his head affirma-
tively. Without a word, I pointed to a thicket
*bout twenty paces off, giving him to understand
at he was not to fire till I had reached it, and,
urrying away, I left him alone with the French-
an. Ten minutes passed without a report, and
!hen, on turning a corner of the wood, I came face
9 face with Zänker. ‘ I can't do it, lieutenant,’
Said he. ‘Thrice I levelled my rifle, but could not
Pull the trigger.” He had left the poor French
ºrgeant-major—such four gold chevrons on his
$ºat-sleeve denoted him to be—a canteen full of
Water, had arranged a few boughs above his head
° shield him from the sun, and as soon as we
*ached the camp, he hastened to the field hos-
Ital to point out the spot where the wounded man
W, and procure surgical assistance.”
# § #
At Kulm, the French fought, as usual, most
§allantly, but for once they were out-manoeuvred.
rilliant exploit of three or four hundred chas-
. belonging to Corbineau's light, cavalry
"ision, is worthy of mention. Sabre in-hand,
ey cut their way completely through Kleist's
ºrps, and did immense injury to the allies,
Specially to the artillery. Of themselves, few, if
tl * Not only,” says Baron
§: escaped alive. º
§n Rahden, “did they ride down, several bat-
*lions at the lower end of the defile, and cut to
§es and scatter to the winds the staff and escort
the general, which were halted upon the road,
* they totally annihilated our artillery for the
di º, inasmuch as they threw the guns into the
"ches, and killed nearly all the men, and horses.
i. this example one sees what resolute II].CI) On
Şeback, with good swords in their hands, and
ºld hearts in their bosoms, are able to accom-
CXxxv. LIVING AGR, WOL. XI. 31
plish.” In a letter of Prince Augustus of Prussia,
we find that “the artillery suffered so great a loss
at Kulm, that there are still (this was written in
the middle of September, fiſteen days after the
action) eighteen officers, eighty non-commissioned
officers, one hundred and twenty-six bombardiers,
seven hundred and eighteen gunners, besides bands-
men and surgeons, wanting to complete the
strength.” . In both days' fight the present king
of the Belgians greatly distinguished himself. He
was then in the Russian service, and, on the
29th, fought bravely at the head of his cavalry
division. -
$ $ * tº: : ;
On the 14th of October occurred the battle
of cavalry in the plains, between Güldengossa,
Gröbern, and Liebertwolkwitz, where the allied
horse, fifteen thousand strong, encountered ten to
twelve thousand French dragoons, led by the king
of Naples, who once, during that day, nearly fell
into the hands of his foes. The incident is nar-
rated by Von Schöning in his history of the third
Prussian regiment of dragoons, then known as the
Neumark dragoons. “It was about two hours
after daybreak; the regiment had made several
successful charges, and at last obtained a moment’s
breathing-time. The dust had somewhat sub-
sided ; the French cavalry stood motionless, only
their general, followed by his staff, rode, en-
couraging the men, as it seemed, along the fore-
most line, just opposite to the Neumark dragoons.
Suddenly a young, lieutenant, Guido von Lippe by
name, who thought he recognized Murat in the
enemy's leader, galloped up to the colonel. “I
must and will take him 1' cried he ; and, without
waiting, for a yes or a no, dashed forward at the
top of his horse's speed, followed by a few dra-
goons who had been detached from the ranks as
skirmishers. At the same time the colonel ordered
the charge to be sounded. A most brilliant charge
it was, but nothing more was seen of Von Lippe
and his companions. Two days afterwards, his
corpse was found by his servant, who recognized it
amongst a heap of dead by the scars of the yet
Scarcely healed wounds received at Lutzen. A
sabre-cut and a thrust through the body had
destroyed life.” An interesting confirmation of
this story may be read in Von Odeleben's “ Cam-
paign of Napoleon in Saxony in the year 1813,”
p. 328. “He (Murat) accompanied by a very
small retinue, so greatly exposed himself, that at
last one of the enemy's squadrons recognizing him
by his striking dress, and by the staff that sur-
rounded him, regularly gave him chase. One off-
cer in particular made a furious dash at the king,
who, by the sudden facing about of his escort,
found himself the last man, a little in the rear, and
with only one horseman by his side. . In the
dazzling anticipation of a royal prisoner, the eager
pursuer called to him several times, ‘Iſalt, king,
halt!" At that moment a crown was at stake.
The officer had already received a sabre-cut from
Murat's solitary attendant, and as he did not re-
gard it, but still pressed forward, the latter ran him
through the body. He fell dead from his saddle,
and the next day his horse was mounted by the
490
king's faithful defender, from whose lips I received
these details. Their truth has been confirmed to
me from other sources. Murat made his rescuer
his equerry, and promised him a pension. The
emperor gave him the cross of the legion of
honor.”
* $ $ $ *
Von Rahden's regiment went to the duchy of
Meiningen, and his battalion was quartered in the
town of that name. The friendly and hospitable
reception here given to the victors of Kulm and
Leipzig was well calculated to make them forget
|. hardships and sufferings. The widowed
Duchess of Meiningen gave frequent balls and
entertainments, to which officers of all grades found
'ready admittance. The reigning duke was then a
boy; his two sisters, charming young women,
were most gracious and condescending. In those
warlike days, the laurel-wreath was as good a
crown as any other, and raised even the humble
subaltern to the society of princes.
“It chanced one evening,” says the baron,
“that our major, Count Reichenbach, stood up to
, dance a quadrille with the Princess Adelaide of
Meiningen. His toilet was not well suited to the
'ball-room ; his boots were heavy, the floor was
slippery, and he several times tripped. At last he
fairly fell, dragging his partner with him. His
right arm was in a sling, and useless from wounds
received at Lutzen, and some short time elapsed
before the princess was raised from her recumbent
position by the ladies and gentlemen of the court,
and conducted into an adjoining apartment. With
rueful countenance, and twisting his red mustache
from vexation, Count Reichenbach tried to lose
himself in the crowd, and to escape the annoyance
•of being stared at and pointed out as the man who
had thrown down the beautiful young princess. It
was easy to see that he would rather have stormed
a dozen hostile batteries than have made so unlucky
a debút in the royal ball-room. In a short quarter
of an hour, however, when the fuss caused by the
accident, had nearly subsided, the princess re-
appeared, looking more charming than ever, and
sought about until she discovered poor Count
Reichenbach, who had got into a corner near the
stove. With the most captivating grace, she
invited him to return to the dance, saying, loud
enough for all around to hear, that she honored
a brave Prussian soldier whose breast was adorned
with the Iron Cross, and whose badly-wounded
arm had not prevented his fighting the fight of
liberation at Leipzig, and that with all her heart
she would begin the dance again with him.” The
count's triumph was complete ; the court prudes
and parasites, who a moment before had looked
down upon him from the height of their com-
assion, now rivalled each, other in amiability.
ith a well-pleased smile the count stroked his
great beard, led the princess to the quadrille, and
danced it in first-rate style.” The reader will
have recognized our excellent queen dowager in
the heroine of the charming trait, which an old
soldier thus bluntly narrates. The kind heart and
patriotic spirit of the German princess were good
}. of the benevolence and many virtues of the
nglish queen. “When, in May, 1836,” con-
tinues Captain Von Rahden, “I was presented, as
captain in the Dutch service, to the Princess Ade-
laide, then Queen of England, at St. James'
Palace, her majesty perfectly remembered the inci-
dent I have here narrated to my readers. To her
PRUSSIAN WAR SKETCHES.
inquiries after Count Reichenbach, I unfortunately
had to reply that he was long since dead.”
tº: tº: $ jº: #
“We now followed up the French infantº;
which hastily retreated to a farm-yard surround.”
by lofty lindén and chestnut trees, and situated.”
a small vine-covered hill. When halfway up thé
eminence, we saw, upon the open space bene."
the trees, several companies of the enemy in "
parade uniform, with bearskin caps, large,”
epaulets upon their shoulders, and white breech".
form themselves into a sort of phalanx, which only
replied to our fire by single shots. Presently, e.
these ceased. Scheliha and myself immédiºſ
ordered our men to leave off firing; and Schell!”.
who spoke French very intelligibly, advanced ".
within thirty paces of the enemy and summº
them to lay down their arms, supposing that they
intended to yield themselves prisoners. They m” º
no reply, but stood firm as a wall. Schelihº º
eated his summons; a shot was fired at hiº
his served as a signal to our impatient followe”.
who opened a murderous fire upon the dense maS3
before them. We tried a third time to get thº
brave Frenchmen to yield; others of our battali".
had come up, and they were completely cut 9.
but the sole reply we received was a sort of negº
tive murmur, ...} some of them even threatened .
with their muskets," within ten minutes they a
lay dead or wounded upon the ground; for 9.
men were deaf alike to commands and entrea.
and to the voice of mercy. Most painful was iſ t
us officers to look on at such a butchery, impº.
to prevent it.” It afterwards appeared that ...
French grenadiers, who belonged to the JeuneGaſ &
had left Paris that morning. By some misman**
ment their stock of ammunition was insuffie.
and having expended it, they preferred death,"
arms in their hands, to captivity.
# * # $ # f
Upon that morning they saw old Blucher º
the first time for more than a month. He see”
on the brink of the grave, and wore a wº.
bonnet of green silk to protect his eyes, which wº.
dangerously inflamed. IIe was on horseback. ſy
was soon obliged to return to his travelling ca.
in rear of the army, and to give up the com.
to Barclay de Tolly. “Luckily,” says the bºº";
“the troops knew nothing of the substitu.
Although it would probably hardly have ma".
much, for there was little more work to do. mö
that year this was the last day's fight. After *.
flank movements, which took up several hoº: ité,
allied infantry attacked the village of Ia Willº.
but were repulsed by the artillery from th’.” *
cent barrier. The brigade batteries loitered.
rear, and Prince Augustus, vexed at their ºf
sent an aide-de-camp to bring them up..." ºn
them was commanded by Lieutenant Hºlsº ool,
Rahden's former instructor at the artillery.
of whom we have already related an . an. 6C
Although an undoubtedly brave and ciº. i.
officer, on this occasion he remained too far.
the infantry; and Captain Decker," who . Ime"
spatched to fetch him, was not sorry to be." e, thº
dium of conveying the prince's sharp mºś é and
less so as he had observed a certain nonchalº. º
want of deference in the artillery lieutenan” At 4.
ner of receiving the orders of his superio”
*
* The noted military writer, Carl Von Decker ;
General.
PIRUSSIAN
491
WAIR SKETCHES,
later period, Baron Von Rahden heard from Deck-
§r himself the following characteristic account of
is reception by the gallant but eccentric Holsche.
“I came up to the battery,” said Decker, “at
full gallop. The men were dismounted, and their
officer stood chatting with his comrades beside a
newly-made fire. ‘Lieutenant Holsche," said I,
rather sharply, “his royal highness is exceedingly
astonished that you remain idle here, and has di-
rected me to command you instantly to advance
your battery against the enemy.' -*.
“‘Indeed tº was Holsche's quiet reply, “his
Royal highness is astonished '' and then, turning to
his men with the same calmness of tone and man-
her, ‘Stand to your horses! Mount! Battery,
tnarch 1”
“I thought the pace commanded was not quick
enough, and in the same loud and imperious voice
as before, I observed to Lieutenant Holsche that he
would not be up in time; he had better move fast-
§r. ‘Indeed! not quick enough tº quietly answered
Holsche, and gave the word, ‘March, march''
e now soon got over the ground and within the
$nemy's fire, and, considering my duty at an end,
pointed out to the lieutenant the direction he
should take, and whereabouts he should post his
attery. But Holsche begged me in the most
Flendly manner to go on and show him exactly
Where he should halt. I naturally enough com-
§: with his request. The nearer we got to the
rench, the faster became the pace, until at last
We were in front of our most advanced battalions.
he bullets whizzed about us on all sides; I once
Shore made a move to turn back, and told Holsche
he might stop where he was. With the same
§areless air as before, he repeated his request that
! would remain, in order to be able to tell his royal
ighness where Lieutenant Holsche and his battery
ad halted What could I do? It was anything
uţ pleasant to share so great a danger, without
Sither necessity or profit; and certainly, I might
Very well have turned back, but Holsche, by whose
side I galloped, fixed his large dark eyes upon my
Sountenance, as though he would have read my
Very soul. We were close to our own skirmish-
is; on we went, right through them, into the
hiddle of the enemy's riflemen, who, quite. Sur.
Prised at being charged by a battery, retired in all
aste. It really seemed as if the artillery was
§ºing over to the enemy. At two hundred paces
'9m the French columns, however, Holsche halt-
, unlimbered, and gave two discharges from the
"hole battery, with such beautiful precision, and
stounding effect, that he sent the hostile squadrons
ºld battalions to the right about, and even silenced
§ºme of the heavy guns within the barriers. . That
one, he returned to me, and begged me to inform
the prince where I had left Lieutenant Holsche and
his battery. ‘Perhaps," added he, “his royal high-
°ss will again find occasion to be astonished; and
lshai be very glad of it.' . And truly the prince
ºld all of us were astonished at this gallant exploit;
had been achieved in sight of the whole army,
had produced a glorious and most desirable
result.”
* {{ # # §:
f At six in the evening of the 30th March, the last
§t of the campaign was over, and aides-de-camp
joped hither and thither, announcing the capitu-
*ion of Paris. Right pleasant were such sounds
* the ears of the war-worn soldiers. Infantry
jºunded their arms, dragoons dismounted, artil-
*ymen leaned idly against their pieces; Langeron
alone, who had begun the storm of Montmartre,
would not desist from his undertaking. Officers
rode after him, waving their white handkerchiefs
as a signal to cease firing, but without effect. The
Russians stormed on ; and if Langeron attained his
end with comparatively small loss, the enemy being
already in retreat, there were nevertheless four or
five hundred men sacrificed to his ambition, and
that he might have it to say that he and his Rus-
sians carried Montmartre by storm. Whilst the
rest of the troops waited till he had attained his
end, and congratulated each other on the termina-
tion of the hardships and privations of the preced-
ing three months, a Russian bomb-carriage took
fire, the drivers left it, and its six powerful horses,
scorched and terrified by the explosion of the pro-
jectiles, ran madly about the field, dragging at
their heels this artificial volcano. The battalions
which they approached scared them away by
shouts, until the unlucky beasts knew not which
way to turn. At last the shells and grenades being
all burnt out, the horses stood still, and, strange to
say, not one of them had received the slightest in-
jury.
§ * # &
Some of the officers obtained leave to go to Paris.
Von Rahden was amongst these, and, after a din-
ner at Wéry's, where his Silesian simplicity and
campaigning appetite were rather astonished by the
exiguity of the plats placed before him, whereof he
managed to consume some five-and-twenty, after
admiring the wonders of the Palace Royal, and the
rich uniforms of almost every nation with which the
streets were crowded, he betook himself to the Place
Vendôme to gaze at the fallen conqueror's trium-
phant column. It was surrounded by a mob of
fickle Parisians, eager to cast down from its high
estate, the idol they so recently had worshipped.
One daredevil fellow climbed upon the emperor's
shoulders, slung a cord round his neck, dragged up
a great ship's cable and twisted it several times
about the statue. The rabble seized the other end
of the rope, and with cries of “a bas cc canaille!”
tugged furiously at it. Their efforts were unavail-
ing, Napoleon stood firm, until the allied sovereigns,
Who, from the window of an adjacent house, befield
this disgraceful riot, sent a company of Russian gren-
ădiers tº disperse the mob. The masses gave way
before the bayonet, but not till the same man who
had fastened the rope, again climbed up, and with
a white cloth shrouded the statue of the once adored
9mperor from the eyes of his faithless subjects. It
is well known that, a few weeks later, the figure
Was taken down by order of the Emperor Alexan-
der, who carried it away as his sole gº; and gave
it a place in the winter palace at St. Petersburg.
When Louis XVIII. returned to Paris, a broad white
banner, embroidered with three golden lilies, waved
from the summit of the column; but this in its turn
was displaced, by the strong south wind that blew
from Elba in March, 1815, when Napoleon rcentered
his capital. A municipal deputation waited upon
him to know what he would please to have placed
on the top of the triumphant coluinn. “A
weathercock,” was the little, corporal's sarcastic
reply. Since that day, the lilies and the tricolor
have again alternated on the magnificent column,
until the only thing that ought to surmount it, the
statue of the most extraordinary man of modern,
perhaps of any, times, has resumed its proud posi-
tion, and once more overlooks the capital which he
did so much to improve and embellish.
“I now wandered to the opera-house,” says the
-
492
THE YOUNG MIISANTHROPE.
baron, “to hear Spontini’s Vestale. The enormous
theatre was full to suffocation; in every box the
allied uniforms glittered, arms flashed in the bright
light, police spies loitered and listened, beautiful
women waved their kerchiefs and joined in the storm
of applause, as if that day had been a most glorious
and triumphant one for #. The consul Licin-
ius, represented, if I remember aright, by the cele-
brated St. Priest, was continually interrupted in his
songs, and called upon for the old national melody
‘Vive Henri Quatre,’ which he gave with couplets
composed for the occasion, some of which, it was
said, were improvisations. In the midst of this
rejoicing, a rough voice made itself heard from the
upper gallery. ‘A bas l'aigle imperial?’ were the
words it uttered, and in an instant every eye was
turned to the emperor's box, whose purple velvet
curtains were closely drawn, and to whose front a
large and richly gilt eagle was affixed. The audi-
‘ence took up the cry and repeated again and again
—‘A bas l'aigle imperial.” Presently the curtains
were torn asunder, a fellow seated himself upon the
cushioned parapet, twined his legs round the eagle,
and knocked, and hammcred, till it fell with a crash
to the ground.”
From Neal's Saturday Gazette.
The YoUNG MISANTHROPE. “AN o’ER TRUE
TALE.”
By Miss M. J. M'INTosh, AUTHOR of “Two LIVES,
on To seeM AND TO BE.”
“In the blue summer ocean, far off and alone,”
lies a little island, known to mariners in the Pacific
only for the fine water with which it supplies them,
and for the bold shore which makes it possible for
ships of considerable tonnage to lie in quiet near
the land. Discovered at first by accident, it has
been long, for these reasons, visited both by Eng-
lish and American whalers. A few years since,
and no trace of man's presence could be found
there beyond the belt of rocks, amid which rose the
springs that were its chief, and indeed only attrac-
tion to the rough, hardy men who had visited it.
But within that stony girdle lay a landscape soft
and lovely as any that rose within the tropical seas.
There the plantain wayed its leafy crown, the
orange shed its rich perfume, and bore its golden
fruit aloft upon the desert air, and , the light,
feathery foliage of the tamarind moved gracefully
to the touch of the dallying breeze. All was green
and soft and fair, for there no winter chills the life
of nature, but,
“The bee banquets on through a whole year of
flowers.”
It was a scene which might have seemed created
for the abode of some being too bright and good for
the common earth of common men, or for some
Hinda and Hafed, who, driven from a world all too
harsh and evil for their nobler natures, might find
in it a refuge,
“Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around them to behold
A paradise so pure and lonely.”
Alas for the dream of the poet! This beautiful
island became the refuge, not of pure and loving
hearts, but of one from whose nature cruel º
seemed to have blotted out every feeling and every
faculty save hatred and fear; and ho who first
introduced into its yet untainted solitudes the bitte:
sorrows and dark passions of humanity, was,”
child, who, but ten years before, had lain in all the
loveliness of sinless infancy upon a mother's bosom"
Of that mother's history he knew nothing
whether her sin or only her sorrows had throwſ.
him, fatherless, upon the world, he was ignoran
—he only had a dim memory of gentle eyes, whic
had looked on him as no others had ever done, aſ
of a low, sweet voice speaking to him such wor".
as he had never heard from any other. Iſe had
been loved, and that love had made his life 0
penury, in a humble hovel in England, bright an
beautiful; but his mother had passed away fron"
earth, and with her all the light of his existencº,
Child as he was, the succeeding darkness preservº
long in brightness the memory of the last look from
her fast glazing eyes, the last words from her dying
lips, the last touch of her already death-cold hanº.
She died, and the same reluctant charity whic
consigned her to a pauper's grave, gave to her bº
a dwelling in the parish poor-house. With the
tender mercies of such institutions, the author 9
Oliver Twist has made the world acquainte".
They were such in the present case, that the pºº;
little Edward Hallett welcomed as the first glº
words that had fallen on his ears for two long;
weary years, the news that he was to be bound
apprentice to a captain sailing from Portsmouth”
a whaling ship. He learned rather from what wº
said near him, than to him, that this man wante
cabin boy, but would not have one who was nº
bound to him, or to use the more expressive .
guage in which it reached the ears of his destiº
victim, “with one whom he could not do as
pleased.” t
He who had come within the poor-house walls;
six years old, a glad, rosy-cheeked, chubby ch”
went from them at eight, thin and pale and grº.i
with a frame broken by want and labor, a ſº.
clouded and a heart repressed by unkindness. ”
sad as was the history of those years, the succº.
ing two taught the poor boy to regard them as
vanished brightness of a dream. The man.
should more justly say, the fiend—to whom the ".
fourteen years of his life were by bond deº".
was a savage by nature, and had becn rendered ;
more brutal by habits of intoxication... li.
drunken orgies, his favorite pastime was to tº. 6
the unfortunate being whom “the guardians of hi
poor” of an English parish had placed in deſ
power. It would make the heart of the re.
sick, were we to attempt a detail of the mºny.
rible inventions by which this modern Cali t
amused his leisure hours, and made life hidº. d
his victim. Nor was it only from this arºl. ;
that the poor boy suffered. Mate, cook, and .
soon found in him a butt for their jokes, aſ ". Oſ;
on which they might safely vent their. ill. S.
and a convenient cover for their own delinque”evil
He was beaten for and by them. ...is
qualities which man had himself elicited ſº
nature, if not implanted there—the sullennº ade
hardiness, and cunningness he evinced, wº ".
an excuse for further injury. During,” O
voyage of eighteen months, spite of all this, ship
was not absolutely dead in his heart. º run
WaS to return to ††, and he dº. 00ſ."
away from her, and find his way back to "... is
house. It was a miserable refuge, but it Yºo
only one. He escaped—he found his Wºr...as
through many dangers—he told his story. to his
heard with incredulity, and he was returned
aula
tº
The YouNG MISANTHROPE.
493
tormentors to learn that there is even in hell “a
Ceper hell.”
Again he went on a whaling voyage. Day after
ay the fathomless, the scerningly illimitable sea,
the image of the Infinite, was around him, but his
3rkened mind saw in it only a prison, which shut
lim in with his persecutors. Night after night the
Stars beamed peacefully above him, luring his
thoughts upward, but he saw in them only the sig-
hals of drunken revelry to others, and of deeper
Woe to himself. There was but one wish in
is heart—it had almost ceased to be a hope—
escape from man—to live and die where he
Should never see his form, never hear his voice.
he ship encountered a severe storm. , She was
driven from her course, her voyage lengthened, and
Some of her water casks stove in. They made for
ºn island not far distant, by the chart, to take in a
Fesh supply of water. Edward Hallett heard
e sailors say to each other that this island was
*ninhabited, and his wish grew into a passionate
esire—a hope. For the completion of this hope
ê had but onc resource—the sword and the shield
of the feeble—cunning—and well he exercised it.
he ship lay within a quarter of a mile of the
Shore, and a boat was sent up to procure water, one
than remaining always to fill the empty vessels,
While the others returned to the ship with those
§ready filled. The best means of accomplishing
ls purpose that occurred to the poor boy, was to
Sign the utmost degree of terror at the lonely and
"nprotected situation of this man during the absence
$f his comrades. He spoke his terrors where he
Snew they would be heard by the prime author of
miseries. The result was what he had antici-
Pated.
“Ye're afraid, are ye, of being left there by
yer'self? Ye'd rather be whipped, or tied up by
the thumbs, or be kept up at the masthead all night,
Would ye?" Then, dam’me, that’s just, what I'll
0 to you. Here, hold on with that boat-take
this youngster with you, and you can bring back
Tom and leave him to fill the casks for you.'
Well did the object of his tyranny act his part.
He entreated, he adjured all around him to saye
him from so dreaded a fate—in vain, of course-for
is aſſected agonies but rivetted the determination
his tyrant. It was a new delight to see him
Writhe in agony, and strive to draw back from
ose who were urging him to the boat. He was
fºrced in, borne to the island, and left to his task.
ut this was not enough. He could not escape, in
he broad light of day from a spoº directly under
the eyes of histormentors, while between, him and
§ ship a boat was ever coming and going.
rough the day he must persist in the part he had
umed. He did not fail to continue it, and when
day approached its close, he sent tº the ship
the most urgent entreaties that he might be allowed
* return there before it was night. The sailors,
*ugh and hard as they generally were to him,
Jmpathized with his . of fear, and asked that
. might return, but his demon was now inflamed
Y drink, and every word in favor of his petition
sured its rejection. He even made the unusual
...tion of going up himself in the last bºat, that
* might scº the victim of his malice, and feast his
*s with the cries and objurgations which terror
ºld wring from him. º º
C If we should forget you in the morning, you
. take the next homeward-bound ship that stops
*e, but don't tell your friends at the poor-house
the
too bad a tale of us,” were the parting words of
this wretch.
Darkness and silence were around the desolate
boy, but they brought no fear with them. Man—
his enemy—was not there. He saw not the beauty
of the heavens from which the stars looked down
on him in their unchanged serenity, or of the earth
where flowers were springing at his feet, and grace-
ful shrubs were waving over him. He heard not
the deep-toned sea uttering its solemn music, or the
breeze whispering its softer notes in his ear. He
only saw the ship—the abode of men—fading into
indistinctness as the darkness threw its veil over it
—he only heard the voice in his heart proclaiming,
ever and again, “I am free.” Before the morrow
dawned, he had surmounted the rocks at the land-
ing-place and wandered on, with no aim but to put
as great a distance as possible between himself and
the ship. Two hours' walking brought him again
to the sea in an opposite direction from that by
which he had approached the island. Here he
crawled into a hiding place amongst the rocks and
lay down to rest. The day was again declining
before he ventured forth from his covert, and cau-
tiously approached the distant shore from whence
he might see the ship. He reached the spring by
which he had stood yester-eve, when his com-
panions parted from him with something like
pity stirring in the hearts of all but one among
them. Fearfully he looked around, before him;
but no shadow on the earth, no sail upon the path-
less sea, told of man's presence. IIe was alone—
alone indeed, for the beauty of nature roused no
emotion in his withered heart, and he held no com-
munion with nature's God. His was indeed an
orphaned soul. Could he have loved, had it been
but a simple flower, he would have felt something of
the joy of life; but the very power to love seemed to
have been crushed from his heart by years of cold
neglect and harsh unkindness.
Weeks, months passed, without any event that
might awaken the young solitary from his torpor.
By day, he roamed through the island, or lay .
lessly, under the shadow of a tree; by night he
slept beneath the rocks which had first sheltered
him, while the fruits that grew and ripened without
his care gave him food. Thus he lived a merely
ºnimal life—his strongest sensation one of satis-
faction for his relief from positive suffering, but
with nothing that could be called joy in the present,
and with no hope for the future—one to whom
God had given an immortal spirit, capable of infinite
elevation in the scale of intelligence and happiness.
and whom man had pressed down to—ay, below—
the level of the brutes which sported away their
brief existence at his side. Such tyranny as he had
experienced is rare; but its results may well give
an impressive, a fearful lesson to those to whom are
committed the destinies of a being unconnected
with them by any of those ties which awaken ten-
derness, and ...' forth indulgence in the sternest
minds. Let them beware lest their “iron rule”
crush out the life of the young heart, and darken
the intellect by extinguishing the light of hope.
Terrible was the retribution which his crimes
wrought out for the author of our young hero's
miseries. When he received the intelligence
from the men whom he had sent in the morning to
bring him from the island, that he was nowhere to
be found, he read in their countenances what his
own heart was ready to repeat to him, that he was
his murderer—for neither they nor he doubted
494
THE YOUNG MISANTHROPE.
that the terrified boy had rushed into the sea, and
been drowned in the effort to escape the horrors
raised by his wild and superstitious fancy. From
that hour his persecutor suffered tortures as great
as his bitterest enemies could have desired to inflict
on him. The images which drove him with in-
creased eagerness to the bottle became more vivid
and terrific under the inſluence of intoxication. He
drank deeper and deeper, in the vain hope to banish
them, and died ere many months had passed, shout-
ting in his last moments alternate prayers and curses,
to the imagined form of him whom he supposed
the hope of revenge had conjured from the ocean
grave to which his cruelties had consigned him.
Five months passed over Edward Hallet in the
dead calm of an existence agitated by neither hope
nor fear. The calm was broken one evening by the
sight of a seaman, drawing water from the spring
which had brought his former companions to the
island. As he came in sight, the man turned his
head, and stood for an instant spell-bound by the
unexpected vision of a human being on that
island, and of a human being whose matted
locks and tattered garments spoke the extreme of
misery. There was only one hope for the sad wild
boy—it was in flight, and turning, he ran swiftly
back; but the path was strewn with rocks, and, in
his haste, he stumbled and fell. In a moment his
pursuer stood beside him, exclaiming, in a coarse,
et kindly meant language,
“What the devil are you runnin’ away from me
for, youngster? I'm sure I would n't hurt ye—but
get up and tell us what you're doing here, and
where ye 've come from.”
The speaker attempted, while addressing the
boy, to raise him from the ground, but he resisted
all his efforts, and met all his questioning with
sullen silence.
“By the powers, I’m thinking I've caught a
wild man. , I wonder if there's any more of 'em.
If I can only get this one aboard, he'll make my
fortune. I’ll try for it, anyhow, and offer the
capting to go shares with my bargain;” and he
proceeded to lift the slight form of the pauper boy
in his brawny arms, and bear him to the boat
which, during this scene, had approached the
shore. One who had had less experience of the iron
nature of man, would have endeavored, in Edward
Hallet's circumstances, to move his captor by en-
treaties to leave him to his dearly prized freedom—
but he had long believed with the poet,
“There is no pulse in man's obdurate heart—
It does not feel for man ;”
and after the first wild struggle, which had only
served to show that he was as an infant in the
hands of the strong seaman, he abandoned himself
to his fate in silent despair. . With closed eyes
and lips, he suffered himself, without a movement,
to be tº. to the boat and deposited in it, amid the
many uncouth and characteristic exclamations of
his captor and his companions, who could not be
convinced that it was really a child of the human
race, thus strangely found on this isolated spot.
Hastily they bore him to the ship which the provi-
dence of God had sent, under the guidance of a
kind and noble spirit, for the salvation of this, his
not forgotten, though long-tried creature.
Captain Durbin, of the barque Good Intent, was
one who combined, in an unusual degree, the quali-
ties of boldness and energy with the kindest, the
tenderest and most generous feelings. These were
wrought into beautiful harmony by the Christiaº
principles which had long governed his life, an
from which he had learned to be, at the same time,
“diligent in business,” and “kindly affectioned"T
to have no fear of man, and to love his brothº
whom he had seen, as the best manifestation of hº
devotion to God, whom he had not seen. Pº.
haps he had escaped the usual effect of his rough
trade, in hardening the manners, at least, by tº
influence on him of his only child, a little girl, no"
six years old, who was his constant companio":
even in his voyages. Little Emily Durbin had ſº
her mother when she was only two years old. Tº
circumstances of her own childhood had wrough"
into the mind of the dying Mrs. Durbin the convº.
tion that only a parent is the fitting guardian for,”
child. To all argument on this subject she would
reply, “It seems to me that God has put so mu%.
love into a parent's heart, only that he may be:
with all a child's waywardness, which other people
can’t be expected to bear with.”
True to her principles, she had exacted a proº.
ise from her husband, in her dying hour, that he
would never part from their Emily. The promº
had been sacredly kept.
“I will retire from sea as soon as I have enº
to buy a place on shore, for Emily's sake ; but I
then her home must be in my cabin. She .
under God's care there, as well as on shore, aſ
perhaps it would be better for her, if I am lost º:
sea, to share my fate,” Captain Durbin woul
say to the well-meant remonstrances of his frienº.
Emily had a little hammock slung beside,”
own—the books in which he taught her mad? .
large part of his library, and he who had seen h6
kneel beside her father to lisp her childish pray.
or who had heard the simple, beautiful faith W.
which she commended herself to the care of *
Father in heaven, when the waves roared and :0
winds howled around her floating home, would lº.
felt, perhaps, that the most important end of li º
the cultivation of those affections that connect
with God and with our fellow-creatures, might
attained as perfectly there as elsewhere. hC
The astonishment of Captain Durbin and . 8
pity of his gentle child may be conceived, aſ .
sight of the poor boy, who was brought up. 5.
the boat by his captor and owner as he consider
himself, and laid at their feet, while they sº '.
gether in their cabin—he writing in his lºgº.
and she conning her evening lesson. Tº º
proposition that he should give the priº the
strangely obtained a free passage, and share In ".
advantages to be gained by its exhibition in A. ap:
ica, Captain Durbin replied by showing the ºf of
pointed seaman the impossibility of the objeº e'
these speculations being some product of Nº.
freaks: some hitherto unknown animal with
form, but without the faculties of man. 3 *
“Do you not see that he has clothes— the
“Clothes, do ye call them " intº
blunt sailor, touching the pieces of cloth tha"""
around, but no longer covered the thin limbº. rags
“Rags, perhaps, I had better say—but tº ...'s
have been clothes, woven, and sewn by "...i.
hands—so he must have lived among men--0may
ized men—and he has grown little, ºrg.
perceive, since those clothes were made-º
fore, he cannot have been long on the islaº. vo 3
‘’But how did he get there? Who'd lºº
baby like this there by himself!”
“That we may never know,
either be an idiot—which he does not loº
r mus'
for the . like,
THE YOUNG MISANTHROPE.
495
hºwever—or insane, or dumb-butlet that be as it
Will, we will do our duty by him, and I thank God
or having sent us here in time to save him.”
he master of the ship usually gives the tone to
!hose whom he commands, and Captain Durbin
fºund no difficulty in obtaining the help of his men in
is kind intentions to the boy so strangely brought
amongst them. By kind, but rough hands, he was
Washed, his hair was cut and combed, and a suit of
Slean, though coarse garments, hastily fitted to him
y the best tailor among them-fitted, not with the
Precision of Stultz certainly, but sufficiently well to
enable him to walk in them without danger of
Walking on them or of leaving them behind. But
e showed no intention of availing himself of these
Capabilities. Wherever they carried him he went
Without resistance—wherever they placed him he
femained—he eat the food that was offered him—
ut no word escaped his lips, no voluntary move-
ment was made by him, no look marked his con-
Sciousness of aught that passed before him. He
ad again assumed his only shield from violence—
Sunning. He could account in no way for his
eing left unmolested, except from the belief,
freely expressed before him, that nature, by de-
Priving him of intelligence, or of speech, had unfit-
ºd him for labor, and he resolved to do nothing
that should unsettle that belief. But he found it
*ore difficult than he had supposed it would be to
Preserve this resolution, for he was subjected to
the action of a more potent influence than any he
ad yet encountered—kindness. All were ready
show him this in its common forms, but none so
tºuchingly or so tenderly as the little Emily Dur-
in. It was a heautiful sight to see that gentle
Child, with eyes blue as the heavens, whose pure
&nd lovely spirit they seemed to mirror, gazing up
* the dark boy, as if she hoped to catch some ray
$f the awakening spirit ſitting over the handsome
ut stolid features. Sometimes she would sit
side him, take his hand in hers; or stroke gently
e dark locks that began again to hang, in
Reglected curls around his face; and speak to him
* the tenderest accents, saying, “I love you very
ºuch, pretty boy, and my father loves you too, and
We all love you—don't you love us!—but you
Sºn't tell me—I forgot that—never mind, I'll ask
§ur heavenly Father to make you talk. Don't you
how Jesus made the dumb to speak when he was
here on earth. Did you ever hear about it! Poor
boyſ wou can't answer me—but I'll tell, you all
*Qut it;” and then, in her sweet words and pitying
§. she would tell of the Saviour of men—how he
*d made the deaf to hear and the dumb to speak, and
She would repeathis lessons of love, dwelling often on
ºr favorite text, “This is my commandment that
° love one another—even as {. loved you, that
9 also love one another.” Thus by this babe God
"as, in His love, leading the chilled heart of that
90r, desolate boy, back to himself—to hope—to
aven. It was impossible that the dew of mercy
should thus, day by day and hour by hour, distil
ºn a spirit indurated by man's cruelties without
ºftening it. Edward Hallett began to love that
"eet child, to listen to her step and voice, to gaze
. her fair face, to return her loving looks, and to
º to tell her all his story. Emily became aware
the new expression in his face, and redoubled her
...tations of interest. She entreated that he
Quld be brought in when her father read the Bible
... prayed with her night and morning. “Who
...wº-maybe our heavenly Father will make him
* us,” was her simple and pathetic response to
Captain Durbin's assurance that it was useless, as
he either could not or would not understand them.
Never had Edward Hallett's resolutions been more
severely tried than when he saw her kneel, with
clasped hands and uplifted face, at her father's
knee, and heard her pray in her own simple words
that “ God would bless the poor, little dumb boy
whom he had sent to them, and that he would
make him speak and give him a good heart that he
might love them.” Captain Durbin turned his eyes
upon the object of her prayer at that moment, and
he almost thought that his lips moved, and was
quite certain that his eyes glistened with, emotion.
From this time he was as anxious as Emily herself
for the attendance of the strange boy at their devo-
tlOnS.
For many weeks the ship had sped across that
southern sea with light and favoring breezes, but at
length there came a storm. The heavens were
black with clouds—the wind swept furiously over
the ocean and drove its wild waves in tremendous
masses against the reeling ship. Captain Durbin
was a bold sailor, as we have said, and he had
weathered many a storm in his trim barque, but
Emily knew, by the way in which he pressed her to
his heart this night, before he laid her, not in her
hammock, but on the narrow floor of his state room,
and by the tone in which he ejaculated, “God bless
you and take care of you, my beloved child'”—
that there was more danger to-night than they had
ever before encountered together ; and as he was
Ieaving her she drew him back and said—“Father,
I can't sleep, and I should like to talk to the little
dumb boy—won’t you bring him here and let him
sit on my mattress with me?”
Captain Durbin brought Edward Hallett and
placed him beside Emily, where, by bracing them-
selves against the wall of the state-room, they
might prevent their being dashed about by the
rolling of the vessel. Emily welcomed him
with an affectionate smile, and taking his hand,
which now sometimes answered the clasp of hers,
told him that he must not be afraid though there.
was a great storm, for their Father in heaven could
deliver them out of it iſ it were His will, and if it
were not, He would take them to himself if they
loved him and loved one another as the blessed Sa-
viour had commanded them. “And you know we
must die some way,” continued the sweet young
preacher, “and father says it is just as easy to go
to heaven from the sea as from any other place;”
-she paused a moment and then added in a lower
tone—“But I think I had rather die on shore and
be buried by my mother in the green, shady
church-yard—it is so quiet there.”
Emily crept nearer and nearer to her young com-
panion as she spoke, with that clinging to human
love and care which is felt by the hardest breast II)
moments of dread. His heart was beating high
with the tenderest and the happiest emotions he had
ever known, when a wave, sweeping ºver the deck
of the ship, and breaking through the sky-light,
came tumbling in upon them. It forced them asun-
der, and the falling of their lantern at the same
moment left them in darkness amidst the tossing of
the ship, the rolling of the furniture and the noise
of the many waters. Edward Hallett's first
thought was for Emily;--he felt for her on every
side, but she was not in the state-room—he groped
his way into the cabin, but he could not find her;
and he heard no sound that told of her existence.
In terror for her, self was forgotten—love con-
quered fear, as it had already obtained the empire
496
LEAVE THE FRENCH ALONE.
over hate, and he called her—“Emily—dear
Emily!—hear me—answer me, Emily ';
He listened in vain for the sweet voice for which
he thirsted. Suddenly he bounded up the cabin
steps and rushed to the post at which he knew
Captain Durbin was most likely to be found in such
a scene, crying as he went, “Emily Emily
oh bring a light and look for Emily '''
The shrill cry of a human heart in agony was
heard above the bellowing of the waves, and with-
out waiting for a question, without heeding even
the miracle that the dumb had spoken, Captain
Burbin hastened below, followed by his agitated
summoner. As quickly as his trembling hands
permitted, he struck a light and looked around for
his child. She had been dashed against a chest,
and lay pale and seemingly lifeless, with the red
blood oozing slowly from a cut in the temple. Ed-
ward Hallett had lifted her before Captain Durbin
could lay aside his light, and as he approached
him, lºſiº up with a face almost as pale as that
which lay upon his arm, he exclaimed, “Oh, sir,
surely she is not dead!” *
It was not till Emily had again opened her soft
eyes and assured her father that she was not much
hurt, that any notice was taken of the very unusual
fact of Edward Hallett's speaking.
“Father, how did you know I was hurt?”
“He whom we have thought a dumb boy called
me, and told me he could not find you,” said Cap-
tain Durbin, looking earnestly, almost sternly at
Edward, who colored as he felt that eyes he dared
not meet, were upon him. But the gentle, loving
Emily took his hand, and said, “Did our good
heavenly Father make you speak—I am so glad—
please speak to me!”
Edward could not raise his eyes to hers, but cov-
cring his face with his other hand, he fell on his
knees, saying to her and Captain Durbin, “I am
afraid it was very wicked, but, indeed, I couldn't
help it. I could speak all the time, Emily, but I
was afraid of being beaten as I used to be, if I
seemed like other people—now if they beat me I
must bear it—better for me to be beaten than
to have Emily lie there with no one to help her.”
“But who is going to beat you!—Nobody will
beat you—we all love you—don't we, father?”
cried Emily, bending forward and putting her arm
around the neck of her protégé.
“We must hear first whether he is worthy of
our love, my dear,” said Mr. Durbin, as he attempt-
cd to withdraw his daughter's arm and to make her
lie down again, but Edward had seized the little
hand and held it around his neck while he ex-
claimed in the most imploring tones, “Oh, sir!
let Emily love me—nobody else except my poor
mother ever loved me. Beat me as much as you
please, and I will not say a word, but oh! pray
sir! don't tell Emily she must not love me.”
“And father, if he was wicked, you know you
told mo once that we must love the wicked and
try to do them good, because our Father in
... loved us while we were yet sinners,” urged
mily.
º: entle voice could not be unheeded, and as
Captain Durbin kissed her, he laid his hand kindly
on the boy's head, saying in more friendly tones,
“I hope he has not been wicked, but we will hear
more about it to-morrow—I cannot stay longer
with you now, and you must lie still just where I
have put you, or you may roll out and get hurt.
We shall have a rough sea most of the night,
though, thank God! no danger, for the wind had
shifted and slackened a little before that great way”
swept you away !”
“ May I not stay by Emily, sir, and tell he
what made me not speak! I will not let her sº
up again.”
“Oh, yes! do, father, let him stay till you com"
down again.”
Captain Durbin consented, and when he caſº
down again at midnight, from the deck, the chil-
dren had both fallen asleep, but their hands wer;
clasped in each other, and the flushed cheeks, an
dewy lashes of both showed they had beeſ.
weeping. The next morning Captain Durbin hear
the story of the orphan boy. Emily Durbin stoº
beside him while he told it, and he needed tº
courage which her presence gave him, for hº
cowed spirit could not yet rise to confidence.”
man. The mingled indignation and pity wiſ'
which Captain Durbin heard the simple but touch.
ing narrative of his life—the earnest kindness wº
which, at its conclusion, he drew him to his Biº*;
and told him that he would be his father aſ
Emily his sister, adding, “God gave you to mº;
and as his gift I will love you and care for you:
first taught him that his friend Emily was not tº
one only angel of mercy in our world. As tiſ.
passed on and Captain Durbin kept well tº
promise of those words, instructing him with cºº
and guarding him with tenderness as well as w!'
fidelity, his faith became firm, not only in his ſº.
low-men, but in Him who had brought such grº
good for him out of the darkest evil. His long .
pressed affections sprang into vigorous growth.
intellect expanded rapidly in their glow, his *.
grew bright, his step elastic, and his wholº .
redolent of a joy which none but those who hº
suffered as he had done can conceive. In the ha" $
some youth who returned two years afterwº O
with Captain Durbin to Boston, and who walked 5
proudly at his side, leading Emily by the º:
few could have recognized the wild boy o th
western island. * *
Such was the transformation which the Spirº
love breathing itself through the lips of a '. i5
child had effected. “Verily of such” children
the kingdom of heaven.”
t of
LEAve THE FRENch ALONE!
AIR.—“Begone Dull Care.”
WHAT need we care
Who weds a foreign princess 7
About Spain's heir º 2
Why should Britons themselves distress
Let the rest of mankind their business miº"
And let Englishmen mind their own ;
'Tis the wisest plan, you will always find,
To let the French alone. *
Chorus–Let the rest of mankind, *
In France and Spain
. There's a rumpus every day;
Who next shall reign
No mortal on earth can say.
Chorus—Let the rest of mankind,
But let them be,
And allow their vagaries scope;
And you’ll soon see what yº. SCC,
If you give them a plenty of rope. *
y cºs Let the rest of mankind, *
, Ilouis-PIIILIPPE
His son has º matched
But files, though deep d
May Çount chickens before they are hº y
Chorus–Let the rest of mānān";1;7, th
&C.
tº
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
497
$
From the Edinburgh Review.
1. Report of the Officers of the Railway Depart-
. ſ the %. of the &#. | the
Privy Council for Trade-1844–5.
2. Statistique Raisonnée de l'Erploitation des Che-
mins de Fer. Paris : 1843.
3. Dinglers Polytechnischer Journal. Stutgard :
1844-5.
4. Railway Legislation, with Suggestions for its
Improvement. By JAMEs MoRRison, Esq.,
M. P. London : 1846.
5. The American Railway Journal. New York.
6. Report of the Railway Gauge Commissioners.
London : 1846.
7. Die Eisenbahnen Deutschlands Statistisch dar-
gestelles. BARON Von REDEN.
8. Eisenbahnbuch. Von REDEN.
9. Grosse Eisenbahnkarte von Deutschland. Von
RedEN.
10 Railways, their Rise, Progress, and Construc-
tion; with Remarks on Railway Accidents.
By Robert Ritchie, Civil Engineer. 8vo.
London : 1846.
WHEN we consider the great material resources
of this country, her progress in commerce, and the
antiquity of her naval supremacy, we cannot ſail to
e surprised at the late date of her advancement in
the important art of internal transport.
the conditions of her topography, there must always
ave existed the strongest incentive to improve the
means of inland communication. All her great
Seats of manufacture are situate near her geo-
graphical centre. There, her soil teems with
mineral wealth. There, inexhaustible sources of
iron and coal abound. Yet, until within little
more than fifty years, from the present time,
ngland was among the most backward coun:
tries in Europe, in this branch of the industrial
arts.
. Until the middle of the last century, goods con-
inued to be conveyed in Scotland on-pack-horses.
e time required by common carriers to complete
even short journeys in populous districts would
Seem, to our present modes of thinking, absolutely
incredible. Šir Henry Parnell relates, that the
ºrdinary carrier between Edinburgh and Selkirk, a
istancé of thirty-eight miles, required a fortnight
ºr his journey, going and returning !. In 1790,
the stage-coach between Edinburgh and Glasgow
tºok a day and a half to complete the journey; In
e year i763, there was but one stage-coach be-
ween London and Edinburgh, which started once
* month from each place, and took a fortnight to
$omplete the trip ! The tract of ground crossed by
e Liverpool and Manchester railway, on which
thousands of travellers are now daily transported at
* Speed varying from twenty-five to fifty miles an
hour, just seventy-five years ago, was travelled by
rthur Young, who has left us the following
escription of it:—“I know not in the whole
ange of language terms sufficiently expressive to
describe this infernal road. Let me most seriously
*ution all travellers who may accidentally propose
9 travel this terrible country, to avoid it as the
Yould the devil ; for a thousand to one they tº:
heir necks or their limbs by overthrows or break-
"gs-down. They will here meet with ruts, which
W §§tually measured, four feet deep, and floating
ºth mud only from a wet summer. What, there.
. must it be after a winter? The only mend-
"É.it receives is tumbling in. Some loose stones,
lch serve no other purpose º, 1 jolting a
*
Yet, from
carriage in the most intolerable manner. These
are not merely opinions, but facts; for I actually
passed three carts broken down in these eighteen
miles of execrable memory.”
To the close of the last century, the internal
transport of goods by wagon, was not only in-
tolerably slow, but so expensive as to exclude
every object except manufactured articles; and
such as, being of light weight, would allow of a
high rate of transport. Thus the charge for wagon-
carriage from London to Leeds was at the rate
of £13 per ton. The rate of charge between
Liverpool and Manchester was 40s, a ton. Heavy
articles, such as coals and other minerals, could
only be available for commerce where their position
favored transport by sea; and consequently many
of the richest districts of the country remained un-
productive, awaiting the tardy advancement of the
act of transport. The Bridgewater canal was not
commenced till about the year 1767. The success
which attended this enterprise excited the attention
of other great proprietors; the canal companies
were formed, and the extensive system of inland
navigation, which has so long served the purposes
of English commerce, soon overspread the coun-
try.
Protected from all competition by the imperfect
nature of the public roads, and the injurious opera-
tion of the turnpike tolls, these companies soon
monopolized the entire inland traffic of England,
and began to realize immense profits. It was in
vain that rival lines were in some instances con-
structed. The instinct of common interest soon
produced a combination of the companies, ex-
tinguished competition, and left the public victims
to monopoly and exorbitant prices. *
The commerce of the country supported this
system of extortion long and patiently. It was not
forgotten by the merchants and manufacturers,
that, before the construction of the canal, they had
no practicable means whatever for internal traffic;
and the companies were allowed to continue in the
enjoyment of their revenues. At length security
engendered negligence. The service of transport
was not only extravagantly charged for, but ill
performed. Petitions were presented to parlia-
ment, in 1825, in which it was stated, and evidence
offered, that the cotton which was transported
three thousand miles across the Atlantic, from
New York to Liverpool, in twenty days, took six
Weeks to be carried from Liverpool to the mills of
the spinners at Manchester—a distance of only
thirty miles. This was more than even the phleg-
matic temperament of Englishmen could endure,
and it was resolved to construct a railway to per-
form the service.
oused from their apathy, the wealthy and
powerful canal companies at once resolved to pro-
º the merchants by a reduction of their tariff.
t, was, however, too late. The decision was
taken : the new project had been well considered,
and its advantages were rendered too plain. , Con-
ciliation failing, and compromise rejected, the
inland navigation interest rallied their partisans in
parliament to oppose the act authorizing the con-
struction of the railway, and for two years they
succeeded in their purpose. The commerce of
Liverpool and Manchester, however, felt its interest
too deeply involved to submit to be repulsed, and at
length, in the year 1828, the act to incorporate the
railway company received the royal assent.
Such was the origin of that singular advance-
ment in the art of transport over land, which has

498
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND AEROAD.
formed so remarkable an event in the present age,
and which has spread its influence, more or less,
over , all, that portion of the terrestrial globe to
which civilization has extended. The unprece-
dented degree in which capital has been attracted
to this improvement within the last two years—
the extraordinary manner in which it has engrossed
the attention of every enlightened people, and
more especially that of our own country—the great
interests which are consequently involved in it, and,
above all, the imperfect means of information which
have been aſſorded to the public respecting it, com-
bine to render it a fit subject for an extended
notice. We propose, therefore, in the present
article, to take a brief retrospect of the progress of
the art of railway transport, from the opening of
the Liverpool and Manchester line to the present
time—to lay before our readers the actual state and
immediate prospects of railway transit, in the
various countries where it has been commenced—
to examine its effects on social and commercial
intercourse, and to consider the often and anxiously
discussed questions of its safety—of the uniformity
of guage—and of the relations between railways
and the state.
As originally designed, the sole object of the
Liverpool and Manchester railway was the trans-
port of merchandise between these important towns.
Manchester, a great manufacturing district, re-
ceived its raw material from distant quarters of the
globe by the port of Liverpool; and, on the other
hand, shipped at the same port the manufactured
produce of its mills and factories to its customers in
every part of the world. The reciprocal trans-
mission of these articles was the main object to
which the new company looked, as the means of
..affording an adequate return for the capital they
were about to expend.
As the enterprise advanced towards completion,
‘ſhe method of conducting the traffic upon it came
to be considered. The project was originally re-
garded as an ordinary road, and the owners were
authorized to demand toll from all who might
desire to transport goods upon it. This method
of proceeding would have been admissible, if the
line were to be worked by horse power like a com-
mon road; and such, at one time, was the view of
the matter taken by many who were interested in
it. The engineer, however, Mr. George Stephen-
son, who had been employed to make the line,
recommended the use of steam as an agent superior
in economy and efficiency tº animal power. There
were two methods in which the agency of steam
might be used. A rope might be carried on rollers
along the line between the rails, to which the
wagons containing the merchandize might be
attached; and this rope being, at certain stations,
coiled round large drums or cylinders, the wagons
might be drawn from station to station by fixed
steam-engines, applied to keep these drums or
cylinders in revolution. Such was called the sys:
tém of stationary engines. The second method
was that of smaller and lighter engines, which
should be provided in greater number, and which
should travel with the load as horses do with a
wagon. This was called the system of locomotive
671 ºz7tes. * º
iſorso power being definitively. rejected, the
choice between these two systems of steam power
was doubtful, and the directors of the company
were divided in opinion upon it. It was accordingly
agreed that the best and most experienced practical
engineering authoritics should be commissioned to
inquire and report upon the question. Accord.
ingly, in the spring of 1820, Messrs. George Stor
*:::::: oseph Locke, James Walker, and John
. Rastrick, all professionally conversant with rail-
ways and steam power, were appointed to visit th9
different coal districts, and collect information on
the subject. The result was a report inclining in
favor of the locomotive system, which, at length,
and not without much hesitation and doubt, it was
decided to adopt.
Hitherto the transport of passengers on the pro-
posed railway had not entered into the contempla:
tion of the projectors, or if it did, it was regarde
as practicable only to a limited extent, and as altg:
gether secondary to the traffic in merchandise. . It
was now, however, suggested that locomotive
engines might possibly be so constructed as to draw
the wagons with a speed of ten or twelve miles aſ:
hour ! and in that case, that it was worth consider:
ing whether the passenger traffic between Liverpoº
and Manchester might not be attracted to the rail-
way.
It is curious to observe, now that the consº
quences of this greatenterprise are before the world,
how completely they were unforeseen. The ideº
of a steam-engine drawing a load twelve miles gº
hour (which, we believe, was thrown out wit
some timidity by Mr. Stephenson) was receive
with ridicule by most of his engineering contempo"
raries. One, distinguished writer on railways, who
resided in the midst of a coal country, and under
whose windows locomotives had been working for
years, indignantly disavowed any participation.”
such extravagant speculations, and has left his dis;
claimer on record in a published work. He begge
that he might not be confounded with those hoº.
brained enthusiasts who asserted the possibility 9
carriages being drawn by a steam-engine on a rail
way at such a speed as twelve miles an houſ:
Within a few months after the publication of th;
remarkable disclaimer, amidst the incredulity ºf
ridicule of the majority of the engineering proſº
sion, and to the astonishment of the scientific world,
the railway was traversed by the “Rocket” with *
speed of upwards of twenty-nine miles an hour.
This fact altogether changed the aspect of thº
enterprise. It was evident now that the project".
had at their feet the traffic in passengers, the most
profitable species of transport; and that goods,
hitherto regarded as the chief source of profit, must
take a subordinate place. The railway was ope".
to the public in is30; and immediately, of the
thirty stage-coaches which had previously run daily
between Liverpooland Manchester, one only remaiº.
on the road; and that was supported solely by P*.
sengers to intermediate places not lying in the diº”
tion of the railway.
The comparatively low fares,
expedition offered by the railway,
which might have been expected. Previously,
number of travellers, daily, by the coaches,
about five hundred ; it was immediately augmº" C f
above three-fold. Sixteen hundred passenge. º,
day passed between these towns. If the traſ.
passengers exceeded all anticipation, the tº:
of goods, on the contrary, fell short of W.
expected. The canal lowered its tariſſ to the º
of the railway charges, and increased its SPºº .
its attention to the accommodation of ºustº.
The canal, moreover, winding through Manche.
washed the walls of the warehouses of the . i
chants and manufacturers. At the other "" kS.
communicated directly with the Liverpool doº
and extraordinº
•ct
he effeº
had t th9
Wºl
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
499
The goods were therefore received directly from
the ship, and delivered directly to the warehouse, or
pice versit; without the cost, delay, and inconven-
lence of intermediate transhipment and cartage.
hese considerations went far to counterbalance the
superior speed of the railway transit for goods; yet
notwithstanding this inconvenience and obstruction,
the company soon found themselves carriers of
merchandise at the rate of a thousand tons per
Thus, the problem of the rapid transport of pas-
sengers by steam on railways was solved in 1830,
and the profitable character of the enterprise soon
ecame apparent. Dividends of ten per cent. were
declared, and the shares were greedily bought up at
an hundred and twenty per cent, premium. Then
ollowed in rapid succession those results which
must necessarily have ensued. Other lines of rail-
way, connecting the chief centres of population
and industry with the metropolis, and with each
other, were projected. In the four years which
elapsed from 1832 to 1836, about four hundred and
fifty miles of railway were completed, and three
hundred and fifty miles were in progress of con-
struction.
Meanwhile, the practical skill and the experience
of the engineering profession did not keep pace
with the increasing demands of the public, and the
avidity of capitalists. Enterprises were pushed
forward before time had ripened the results of the
earlier attempts into general principles ; and it was
still undecided on what plan and by what methods
these novel lines of intercommunication, and the
machinery to work upon them, might best be con-
structed. The very limited number of engineers
who, having already been employed in the coal dis-
tricts of the northern counties, were presumed to
have had some experience in railway works, were
soon engrossed to the full extent of their time and
powers. Great enterprises, consequently, fell un-
der the superintendence of persons having neither
e peculiar knowledge nor experience which they
required. It was fortunate for the country that the
irst important line of railway had been intrusted to
the consummate practical skill and experienº of Mr.
George Stephenson. The Liverpool and Manches-
ter line, which will descend to succeeding ages as
A monument of his skill, happily served as a mºle!
railway for those which more immediately succeeded
lt. †. son and his pupils were intrusted with the
execution of several of the most important lines;
and the same successful results which had attended
the first railway, were secured for those which ame
into operation afterwards. In other cases, how;
ever, the superintendence of great enterprises fºll
into less scrupulous and more presumptuous hands.
e rashness of ignorance and inexperiºnce
ſºmpted the adoption of fantastic novelties, which
had no discoverable purpose save the acquisition
ºf notoriety; and the spurious reputations thus ob-
ined, combined with some tact in the management
of Boards of Directors, led to results, the penalty
or which has since been paid in the shape of large
s, heavy loans, and small dividends. . Such
Cases, however, have been only exceptional ; and,
ºn the whole, the country and the world have reason
0 rejoico that an improvement so extensive and
*udden has been cfſected with so few important fail-
*res and drawbacks.”
*So great was the ignorance, even among the most emi-
hent engineers, respecting railways and their machinery,
recently as 1837-8, that one gentleman in the highest
of the profession, being examined before a commit-
It was impossible for any human skill or foresight
to provide, in a series of enterprises so novel,
against all the contingencies which must arise in
their practical operation. We accordingly find, in
tracing their progress, the same gradual advance-
ment through a series of errors, which has marked
the progress of every improvement in the arts and
sciences. When the Liverpool and Manchester
line was in progress of construction, a form of rail
called the “fish-bellied” rail had acquired much
favor among engineers; and great praises were
lavished on the scientific perfections of its form, in
which the varying strength was so, beautifully
adapted to the varying action of the loads which
passed upon it. The railway was accordingly laid
down with “fish-bellied” rails. Experience,
however, soon showed that the form so beautiful in
theory was most defective in practice; and these
rails have since been consigned to a place in the
history of engineering—the original “parallel”
rail having superseded them in all parts of the
world. *
The proper weight and strength of the rails was
as little foreseen as their form. The Liverpool and
Manchester line was originally laid with rails
weighing thirty-five pounds per yard. This has
been increased successively, from year to year, to
forty, fifty, sixty, and even to seventy-five pounds.
The distance between the supports has been like-
wise varied. Forty pound rails on three feet bear-
ings, sixty pound rails on four feet bearings, and
seventy-five pound rails on five feet bearings, have
been adopted on different railways, and on different
parts of the same railway. The nature of the sup-
ports themselves has undergone a revolution. Orig-
inally the rails were sustained on square stone-
blocks, , measuring two feet on the side, and
twelve inches deep. Cross sleepers of timber were
only used as temporary supports on embankments,
until their settlement and consolidation should be
effected by time and work. The stone blocks are,
however, now everywhere abandoned, and the
cross sleepers of timber permanently and universally
established. -
Nor has the machinery been the subject of less
frequent and curious changes. The weight of the
first locomotives was limited to six tons. This
Weight has been increased successively to eight, ten
and twelve tons; and on the Great Western Rail-
Yay, engines have been placed weighing twenty
tºns—this weight being in every case exclusive of
that of the tender which carries the fuel and water.
9;iginally, the cylinders and the machinery by
which the working wheels were driven, were placed
outside the wheels. Soon afterwards they were
transferred to the space between the wheels under
the boiler. This was announced as a great improve-
ment, inasmuch as the cylinders were inclosed in
the smoke-box, and protected from cold, and the
driving power was made to act nearer to the centre
of inertia of the engine and load. It was, however,
accompanied by a serious drawback, , in as far
as the axle of tho-driving wheels, on which the major
part of the weight of , the engine rested, was
obliged to be constructed with two cranks, so as
in fact to be broken and discontinuous in two
places. This was justly regarded as an anomaly
in engineering; yet it was allowed, because of the
countervailing advantages supposed to attend the
arrangement. -
tee of the House of Commons, was unable to say whether
the wheels of locomotives
turned with their axles or upon
them l
500
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
. . . . ance which the train would have opposed
... power moving it along a level.
More recently, however, it having been found
impracticable to pack into the narrow space between
the wheels, machinery sufficiently powerful for the
speed now required, the cylinders and working
gear have been restored to their primitive position
outside the wheels; and the same engineering
authorities who lauded the internal arrangement,
have lately condemned it—declaring that there is
nothing like outside machinery. -
The engines were originally supported on four
wheels only; the number is now six. An increased
security is thus obtained in case of an accidental
fracture of an axle-tree. Since, however, the trans-
fer of the machinery outside the wheels, this pre-
caution is of less importance.
Since the power of the engine must necessarily
have been regulated by the resistance which it
would have to overcome, it might be supposed that
one of the first questions to which practical men
would direct their inquiries would have been to
determine, with some degree of certainty and pre-
cision, what was the average amount of resistance
to the drawing power offered by a train of carriages,
moving on a straight and level line of railway.
Yet, strange as it may now appear, several hundred
miles of railway were constructed and in full opera-
tion before that problem had been solved, even with
any degree of approximation. A rough estimate
had obtained favor in the profession, which assigned
about ten pounds per ton of the load drawn, as the
amount of this resistance; but no one could tell how
this estimate had been made, and it is now certain
that it had no better origin than conjecture. It was,
moreover, always assumed, that the resistance to
the moving power was independent of the speed.
It was, of course, admitted that the resistance pro-
duced by the atmosphere must increase with the
speed; but this was considered as forming so insig-
nificant an element of the entire resistance, that it
might be disregarded.
t was not until the years 1837-8, that this vitally
important question was submitted to experimental
investigation. In these years an extensive series
of experiments were undertaken and executed by
Dr. Lardner, in which he was assisted by Mr.
Edward Woods, Engineer on the Liverpool and
Manchester Railway, and Mr. Hardman Earle—an
active and intelligent director of that line. The
object of this inquiry was to settle the values of
several data or conditions connected with the work-
ing of railways, or what might be called “Railway
Constants.” Among these the most important and
the most difficult was the determination of the
resistance to the tractive power. After various
unsuccessful attempts to apply dynamometric instru-
ments to the purpose, the following expedient was
resorted to, the result of which was completely
successful:—The train of carriages whose resist-
ance was desired to be ascertained, was placed near
the summit of an inclined plane: An engine placed
behind it put it in motion, and dismissed it down the
plane with a high velocity. The Consequence was
not, as might have been expected, that the train
descended with accelerated speed. On the con-
trary, it was found as it descended to be gradually
retarded, until its motion was reduced to a certain
uniform velocity, which it retained until it arrived
at the foot of the plane. Mechanical considerations
proved, that the gravity of the train resolved in the
direction of the #. must be equal to the resist-
to a
experiment on plains of various acclivities, it was
found that each acclivity gave a different uniform
velocity of descent. From this followed the conse-
quence, contrary to all that engineers had before
taken for granted, that the resistance to the moving
power augments in a very high ratio as the speed
increases; and that at the usual speed of passenger
trains, this resistance is much greater in amount
than any estimate which engineers had previously
allowed for it.
It was also rendered apparent that the usual mode
of estimating the resistance at so much per ton 0
the load was altogether fallacious, inasmuch as the
same weight of load would offer different resistances
to the moving power, according to the number
and form of the carriages, and the speed of the
motion.*
On every species of road, the acclivities which
are admissible depend on the average resistance
offered to the moving power on the level. If this
resistance be great, then a considerable ascent will
not be felt—the additional resistance which it
opposes to the moving power bearing an inconsider-
able proportion to the whole amount of resistance
which that power must at all times overcome. But
if, from the mechanical perfection of the road and
the carriages, the resistance habitually opposed to
the moving power on the level be very small, (as is
the consequence of the admirable perfection of rail-
ways,) then a very slight acclivity will be sufficient
to disable the moving power altogether. It will
therefore be easily understood, that the degrees of
ascent which on a common Macadamized road are
scarcely felt, are wholly inadmissible on railways
worked by locomotive power. The more exquisite
the perfection of the instrument, the more inconsis"
tent with its efficiency are even slight defects: gaps
and inequalities, which would not sensibly impair
the excellence of a knife, would entirely destroy the
utility of a razor.
Railways must, therefore, be so constructed as to"
be nearly level. An inclination rising at the rate
of one foot in fifty would not be distinguishable
from an absolute level, by mere inspection, without
the aid of levelling instruments. Yet such an
ascent would more than treble the resistance of *
railway train moving with the usual speed.
If some mechanical causes forbid a railway 10
undulate, others render it difficult to wind or to pur
sue a serpentine course. The necessity for undu"
lation might be avoided, and a general level cours”
preserved, were it possible to carry it along the
trendings of valleys and round the bases of hills.
This, however, is rendered impossible, by thº
mechanical conditions of its structure. A railway
carriage moves in a groove, or, at least, in what *
equivalent to a groove. Without some violence 9
its principle, or some strain upon its structure, it ".
therefore capable of moving only in a straight aſ
direct course. If it has to change its direction,
must be through a curve which bends so slowly aſ
gradually, that the part of it occupied at .º.
moment by the carriage shall not sensibly diſſº
from a straight line. The curve, in short, must b6
one of very large radius; and even in such a curº
the carriage can only be forced to turn by the 99.
stant pressure of the flanges of the wheels against
the outer rail. This difficuly becomes greater. **
the speed of the motion is increased. A standing
*For the details of this investigation, see the Rºº.
of Dr. Lardner in the Proceedings of the British A$599.
tion, and the Äppendix to the same, by Mr. Edwº
But on submitting the same train to the same Wood
OOCS,
RAILways AT HOME AND ABROAD.
501
rule of railway committees in Parliament was, that
all curves of less than a mile radius should be
matter of special inquiry and report.
Such are among the causes which have rendered
the construction of railways expensive, by rendering
inevitable vast works to preserve the necessary
straightness, and continuous level of the course.
As the line cannot descend to the level of valleys
and rise over the surface of hills, the former must
be filled up and the latter excavated. The road is
conducted over the valley on an embankment, and
through the hill by means of an excavation. But
the valley may be occasionally too deep to render an
embankment practicable, or the carth to form it may
not be attainable. In this case, the road is raised
to the necessary level by a viaduct or bridge, of
height and magnitude commensurate to the depth
and width of the valley to be crossed. In like
manner, the hill may be too lofty to allow a practi-
cable cutting; in which case, a hole is bored
through it of sufficient calibre to contain the railway,
and allow trains to pass through, and it is lined
with masonry; a tunnel, in a word, is constructed.
When the necessity for such stupendous expedients
is duly considered, we shall cease to wonder at the
enormous cost of railways.
The system of internal communication by rail-
Ways now in progress of construction throughout
Great Britain, will form, under various points of
view, a singular example in the history of public
works. Their stupendous magnitude, and the
many novel works of art upon them, are scarcely
So remarkable as the rapidity of their execution, the
amount of capital they have absorbed, and the still
more enormous amount of capital they have created.
The effects they have produced upon the social and
commercial relations of different centres of popula-
tion and commerce, by augmenting in an unforeseen
and incredible ratio the personal communication
between them, are not among the least memorable -
consequences of these undertakings. . . .
We have stated that the first of this series was
the Liverpool and Manchester line-thirty miles in
length—which was opened for traffic in 1830. In
the year 1840, there were thirteen hundred miles
of railway in full operation in England, upon which,
during that year, twelve millions of persons had
been conveyed. In 1841, fifteen hundred and fifty
miles were worked, on which twenty millions of
passengers were carried. In 1843, the length of .
railway open was eighteen hundred miles, and the
number of passengers transported nearly twenty-
Seven millions; and in 1844, the length was in-
creased to nineteen hundred miles, and the passen-
gers exceeded the incredible number of thirty
millions ! -
Nearly sixty millions of capital had been ex-
pended in little more than ten years on these enter-
prises. But all the principal lines paid large
profits. Dividends of ten per cent. were declared,
and the shares rose to cent. per cent. premium.
he demand for railway shares was enormous; and
# supply of corresponding magnitude soon met it.
n 1845, three hundred miles of new railway were
ºpened for traffic; and acts were passed by the
egislature, sanctioning projects in which the con-
Struction of a further extent of eighteen hundred
miles of railway was undertaken. º
efore we proceed to notice the enterprises which
§emain to be executed, let us examine a little more
ºn detail what has been already effected, and its
Tesults.
If we take the principal railways which have
been completed and brought into full operation,
excluding only a few obviously exceptional ones,”
we shall find that, the average amount of capital
which they have absorbed is at the rate of £35,000
per mile. This amount has, in different cases, been
distributed in different proportions among the sev-
eral heads of expenditure; but the following may
be taken as near the average distribution –
Cost of land, . . . . . . . . . .64,000
Way and works, . . . . . . . 22,000
Office and sundries, . . . . . . . 1,000
Locomotive power, and working stock, . 8,000
Total, . . . . . 635,000
The railways constructed with the wide gauge
were more expensive. An extent of two hundred
and forty miles, had absorbed £9,704,368, at the
close of last year, being at the rate of above £40,-
000 per mile.
Such being the cost of construction, let us con-
sider the service rendered to the public, and the
revenue produced. -
By the returns published by the Railway Depart-
ment of the Board of Trade, it appears that the
traffic for the three years ending 30th June, 1845,
was as follows:–
*—
Miles of Receipts | Receipts
Year Ending Railwa from from ToTAL.
Opened. Passengers. | Goods.
June 30, 1843, 1798; 63,110,257|f|,424,932|E4,535,189
June 30, 1844, 1912; 3,439,294 | 1,635,380 || 5,074,674
June 30, 1845, 21.18% 3,976,341 2,333,373 || 6,209,714
Hence we infer the amount of each kind of traf.
fic per mile in each year, as follows:–
Amount Amº of Fºr l
Year of Passen- Annual goods Annual Sº" | Annual
ger traffic increase. per increase. il increase.
per mile. mile. In] le.
£, per cent. £T|percent.T.E per Cent,
1843. 1729 792 2522
I844 || 1773 2.55 855 7.90 2653 5.20
1845] 1877 5.87 1101 || 21.34 || 2936 i 10.70
—w-
. It appears, therefore, that there is an annually
increasing amount of traffic; that the rate of in-
grease, on the goods traffic, is even more rapid
than the passenger traffic; and that the average
annual total amount received per mile, in 1845,
was ºf 3000, omitting fractions.
The proportion of this gross revenue, absorbed
by the current expenses of the transport, is differ-
ent on different lines. In some it is above 50 per
cent. ; in some below 40 per cent. In 1842 it was
estimated at 44 per cent. of the gross revenue; but
it is probable that, by improved machinery and in-
creased economy, it is now diminished. It may be
taken at present at 42 per cent., of the revenue.
Of the £3000 per mile received then, 58 per cent.
or £1740 per mile, may be taken as the profit on
the £35,000 per mile sunk—being at the average
rate of 5 per cent.
Thus, it appears, that although several great en-
terprises give 10 per cent., the general average
profit on these speculations does not amount to
more than the ordinary profit on capital engaged in
large commercial investments. Many unsuccess-
ful lines pay little or no interest on the capital sunk,
and some yield dividends of comparatively small .
amount; and thus the larger dividends of the more sº
* Such, for example, as the London and Blackwall, the
London and Greenwich, and a few which, on the other
hand, have been completed at an exceptionably low rate.
502
RAILWAYS AT HOMIE AND ABROAD.
º
successful lines are neutralized. The increase of
traffic, however, indicated in the above table of
annual returns, would render it probable that the
annual profits would become larger, unless the fur-
ther extension of railways should check them. "
It will be observed that of the total annual reve-
nue of the railways, 63 per cent. proceeds from
passengers, and 37 per cent. from goods.
In estimating the manner in which the railways
minister to the public service, the question arises—
whether they chiefly serve as means of personal
intercourse between those great centres of popula-
tion and commerce which are usually selected as
their termini; or whether they in a greater degree
benefit the population located in those districts of
the country through which they pass. Unques-
tionably the general impression was, and, so far as
we have observed, still is, that the great mass of
their traffic is derived from the large cities and
towns at their termini. This question has much
interest, not merely to the public in general, but to
those who engage in railway speculations in par-
ticular. Is the population of the country through
which a line of railway passes, or the population of
its termini, to be considered most in calculating its
probable success!
We shall arrive at a solution of this problem by
comparing the total number of passengers carried
on the railway, with the total amount paid by
them on the one hand, and the average fare per
mile chargeable to them on the other. In the fol-
lowing table we have given the number of passen-
gers of each class, booked in the year ending 30th
June, 1845; the total amount of fare they paid ;
the average paid per passenger; the average fare
charged per mile; and the consequent average dis-
tance which each passenger travelled. In order to
express the actual and relative amounts of passen-
ger service rendered by the railways in that year,
we have also given the equivalent number of pas-
* of each class, and the total carried one
IIll I.C.
Receipts Rec" º: Avºge º:
Number of f.º. per ||...}. * | ****) num .
Finger: "... ... ...";"|ſ...}.
* “I senger. pass'gr. mild.
f º: 1... miles. ||rºles.
1st Class, 5,474,1631,515,8053 ſ 26:10, 26 7-10142.328,233
2.1. Class, 14,325,825 1,508,115|2 2 || SG-100||134 196,263,802
:al Class|13,135.820 621.9% !) 1141 11 147,777,975
Mixed, 855,445. 209,518|4 11 º 3-10 |24} 20,530,480
lº & 33,701,2533,976,3412 4 || 8-10 liff 506,900,695
5.
The results exhibited here suggest several re-
flections, which must be as interesting to railway
proprietors as to the public in general.
In the first place it is apparent, contrary to what
might be expected, that the railways derive their
revenue from passengers who travel short dis-
tances, and not from those who pass between the
great centres of population which mark the ter-
mini, and which usually give the railway its name.
The first class passengers, whose excursions are the
longest, travel on the average only twenty-six miles;
and it must be observed, that the great majority of
these must travel much less distances even than this.
For one who makes a trip of 100 miles, there must
be at least ten who go only 10 miles, otherwise the
average could not be maintained. In like manner,
the second-class passengers travel only 13 miles,
and the third class 11 miles—giving, say 12 miles,
as the mean of the two ; and these constitute above
80 per cent, of all the passengers transported on
railways! Short passenger traffic—that is to say,
trips of a dozen miles or thereabouts—these, it is
evident, constitute the great staple of the railway
business in passengers. It is clear, then, that the
terminal populations have but little connexion with
the financial success of railway projects. The
main support is short traffic. º
Of every hundred passengers booked, there is
the following proportions of the different classes:-
1st Class, . . . . . . . 16;
2d Class, . . . . . . . 43%
3d Class, . . . . . . 40
100
Of every hundred pounds of gross revenue, the
following proportions are contributed by the differ-
ent classes:— *
1st Class, . . . . . .640 14
2d Class, . . . . . . 42 16
3d Class, . . . . . . 16 10
iſ 100 0
The existence of some unwise discouragement
to third class passengers, is very apparent in these
numbers. Under the ordinary influences which
govern personal economy, they ought to be the
Inost numerous, if not the most productive. They
are, nevertheless, inferior in number to the second
class, and produce a revenue greatly inferior to
either first or second class. We shall more clearly
perceive the cause of this paradox by reference to
the traffic of railways elsewhere. In Belgium, the
relative numbers of the different classes is such, that
of every 100 passengers there are
1st Class, . . . . . . . 10
2d Class, . . . . . . . 30
3d Class, . . . . . . . 60
And of every £100 gross revenue from passen-
gers, the contribution of the respective classes is
1st Class, . . . . . . .620
2d Class, . . . . . . . 33
3d Class, . . . . . . . 47
if 100

The revenue of the railways, in England, is
therefore chiefly drawn from the first and second
class passengers; while that of the Belgian lines
is supplied by the second and third class, but chief-
ly by the latter. The one system contributes to
the service of the lower orders of the population,
and the other to the middle and higher.
Whether both objects might not be attained,
would, perhaps be best ascertained by a compari;
son of the fares. On the English lines, the third
class passengers are discouraged by four causes,
brought into operation, apparently with that inten-
tion, by the companies. These are, 1. high fares;
2. carriages uncomfortable and unsafe; 3. incon”
venient hours; 4. slow speed. -
The following show the English and Belgian
fares in juxtaposition:
British. Belgium.
10ths of a penny. 10ths of a penny.
1st Class pr. head pr. mile, 26 . . . 14.1%
2d Class, . . . . 18.1% . . 8
3d Class, º * º º 10 º º t 6
Thus, while the fare of each class is considº
bly lower than the corresponding class on the Briº
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND A BROAD.
503
ish lines, the third class is little more than half of
the third class on our railways; and the carriages
for this class are started at all hours, and are pro-
tected by roofs from the weather, and from the dis-
charge of the funnel of the engine.
It appears from the numbers in the last column
of the above table, that the passenger service ren-
dered by the British railways in 1844–5, was equiv-
alent to five hundred Inillions of passengers carried
one mile !
Let us see what number of ordinary stage-coaches
could have performed this service in the same
time.
One hundred horses working in a coach, would
carry 25 passengers per day 100 miles. Omitting
fractions, the number carried in the year would be
10,000, which would be equivalent to a million car-
ried one mile. Such a coach, worked by 100
horses, would take five hundred years to execute
the passenger traffic of the railways in the year
1844-5. In doing this, it would travel a distance
equal to fifteen hundred times the circumference of
the globe. *
The locomotive engines, therefore, employed in
drawing passenger trains in that year, performed
the work of 50,000 stage-coach horses.
It is worth while to compare the cost at which
this has been executed, with that at which the same
service would have been performed by stage-coaches.
In making this comparison, it is necessary to re-
member that there are three sources of economy,
which the railway offers, in comparison with stage
coaches. First, the saving in the fare; secondly,
the value of time saved; and thirdly, the saving of
tavern erpenses on the road.
First. If we take the coach fare on an average
at fourpence per mile, (a low estimate,) the saving
by the railway will be at the rate of 2.Éd. per mile per
head. * º
Secondly. The saving of time, will be at the
rate of nine hours, in every hundred miles travelled.
For one must allow thirteen and a half hours (at
seven and a half miles an hour) for an ordinary
stage-coach to perform, 100 miles, which on the
railway would be travelled in less, than ſº hours.
If we estimate the time of the class which travel
on the average at six shillings per working day of
twelve hours, this will be sixpence per hour.
Thirdly. A traveller thirteen hours on the road,
must take at least one meal at a tavern; many will
take two. A traveller four or five hours on the
road takes nothing. Let this saying, be Pº down
on the average at 3d. per hundred miles: We shall
then have the following account of the amount
saved by those who travelled on the railways in
1844–5, compared with what, travelling, the same
distancé in stage-coaches would have cost -
506,900,695 miles at 2%d. per mile, fare
saved, . ſº {} º
45,621,063 hours
tº :C5,280,215
saved, at 6d. per
hour, º * { } g 1,140,526
506,900,695 miles, tavern expenses at
2d. per hundred miles, g 506,000
-66,927,641
The total saving is, therefore, nearly double the
Šum paid as railway fare. In other words, the
ocomotive engine has reduced the cost of travelling
to one third of its former amount—even at the rate
of fare charged under a system of monopoly, as
compared with the open competition of stage-
coaches.
Let us now turn our attention for a moment
from what has been actually accomplished to what
is in progress of completion, or projected.
We have seen that, on the 30th June, 1845,
2118 miles of railway were open for traffic. Dur.
ing the year 1845 nearly 300 miles more were com-
pleted, and inspected by General Pasley. Besides
these, there were many lines which had obtained
their acts before January, 1845, of which we have
no return. We shall be considerably within
the truth if we assume, that the total length of
railways for which acts were obtained previous to
1845, was 2500 miles. In the session of 1845,
acts were passed authorizing the construction of a
further extent of 1793 miles—making a total, to
December, 1845, of 5300 miles.
. In the session which has just terminated, however,
it was reserved for the world to witness an extent
of speculation, of which history, we believe, can
produce no similar example. Four thousand miles
of additional railways have actually received the
sanction of the legislature, which, if completed,
will make up the enormous extent of 9300 miles.
The amount of capital of the companies whose
acts were passed in 1845, exclusive of loans, was
:C29,168,640; which, divided among 1793 miles,
is at the rate of £16,268 per mile. §§ we have
shown that the 2000 miles of railway in operation
have absorbed capital to the amount of £35,000
per mile ; and it may, therefore, be asked, how
nearly an equal length, is now to be constructed, at
less than half the cost! But there is no mystery in
the matter. If we compare the capital originally
estimated for any of the principal lines, with their
actual cost, we shall find the explanation of this
ºn: inconsistency. Take the three following
1I] ES :-
Actual Cost
g Original Capital. of the line.
Liverpool & Manchester, C510,000 £ 1,774,000
London & Birmingham, 3,500,000 6,000,000
Birmingham & Liverpool, 1,000,000 1,500,000
In fact, the estimated capital is not even a toler-
able approximation to the cost of a railway.
It is contended that, owing to improved machin-
ery and other causes, railways can be constructed
at a less expense now than formerly. In some of the
items of expenditure this is true; but others, such
as the cost of land, certainly are not changed ; and
some, such as wages of labor, will certainly be aug-
mented. We shall probably be near the truth if we
allow £30,000 per mile, for the lines still to be
Constructed.
The capital of the companies, which have ob-
tained acts for about 4000 miles of railway, during
the last session, amounts to about £150,000,000,
exclusive of loans. This is at the rate of £37,500
per mile, which is rather above the average cost
of the completed lines. #
It appears, then, that there are now in progress,
and sanctioned by parliament, 5800 miles of rail.
way, to complete which, and bring them into oper-
ation, will absorb at least two hundred millions
sterling ! . Most of the companies promise the com-
pletion of their enterprises in three years; but,
allowing for engineering casualties, and unforeseen
causes of delay, there is no reason to suppose that
any of them should exceed five years—assuming,
of course, that the necessary capital and labor shall ...
be forthcoming. The annual instalments of capital
504
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
*
necessary to accomplish this will, therefore, he
forty millions.
Such is the sum which must be taken yearly,
from the surplus savings of British industry, for the
next five years, if these projects are to be realized.
There is no escape from this astounding inference.
We say nothing of the amount of British capital
promised to foreign railways, which, however, is
not inconsiderable. Those who are best acquainted
with the public finances, and the laws which regu-
late money and labor, regard the consequences of
such a yearly demand with serious apprehension.
If it were possible to ascertain the average net sav-
ings of the country, and to estimate the proportion
of these which could, without injury, be withdrawn
from other undertakings which are in a growing
state, the effect of these prospective operations
might to some extent be foreseen. But, as it is,
all is left to conjecture. It is, however, past all
doubt that a serious pressure on the money market
must take place, and which must produce great loss
and inconvenience to the manufacturing and trad-
ing interests; find, as a concomitant effect, the un-
usual demand temporarily created and then sudden-
ly relaxed, must occasion very injurious derange-
ments in the market for labor.”
It may, perhaps, be urged, that the operations of
past years have not been productive of any such
effects. It is necessary, however, to remember that
the seventy-five millions of capital, which have al-
ready been invested in railways, have been spread
over a period of more than fifteen years—giving an
average annual absorption of only five millions,
while we are now to supply forty millions, and that
generally that period was one of great national
prosperity.
But let us assume the work to be done. Let us.
suppose the capital to be sunk, and the 9000 miles
of railway to be in full operation. The sharehold-
ers will expect at least as good average profits as
those who have already made a like investment.
We have seen that a gross revenue of £3000 per
mile, on the existing lines, only pays an average
profit of about 5 per cent. What must be the
gross revenue of the system of lines, now contem-
plated, to give the same profits! In order that 9000
miles of railway should produce £3000 per mile, it
is necessary that the public should expend on that
species of inland transport twenty-seven millions a
year Assuming that this expenditure is distribut-
ed between passengers and mºrehandize, as it is at
present, seventeen millions will be paid for passen-
gers and ten millions for merchandize.
At present the number of passengers booked on
2000 miles of railway annually is nearly thirty-four
millions. When the enlarged system comes into
complete operation, the number must be an hundred
and fifty-three millions ! i. º
This subject opens many curious and interesting
views; but our limits warn us that we must at
present dismiss it. is tº
When the results of the operations in England
became known in America, the advantages which
such means of intercommunication must produce in
that country became immediately apparent; and, in
various parts of the Union, the enterprising spirit
of the population was directed to the construction of
railways. The progress, was rapid ; and a few
years witnessed an extensive system of steam com-
munication by land, throughout the most populous
and active of the Atlantic states.
* Morrison, pp. 6, 7.
A
The total length of railway now actually con-
structed, and in operation in the United States,
amounts to about 4500 miles ; of which 500 miles
consist of short lines, connected with coal works
and private establishments;–leaving about 4000
miles of swift steam conveyance, by railway, for
passengers and merchandize. Besides this, there
are about 10,000 miles projected, the construction
of most of which has been suspended, since the
financial and monetary revulsions which took place
some years since. Of the railways completed, and
in operation, the chief part are in the Atlantic
States. A few short lines, however, have been
constructed in the south and west. Thus there
are seven railways in Alabama, four in Florida, ten
in Louisiana, and five in Mississippi.
Pennsylvania, New York, and the States of
New England, are the great theatres of American
railway enterprise. The State of Pennsylvania is .
intersected by nearly a thousand miles of railway :
and an equal length is in operation, or process of
construction, in the State of New York. The
New England States are in every direction inter-
sected by railways. Boston is connected towards
the west with the Hudson, at Albany, by a con-
tinuous line. It is connected, towards the south,
with Long Island Sound, by lines to Providence
and Stonington, and to Worcester and New Lon-
don. The communication is carried on from these
}. to New York, both by railway over Long
sland, and by steam-boats on the Sound and the
East River.
From the Hudson, there is an unbroken line of
railway communication to the great northern lakes.
By these and the Illinois river, the communication
is continued by steam-boats nearly to the banks of
the Upper Mississippi; where it is continued for
some thousand miles westward by the Missouri
towards the Rocky Mountains; and southward by
the Lower Mississippi to New Orleans and the
Gulf of Mexico.
Another artery of railway communication pro-
ceeds from New York southwards—traversing the
States of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware,
Maryland, Virginia, North and South Carolina-
and turning westward through Georgia, terminates
near the banks of the Alabama River. There, the
line is continued by steam-boats to the mouth of
that river; and thence to Lake Pontchartrain,
where it meets a line of railway which terminates
finally at New Orleans. The entire territory o
the Union is thus inclosed in an uninterrupted circle
of steam communication.
Nor are great transverse arteries wanting to
complete the interfusion of the commerce of the
country. From the artery running north and south
just mentioned, there issues a lateral branch at
j proceeding westward towards the Alle-
ghany range. At present this is continued only as
far as Cumberland—at the foot of the ridge, which
is from that point crossed by an excellent Macad:
amized road, on which stage-coaches work at *
speed equal to the best English coach travelling:
It is, however, intended to supersede this road, by
a continuation of the railway to Wheeling an
Pittsburg on the Ohio. Thence the communº
cation is carried on by steam-boats on that river.”
the point where its waters are received by tho Miº
º º
We have here traced the great main arteries,”
the internal commerce of the United States, but
these only. From these at every point diverg”
innumerable ramifications, either by tributary na"
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD,
505
gable rivers, by branch railways, or by common
roads.
There are also isolated instances of the irre-
pressible spirit of enterprise, which so strongly
characterizes this people, to be found in railways
constructed and in operation, where the highest
refinements of locomotion would be the last thing
the wanderer of the wilds would expect to meet.
In the backwoods of Mississippi, traversing native
forests where, till within a few years, human foot
never trod, through solitudes the silence of which
was never disturbed even by the Red man, we are
now transported on railways. . The impression
produced on the traveller, as he is whirled through
these wilds, and sees the frightened deer start from
its lair at the snorting of the ponderous machine
which moves him, and reflects on all that man has
accomplished in these regions within half a century,
cannot be described.*
When the expenditure involved in the construc-
tion and operation of British railways is , con-
sidered, the financier, the statistician, and the
economist, will naturally ask how, with a popu-
lation so sparse and a territory so vast, such a sys-
tem of communication could be established and
sustained If the great mass of the passenger
lines in England have cost at the rate of thirty-five
thousand pounds per mile, and the profits gained
even on the most successful among them do not
exceed ten per cent., while the average profits of
all do not amount to more than half that rate—
how, it may be asked, can this stupendous system
of American railways, with a traffic comparatively
so insignificant, among a people where profits on
capital are high and the rate of interest from six to
ten per cent, be made to answer?
This difficulty is explained, partly by the gen-
eral nature of the country, partly by the mode of
constructing the railways, and partly by the man-
ner of working them. --
With certain exceptions, few in number, the
tracts of country over which these railways, pass
form nearly a dead level. Of earth-work, there-
fore, there is but little. Occasionally, low em-
bankments and shallow cuttings are all the difficul:
ties the engineer has to surmount. Of works of
art, such as viaducts and tunnels, there are almost
none. Where the lines have to be conducted over
streams or rivers, bridges are constructed, in a rude
but substantial and secure manner, of timber,
which is supplied from forests at the road side, sub-
ject to no other cost save that of hewing it: The
station houses, booking offices, and other buildings,
are likewise slightly and cheaply constructed of
timber.
where the lines of road intersect considerable.
rivers, such as the Hudson, the Delaware, or the
Susquehanna, the latter are crossed, by steam-
boats, the railway being resumed, on the opposite
bank. This operation is effected without objec-
tionable inconvenience or delay, and is often so
regulated as to correspond with the meals of the
assengers, which are in that case supplied in the
oat while crossing. The passengers' luggage,
and such light goods as are transported by passen.
ger trains, are carried in vans supported on cast-
* A railway is in operation between Vicksburg, on the
eastern bank of the Mississippi, and the town of Jackson,
in the centre of the State, which throughout its entire
ength traverses the native ſorests, where the engineers
who made it were probably the first of the human race
that had ever set their foot. 32
Aº
CXXXV. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI.
iron, rollers, which are placed on the railway
trucks. On the arrival at a ferry, these vans are
rolled without delay along a platform level with the
truck, to the upper deck of the steam-boat, which
is at the same level or nearly so ; and on arriving
at the opposite bank they are rolled by a like
expedient upon the trucks of the train which
waits.
But, besides the facilities aſſorded for the con-
struction of railways by the flat and level character
of the country, and the boundless supply of timber
at a trifling cost, a further and much larger
economy is effected, as compared with European
lines, by the method of construction.
Formed to supply a very limited amount of
traffic in proportion to their length, the American
railways are, generally, single lines. Sidings are
of course provided at convenient stations, in which
one train waits until the train in the contrary direc-
tion has passed. Collision is impossible, for the
first train which arrives must, by the rules of the
road, move into the siding. This arrangement
would be attended with inconvenience, on lines
where a frequent passage of trains takes place;
but on the principal American lines, the quick
trains seldom pass in each direction more than
twice a day, and the time and place of their meet-
ing is perfectly regulated. In fact, no inconven-
ience is felt or complained of from this cause in
the practical working of the lines. In cases
where the traffic is so considerable as to require
them, double lines have been constructed.
In the structure of the roads themselves, princi-
ples have been adopted which have been attended
with great economy compared with European lines
—the application of which was rendered admissible
by the lightness of the traffic and the moderate
speed contemplated. In laying out these lines the
engineers did not, as in England, impose on them-
selves, the difficult and expensive condition of
excluding all curves but those of a large radius.
Qn the other hand, curves having a radius of one
thousand feet are usual; and occasionally those of
five hundred feet, and even less, are allowed. Nor
are the gradients restricted to the same low limits
as with us. Acclivities rising at the rate of one
foot in a hundred and thirty, are considered a
Inoderate ascent; and there are not less than fifty
lines, in which the gradients are laid down at a
rate varying from one in a hundred to one in
Seventy-five. Nevertheless, these lines are worked
without difficulty by locomotives, without the ex-
pedient either of assistant or stationary engines.
The consequences of this have been to diminish the
cost of earth-work, bridges, and viaducts; even in
parts of the country where the character of the
surface is least favorable. But the chief source of
economy in the construction of these lines has
arisen from the structure of the road surface. In
many cases where there is a light traffic, the rails
consist of flat bars of iron two and a half inches
broad, and from five to seven tenths of an inch
thick-nailed or spiked down to planks of timber
laid longitudinally on the road in parallel lines, at
the proper width, so as to form what are called
continuous bearings. Some of the most profitable
lines, and those of which the maintenance has
proved the least expensive, have been constructed
in this manner.
The structure of the road, however, varies in its
character according to the traffic. Rails are some-
times laid down weighing from twenty-five to
506
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
thirty pounds per yard. In some cases of still
greater traffic, the rails are laid on transverse
sleepers of wood, in the same manner as on the
European railways; but, in consequence of the
comparative cheapness of wood and high price of
iron, the strength necessary for the road is obtained
by reducing the distance between the sleepers, so
as to supersede the necessity of giving greater
weight to the rails.
In all cases where augmented trade may be ex-
pected from the increase of population and com-
merce, the earth-work, and structures on the lines
are made so as to admit of a double line of rails,
whenever they may be required.
In the working of their railways, the same atten-
tion to the economy rendered necessary by their
limited traffic is observable. The engines are
strongly built, perfectly safe, and sufficiently pow-
erful; but they are déstitute of much of that
elegance of exterior, and luxurious beauty of
workmanship, which are seen upon the British
locomotives. The fuel used to work them is gen-
erally wood. On certain lines, however, in the
neighborhood of coal-mines—such, for example, as
the Philadelphia and Pottsville Railway, which
penetrates into the great coal-fields of Pennsylvania
—coºl is the fuel used. The use of coke is no-
where resorted to. Its expense would make it
inadmissible ; and in a country so thinly inhabited,
the smoke proceeding from coal or wood is not
objected to.
The ordinary speed, stoppages included, is four-
teen or fifteen miles an hour. Independently of
other considerations, the light structure of most of
the railways would not allow of a greater velocity
without considerable danger: on some of the better
constructed lines, we have, however, frequently
travelled at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour
when at full speed. This is not uncommon on
some of the New England lines—on the railway
from Baltimore to Washington, and some of the
southern lines; , as for example that between
Charleston and Augusta in Georgia, the Columbia
line in South Carolina, and the line from Augusta
to the University of Athens in Georgia.
Notwithstanding the apparently feeble and un-
substantial structure of some of the lines, accidents
to passenger trains are scarcely ever heard of in
America. With an experience of nearly twenty
thousand miles of railway travelling in the United
States, we have never encountered an accident of
any kind, or heard of a fatal or injurious one.
This security may be explained by the moderate
speed of the trains, and the absence of a highly
active traffic * -
The form and structure of the carriage is a
source of considerable economy in the working of
the lines. The passenger carriages are not distin-
guished, as in Europe, by different modes of pro-
viding for the ease and comfort of the traveller.
There are no first, second, and third class. All
are first class, or rather all are of the same class.
The carriage consists of a long bºdy like that of a
ndon omnibus. but much wider, and twice or
* In some cases of lightly constructed roads, where the
bars spiked down on the planks are not kept in good order,an
accident, called (from its analogy to a catastrophe COIT) ſilon
on American rivers) snagging, is said sometings to have
happened. In this case the iron bar, worn thin and un-
spiked, gets detached from the plank, and as the wheel
passes upon it, springs up and pierces the bottom of the
carriage to the great danger of the passengers. We
have, however, never met with a well authenticated case
of this kind.
thrice the length. The doors of exit and entrance
are at each end; a line of windows being placed
at each side, similar exactly to those of an omnibus.
Along the centre of this species of caravan is an
alley or passage, just wide enough to allow one
person to walk from end to end. On either side of
this alley are seats for the passengers, extending
crossways. Each seat accommodates two persons ;
so that four sit in each row, two at each side of the
alley. There are sometimes fourteen of theso
seats, so that the carriage accommodates fifty-six
passengers. In cold weather, a small stove is
placed near the centre of the carriage, the smoke-
pipe of which passes out through the roof; and a
good lamp is placed at each end for illumination
during the night. The vehicle is perfectly lighted
and warmed. The seats are cushioned ; and their
backs, consisting of a simple padded board, about
six inches broad, are so supported that the passen-
ger may at his pleasure turn them either way, so
as to turn his face or his back to the engine. For
the convenience of ladies who travel unaccompa-
nied by gentlemen, or who otherwise desire to bo
apart, a small room, appropriately furnished, is
sometimes attached to the end of the carriage, ad-
mission to which is forbidden to gentlemen.
It will occur at once to the engineer, that vehi-
cles of such extraordinary length would require a
railway absolutely straight; it would be impossible
to move them through any portion of a line which
has sensible curvature. However, in the construc-
tion of American railways curves are admitte
without difficulty or hesitation, which would be
wholly inadmissible on any European line, and
through these curves the vehicles just described
move with the utmost facility. This is accom-
plished by a simple and effectual arrangement.
Each end of this oblong caravan is supported on a
small four-wheeled railway truck, on which it rests
on a pivot; exactly similar to the expedient by
which the fore-wheels of a carriage sustain the
perch. These railway carriages have in fact two
perches, one at each end ; but instead of resting
on two wheels, each of them rests on four. The
vehicle'has therefore the facility of changing the
direction of its motion at each end ; and in moving
through a curve, one of the trucks will be in oile
part of the curve while the other is at another—the
length of the body of the carriage forming the cor
of the intermediate arc For the purposes they arº
designed to answer, these carriages present many
advantages. The simplicity of the structure reº
ders the expense of their construction incomparably
less than that of any class of carriage on an Eu"
ropean railway. But a still greater source of sa".
ing is apparent in their operation... The proportiºn
of the dead weight, to the profitable weight, is far
less than in the first or second class carriages 0°
the English railways, or even than the third class.
It is quite true that these carriages do not offer tº
the wealthy passenger all the luxurious accommº.
dation which he finds in the best first class carriage”
on the English railways; but they afford evº
necessary convenience and comfort, and are deci".
edly preferable to any second class carriages *
Furopean lines. • *
In several of the principal American cities, tho
railways are continued to the very centre of ".
town, following the windings of the streets, *
turning without diſficulty the sharpest corn".
The locomotive station is, however, always in 6
suburbs." Having arrived there, the enging is .
tached from the train, and horses are yoked to th9
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
507
carriages, by which they are drawn to the passen-
ger depot, usually established at some central situ-
ation. Four horses are attached to each of these
oblong carriages. The sharp curves at the corners
of the streets are turned, by causing the outer
wheels of the trucks to run upon their flanges, so
that they become (while passing round the curve)
virtually larger wheels than the inner ones. We
have seen, by this means, the longest railway car-
riages enter the depots in Philadelphia, Baltimore,
and New York, with as much precision and facility
as is exhibited by the coaches that enter the gate-
wº of the Golden Cross or the Saracen's Head.
The cost of construction of the American rail-
ways has varied between very wide limits, as the
traffic upon them has been greater or less. The
average cost of the passenger lines may be taken
at about £9000 per mile. # - e.
Of all the European states, after Great Britain,
that which first and most energetically directed its
efforts to the establishment of improved means of
intercommunication, was Belgium. The revolution
of 1830 having separated this country from Holland,
it lost the mouths of the Scheldt as an issue for its
commerce. The communications with the German
states could not be continued by sea, and were at-
tended with expenses by land, on the common
roads, which rendered them impracticable. The
coal-producing province of Liege, which before
the revolution supplied the Dutch markets, was
now isolated, while those of Hainault communicated
with all the chief cities. Pressed by these difficul-
ties, the new government decided on constructing
an effectual and economical communication between
the ocean and the point of the frontier nearest to
the Rhine, crossing the kingdom from east to west.
A canal was first suggested, but MM. Lebeau and
Rogier had the sagacity to perceive that an exten-
sive system of railways would conduce much more
effectually to the national prosperity ; and the proj-
ect was presented to the Chambers, and, passed
into a haw, on the first of May, 1834; in virtue of
which the railways which now overspread Belgium
were constructed at the charge of the state. The
works were commenced on the 1st June, 1834, and
were completed, and successively brought into
operation, in the following years. In 1843, ten
years after the project was adopted, the following
system of lines was completed and in full work:
J Miles.
EASTERN LINE—from Malines to Cologne
by Louvaine, Tirlemont, Landen, Wº.
rémme, Liegé and Verviers, with a branch
to St. Trond, . * * * i.
WestEnn Line—from Malines to the sea
on the north, by Termonde, Ghent, Bru-
ges, and Ostend, with a branch from Ghent
to the French frontier by Menin and
9I
Courtrai, i. i. . ſº g 126
on thers Line—from Malines to Ant-
werp, with a branch to Lievre, . . . 16
Southern LiNE—to the frontier of France
by Brussels and Mons, with a branch to
Charleroi and Namur, tº º ſº 115
Total, * 348
The earlier of these lines were opened in 1837,
and the others followed in quick succession. The
result of the first year fully justified the government
in the policy which dictated this measure. Before
the establishment of these lines of communication,
*.
the number of passengers between Brussels and
Antwerp per annum was 75,000. In the first
eight months after the opening of the railway, the
number was 541,129; and afterwards the annual
intercourse between these cities amounted to a mil-
lion! The profits, on the capital expended on the
line between Brussels and Malines, amounted in
the first year to 8 per cent ; and those on the line
between Brussels and Antwerp to 16 per cent. A
secondary system of lines, (about 260 miles,) to
communicate with the inferior order of towns, has
been undertaken, with the authority of the state,
by private companies. Considered relatively to
the population and territory of Belgium, this is the
greatest work of public utility which any European
state has executed in our times.
The general character of the country was favora-
ble to the construction of railways, but this facility
was not without some qualification. In the parts
of the country through which the lines first con-
structed, passed, the surface is generally flat, and
no earthworks or great works of art were neces-
sary. It was, however, intersected by numerous
and important rivers and canals, over or under
which the lines were conducted by means of
bridges and aqueducts. On the eastern line, a
series of deep valleys were crossed by embank-
ments from fifty to seventy-five feet in height,
alternated with cuttings from thirty to ſorty-five
feet deep, and a tunnel of nearly three quarters of
a mile in length. In crossing these valleys, the
railway is carried over and under the roads and
canals by means of innumerable bridges, aqueducts,
and viaducts. From Ans to Liege the declivity
leading to the valley of the Meuse is worked by an
inclined plane; on which the trains are drawn by a
pair of stationary engines of three hundred and
sixty horse power. From Liege to the frontier of
Prussia, the imaginary difficulties have been as
considerable as on any of the English railways.
. The cost of construction and other statistical par-
ticulars connected with the Belgian railways, for
the years 1842, 1843, and 1844, are given in this
table :
Miles | Cost of Nurnbe Receipts|Receipts E.
Year. Work. Cº. of #. rº. tº:- ::::::: º,
ed. tion. gers. gers, dise, &c.| "s'
f f f f
1842: 246 (3.45:1.8042.724,104|187.372|111,000 188,013 || 10,019
1843, 308 (5,784,000;3.035,349|219.296. 141,960|219,064 |142.192
1844, 348 is 78987213.331,529.271,3S3, 177.837,230,617 (218,603
Hence it appears, that the average cost of estab-
lishing the system of Belgian lines, has been £16,-
600 per mile. This sum consists of the following
items: -
Construction of the lines, . . . .012,900
Stations and their appendages, . . 1,100
General expenses, salaries, offices, &c., 500
Material, . i. + ºr ſº º . 2,100
:C16,600
The expense of working has, from increased
attention to economy, and from exciting, by promo-
tion and rewards, the good conduct and efficiency
of engineers and other persons employed, gradually
diminished from year to year. In 1844 it amounted
to £660 per mile; being fifty-one per cent. of the
gross receipts. A. net profit of forty-nine per cent.
of the receipts remained, which amounted to nearly
four per cent. on the capital.
50S
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
The Belgian railways have been constructed and
worked by her government, not with a view to
revenue, but solely with reference to the advance-
ment of the general prosperity and well-being of
the population. The tariff for passengers and
goods has, therefore, been so regulated that the
profits shall not exceed the interest of the capital
sunk. The present fares for passengers are as fol-
lows : -
Tenths
of a penny.
For 1st Class Passengers, 14% per passen. per mile.
2d do. 8 & 8
3d do.
6 &
6
By the returns given above, we find that the
average receipts per head per annum from passen-
gers was 194d.; and, since the average fare per head
per mile is seven and a half tenths of a penny, it
follows, that the average distance travelled by the
passengers is twenty-five miles. By comparing
this with the results of the traffic on the British
lines, the effect of the lower fares is apparent.
The second and third class on the latter, travel, on
an average, distances of only twelve miles; on the
Belgian lines, they move twice that distance. On
the Belgian lines merchandise º; forty per
cent. of the gross revenue; on the British lines it
supplies thirty-seven per cent. The chief part of
the revenue derived from passengers on the Bel-
gian, as well as on the British lines, arises from
short traffic. This, in effect, will be found to pre-
vail gº wherever railways are brought into
operation. It follows from what we have proved
above, that the great majority of travellers on the
Belgian lines, are those whose excursions are under
twenty-five miles. The gross annual revenue per
mile, on the Belgian railways, is only £1290,
being less than half the amount received on the
British lines. Yet the net profit on the capital is
but little less.
By a system of most judicious and liberal man-
agement, these railways have been rendered emi-
nently serviceable to the country in the transport of
every description of merchandise.
Admirable arrangements-are made for the safe,
expeditious, and cheap delivery of every package
and parcel at the address of the consignee, who is
subject to no additional or arbitrary expense what-
ever, beyond the amount of the tariff, which varies,
of course, according to the nature of the goods; but
in all cases is on the lowest scale. The effect of
these measures has been conspicuously apparent in
the rapid augmentation of this department of trans-
port. In 1841, before they were matured, the total
receipts for merchandise was +319,000. In 1844
its amount was £177,800 ! . Before the establish-
ment of the Eastern branch of the railway, the
highest amoufit of heavy goods sent to the German
frontiers, by the old conveyances, was twelve thou-
sand tons: in 1844 the amount transported was
sixty-seven thousand five hundred tons! In 1842,
before the railway took the traſſic, the amount of
light goods was one hundred and ninety-four thou-
sand tons: in 1844 it exceeded five hundred thou-
sand tons.
Although this general cheapness of transit neces-
sarily entails on the passenger trains a diminished
Valenciennes.
including stoppages, at seventeen and a half miles
an hour.
The progress of this new instrument of social
and national advancement in France, has not
hitherto been commensurate with the position and
pretensions of that great country. How far this
backwardness is ascribable to the genius of her
institutions; or to the distractions to which her
government has been exposed, and the engrossing
nature of the political questions which have occu-
ied her chambers since the revolution of July; or,
in fine, to a salutary foresight and enlightened
caution, which prompted the policy of waiting to
profit by the errors, and reap the harvest of the
dearly-paid-for experience, of Great Britain, we
shall not stop to inquire. Whatever may have
been the cause, she has unquestionably before her
advantages of no ordinary magnitude and impor-
tance, arising from it.
Previously to 1830, a few railways had been con-
structed and worked in some of the mining districts
of France, similar to those which had long been
used in the northern counties of England. It was
not, however, till about the year 1836, that the true
character which steam transport on railways was
destined to assume, began to reveal itself to her
government. The wonders of the Liverpool and
Manchester line had been noised abroad. Its expe-
dition and cheapness were the theme of general
conversation. It was, however, regarded as in
, some measure an exceptional case, and few believed
in its capability of general application. It was not
until the railway from Paris to St. Germain (twelve
miles) brought these effects under the very eyes
of the Parisians, that a true sense of the importance
of this improvement in locomotion was excited:
This was soon followed by the opening of severa
other short lines, such as those from Paris to Ver-
sailles, from Montpelier to Cette, and from Alais to
La Grand Comté. -
At length, the government being fully alive to
the importance of this new way of internal commu:
nication, it was resolved, in 1842, that a system of
railways should be planned and executed. With
this view, it was determined, that from Paris as
a centre, main branch lines should issue, to be
directed to those points of the frontiers, by land and
sea, that should best serve the purposes of foreign
commerce; and that the demands of the interior
should be consulted in the courses which these
lines should follow in passing through it, and in the
various ramifications which they should throw off.
In accordance with this plan, six great lines wou
issue from the capital. The first, proceeding
northwards to the Belgian frontier, would unitº
with the railways of that state, near Lille all
Branches from Amiens and Liliº
would communicate with the Channel at Boulogne;
Calais, and Dunkirk; thus opening a rapid an
easy communication with England, and affording .
means of transit with the fifth commercial port, dº
the great granary of the northern section of the
kingdom.
The object of the second great artery was ''
open a communication with Spain. “When,
said the minister of public works, in 1838, “Spaſº
restored to tranquillity, shall be able to renew wit"
France those commercial relations which must co"
speed, compared with that which British railway tribute so largely to the wealth of our southern
travellers are accustomed to enjoy, considerable
expedition is nevertheless effected. The mean
specid of the passenger trains, while in full motion,
' is estimated at twenty miles an hour, and the rate, provinces of Spain!
CXXXIV. LIVING AGE. VOL., XI. 30
|
|
departments, what great results may we not expº
from a railway from Paris to Bayonne, carrying *
fruits of our industry at a low price into the front”
What beneficial influences,
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND A BROAD.
509
also, may not this new way of communication exert
upon the political relations of the two countries-
relations which every day proves the necessity of
rendering more numerous and more close !”. This
line was to proceed from Paris southwards, through
Orleans, Tours, Poitiers, Angoulême, and Bor-
deaux, to Bayonne—throwing off branches to
antes and Wierzon. -
The eastern line would pass through Champagne
and Lorraine, connecting Paris with Strasbourg
and Bâle, with a branch to Metz; thus forming a
direct communication with the Rhenish frontier,
and uniting with the system of German railways:
t was expected by this to share that traffic which
now flows through the Belgian lines from Antwerp
and Ostend to the Rhine.
A line to be carried from Paris to Brest, through
Rennes, would afford to the products of the Western
provinces a passage to the Atlantic ; in addition to
that afforded by the branch of the great southern
line directed on Nantes. * *
Between the southern and castern lines just
mentioned, is included a tract of country, more
than one hundred leagues in width, occupied by a
dense and industrious population, and covered with
a fertile soil. To enrich this tract, easy ways of
communication alone are wanting. It was, there-
fore, decided to carry through it another great cen-
tral line, which should extend to the base of the
Pyrenees, thus opening a way to Saragossa and
the central parts of Spain.
Finally, the western line would be directed upon
Rouen, with branches to Havre and Dieppe ; thus
completing the system of communication with the
ports of the Channel and the Atlantic. ſº
Such were the lines designed to issue from Paris
as a centre. It was determined to complete the
great communication of the cºuntry by two main
lines proceeding from Marseilles, one leading to
the Atlantic at Bordeaux, and the other communiº
cating by Lyons with Switzerland, Alsace, and
Northern Germany; and running into the eastern
line from Paris, at Dijon. tº , º,
By the line from Marseilles to Bordeaux, it is
intended to join the Mediterranean with the Atlaſ:
tic, to put in close connection the twº chief ports
of France, and to aid in restoring to Bordeaux its
former importance. This line will throw out two
branches ºn Tarbos and Perpignan, by which the
communications with Spain will be completed.
By the line proceeding from Marseillºs.” the
east, it is intended to supply a means of internal
transport for the commerce of the Levant; which
has been hitherto supplied to .Purºpe chiefly
through the port of Marseilles. The line of rail-
way from Vienna to Trieste, carried, as it will be,
through the heart of the German States, and
having unbroken communication with the Baltic
and the Northern seas, threatens to diſºrt the
Levant trade from Marseilles to Trieste. The line
to which we now advert is designed to avert this
loss. *
such is the system of railway communication
which has been projected in France. Let us now
see what progress has been made in its realization.
It appears by a statement published by M. Teis-
serenc a member of the Superior, Railway Com-
mission, and which may be cºnsidered as having
an official character, that at the end of 1844, the
total length of the railways, open tº the public, in
progress of construction, and projected and recog-
nized by the legislature, but not commenced was
as follows:
Miles.
Open for commerce, 537
In progress of construction, 1837
Planned, 961
ºmmºmºmº
Total length of the contemplated system, 3335
The total amount of capital absorbed by the 535
miles then open, was £11,464,000. The average
capital per mile was, therefore, £21,348. As-
suming that the remainder of the system will be
constructed at the same rate, which will probably
be the case, the total amount of capital invested
will be £71,195,580. Since the end of 1844,
nearly 300 miles more have been opened for traffic ;
and it is expected that at the end of the present
year, 1846, the total length of French railways
open for commerce will be nearly 1000 miles.
To find the general financial averages resulting
from the operation of the French railways, we have
taken four hundred miles of those which have been
used a sufficient time to afford annual returns; and
the results are as follows:
Per mile.
Total cost of construction and material, .621,400
Gross annual receipts, 2,114
Annual expenses, 1,106
Annual net profit, 1,008
Taking these amounts in proportion to the capi-
tal sunk, and to each other, we find :—
Annual receipts, 10 per cent. of capital sunk,
Annual expenses, 52 per cent. of receipts,
Annual profits, 48 per cent. of receipts,
Profits, 41ſo per cent. of capital.
It appears, therefore, that the average net profits -
on the capital invested, is about 43 per cent., and
that a little more than half the gross receipts go to
defray the current expenses of the lines.
In comparing these conclusions with the current
returns of particular lines, it is necessary not onl
to remember that they are average results, but that
the financial condition of each line fluctuates from
year to year. Generally, the best lines give im-
proving returns.
When the entire system, as designed by the state,
has been completed, the following results must
ensue, in order that the capital to be invested may
produce a net 5 per cent. annual profit:
Capital invested in 3335 miles, at
, £21,348 per mile, :C71,195,580
Gross annual receipts, 7,416,207
ross annual expenses, 2,856,424
Net annual profits, 2,559,783
The population of France being thirty-four mil-
lions, this will require an annual expenditure of
:C218,000 on railway transport, for every million
of inhabitants. • . . ~
The legislature has fixed the major limit of the
fares chargeable to passengers as follows:
... Tenths of a penny
1st class, per passenger per mile, 16
2nd 12
3d 8+,
The companies are, obliged by law to supply
covered carriages, with curtains at the windows,
for third class passengers. These carriages are
decidedly superior, in convenience and comfort, to
the second class carriages on the British railways.
Taking the returns of the traffic of the principal
lines now in operation, we find that the average
º
*::::
510
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD,
sum received from each passenger is 30d. Now,
if we take the average fare per head per mile, at
twelve tenths of a penny, we shall find that the
average distance which each passenger travels is
twenty-five miles. Short passenger traffic is,
therefore, the main source of the railway revenue
here, as elsewhere.
The proximity of Belgium and France has
necessarily rendered the British public more or
less familiar with the extent of the system of rail-
ways already in operation in these states. Few,
however, have any distinct notion of the advance-
ment of railway transport in the other states of
Europe; and still fewer, of the vast system which
is designed to be executed by the Germanic state ;
—of which a very considerable part is already in a
forward state of cónstruction. Although these
states are united by community of manners, race,
and language, yet, being under different sovereigns,
and subject to different administrations, they have
not proceeded with this great improvement, with
that unity of design which has marked the proceed-
ings in France. Each government has acted for
itself independently of the others. . Nevertheless,
partly from the physical character of the countries,
and partly from the distribution of the population
and seats of industry, and a consequent harmony of
interests, these separate and independent measures
have of themselves assumed a considerable uni-
formity of plan; and the Germanic states will cre
long be overspread by one of the most magnificent
systems of interior communication of which Europe
can afford any éxample.
The Austrian system consists of what may be
called four great arteries or lines, which meet at
Vienna; and from thence proceed north, south,
east, and west. The southern line, passing through
Gratz and Laybach, terminates at Trieste. The
northern directs its course by Prague, on the fron-
tiers of Saxony—throwing off a branch to form a
union by Olmutz with the great line through Prus-
sian Silesia. These two lines, running north and
south, are destined to form part of a more exten-
sive meridional line, by which the Adriatic will be
united with the northern seas. The two arteries
which run east and west will connect Vienna with
the confines of Hungary, by Pesth and Debreczin,
and with Munich, by Lintz. By these a profitable
communication will be opened with those rich and
hitherto inaccessible tracts of eastern Europe inter-
sected by the valley of the Danube—possessing
vast pasturages, regions, fertile in wheat, maize,
and rice, flourishing plantations of hemp and
tobacco, and extensive vineyards.
Nor has Austria neglected to extend similar
improvements to her Italian possessions. A line
of railway, measuring nearly twº hundred miles,
will traverse the Lombardo-Venetian territory, con-
necting Venice with Milan, and communicating by
casy team navigation with the tººlinus of the
great northern and southern line at Trieste. That
the Austrian government may have been moved to
confer this great benefit on northern Italy by other
motives than those of a desire to promºte the well-
being of its people, is very possible; but, be this
as it may, results greatly beneficial to them must
CnSilê.
We here annex a view, taken from recent docu-
ments, of the actual state of the railways within
the Austrian dominions:
Completed
Total and open for
length. commerce.
Miles. Milcs.
Vienna to Trieste, (finished to Gratz,) 335 148
Northern Line, 497 190
Vienna to frontier of Bavaria, 194 16
Eastern Line, 311 84
Venice to Milan, 190 19
Vienna to Tirnan by Presburg, 51 51
Grunden to Prague by Lintz and
Budweis, 286 156
Budweis to Prague, '71 —
Total, 1935 664
In the system of railways projected by Prussia
is apparent the combined views suggested by the
military traditions of its former sovereigns, and th9
commercial spirit of northern Germany, of which it
is the centre. To throw its distant provinces, bor:
dering on the constitutional states of Belgium an
France, in more immediate relation with the cen:
tral government, lines issuing from Berlin will rest
upon the Rhine at Cologne and Frankfort-on-ther
Maine; the one communicating with the net-work
of Belgian lines, by the railway to Aix-la-Chapelle,
and the other with the French lines by the railway
of the Taurus. The former is completed, with the
exception of the line between Cologne and Minden.
Another main line issues from Berlin eastwards,
directed towards Russia and the Polish provinces,
by Frankfort-on-the-Oder, Posen, Dantzic, and
onigsberg. This line is in a forward state of
progress.
There are three other lines partially or totally
executed. Two proceed from j to Hamburg
and Stettin respectively, and the third will put the
capital in immediate communication with Silesia,
and unite with the great northern Austrian line
already mentioned. It is in this way that the
continuous communication between the Mediter
ranean and the North Sea and the Baltic will be
completed.
Length
Total open for
length. traffic-
Miles, . Miles.
Berlin to Stettin, 89 89
“ to frontier of Saxony, 94 94
“ to Austrian frontier by Frank-
fort and Breslau, 323 240
Breslau to Saxon frontier, 66 25
“. . to Fribourg, 36 36
Berlin to Potsdam and Magdeburg, 80 15
“ to Hamburg, 174 -
Leipsic to frontier of Brunswick, 110 110
Cologne to Belgian frontier, 54 54
“ to Bonn, 20 20
Dusseldorf to Elberficlă, 17 17
Total, T063 701
Besides these, which are already planned and ſº
actual progress, there are several other lines º
contemplation by the Prussian government. Among
them may be mentioned a more direct line fº
Berlin to Dresden, by Tüterbogt and Riesa ; the
line from Cologne to Minden, and the line foº
Lippstadt to Cassel.
We have lately seen the traffic returns, and
other accounts, to 31st December, 1845, of cleven
principal Prussian lines, which were open throug
but that year—the total length of which is 99.
miles. he total cost of constructing these has
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
511
been £5,640,000, being at the rate of £9400 per
mile. The gross receipts for passengers, Was
:C306,570, and for merchandise, .6179,980. The
number of passengers booked was 4,006,814.
The amount, therefore, received per passager WàS
196. Thus, the average distance travelled by each
passenger does not exceed twenty miles—showing
again that short fares are the main source of rail-
way revenue. The quantity of merchandise trans.
ported was 475,000 tons, for which £17,980 were
aid; being at the average rate of 7s 6d. per tº:
Taking the average rate of the traffic at 93d. ..
ton per mile, this would show that the averageº,
uncº to which the goods have been transpºrted
was thirty-six miles. The expense of working
these lines was £285,000, which, deducted from
the gross receipts, left a net profit of £201,550,
giving a dividend of 5% per cent on. the capital;
a portion of the expense of constructing the lines
was defrayed by loans obtained at 4 per cent;
The Bavarian system of railways consists of
three great trunk, lines, which intersect the king-
dom in different directions. The first rests at one
extremity on the Lake of Constance, at Lindau;
and at the other, unites with the Prusso-Saxon sys-
tem at Hof-traversing in its course, Augsburg,
Donauworth, Nuremberg, and Bamberg. A great
i. of this line is open for traffic. The second
ine crosses the kingdom east and west; joining,
on the one side, the railways of Wirtemberg and
Baden, and on the other, those of Austria. The
third great line issues from Bamberg to Frankfort-
on-the-Maine, where it unites with the numerous
systems centring there.
Of this system of lines, the total & 573 miles.
length is,
Length of the part open for com-
merce,
The enlightened zeal of the present monarch of
Bavaria for every improvement which tends to
advance the arts and civilization, is well known:
He appropriates each year, to the constructiºn of
this system of railways, a considerable revenue
saved from his privy purse, and the public revenues
of his kingdom. º a .
The measures adopted by the more considerable
of the Germanic states for the establishment ºf
improved means of internal commerce, necessarily
gave a corresponding impulse in the Saſſº direction
to the smaller ones. Saxony and Hesse have
undertaken the continuation of the great northern
Bavarian railway from Hof to Leipsic, and of the
Austrian fine from Breslau to Leipsic by Presden.
Lines are also in progress connecting Dresden,
Gorlitz, Chemnitz, Riesa, Bamberg, and £iseºgh:
also Dresden with Prague, Cassel with Frankfort-
on-the-Maine, Lippstadt, and Hanºver. These
small states have planned above a thousand miles
of railway; more than one fourth of which is com-
pleted, and open for commerce. –
The smaller northern states—Hanover, Bruns.
wick, Mechlinburg, and the Hanse Towns—have
not been backward in contributing their quota to
this was work. By a law passed by the Legisla-
tive Chamber of Hanover in 1842, the construction
of a system of railways in that state was decided
on. The mainline is to run east and west, connect-
ing Hanover with Brunswick, Magdeburg, and
finden. Another is directed northwards upon
Hamburg by Lünebourg, and Zell; another north-
west on Bremen, and a short line to unite with the
Cassel railway. These lines are all in a state of
: 159 miles.
advancement, and considerable parts are already
open for commerce.
In the Duchy of Brunswick, with a population not
greater than an eighth of that of the British metrop-
olis, there are already seventy-five miles of railway
completed, or nearly so. The Duchy of Mechlin-
burg is traversed by the main line of railway from
Berlin to Hamburg, and by a branch connecting
Weimar with Berlin by Schwena and Boëtzenburg.
The Hanse Towns form a common centre for
most of these lines; and in immediate connexion
with them is the important line from Altona to
Keil, with branches on Sleswig and Tonningen.
The total length of railways projected in these
smaller states is 700 miles; of which about one third
is ºpen for traffic.
To complete this view of the German railways,
it remains to notice those of Baden, Wirtemburg,
and the free city of Frankfort. The great Baden
line runs parallel with the Rhine—forming the
continuation of the line from Cassel through Frank-
fort and Darmstadt. This line, which terminates
at Bâle, passing through all the chief towns trav-
ersed by the Berg Strass, and lying between the
Rhine and the Black Forest, is open for traffic
throughout nearly its entire extent. Its object is
to facilitate the communications of Germany with
Switzerland and Italy. Another line, traversing
Wirtemburg from south to north, issues from
Frederickshofen on the Lake of Constance—meets
the Austro-Bavarian line at Ulm, and, passing
through Stuttgard, terminates at Heidelburg, where
it unites with the great Baden railway. Thus will
be united Vienna, Munich, and Stuttgard, the
three capitals of southern Germany, while a simi-
lar chain of lines unites Berlin, Warsaw, Dresden,
Hamburg, and the other capitals of the north.
The total length of railways projected by Baden,
Wirtemburg, and Frankfort, is 500 miler, of which
above 200 are completed.
According to the work of Baron Von Reden, to
which we are indebted for much valuable informa-
tion concerning the railways of his country, the en-
tire system of Germanic lines, when completed,
Will consist of 1600 German miles, equal to 7600
British miles, of railway. At the close of 1845,
the part of this open for traffic was 4760 miles.
When the system shall have been completed, one
third will have been constructed by the state, and
two thirds by companies under the authority of,
and subject to, the control of the state. The total
amount of capital absorbed by this great undertak-
ing, will be £74,703,600, being very nearly at
the rate of £10,000 per running mile. The aver-
age cost of the part already constructed has been
very little above £8000 per running mile.
The low cost of construction, as compared with
the railways of France and England, is due, in a
great measure, to the low price of the land, and
the inferior rate, generally, of the wages of com-
mon labor. On the other hand, however, the
German states have to struggle with peculiar disad-
vantages. The country, in many places, has pre-
sented formidable engineering, difficulties. The
rails and road materials generally, as well as the
machinery and the mechanicians, have to be import-
ed from England and Belgium, and even from the
United States of America. And the favorable
circumstance of cheap hand-labor has been, in
some degree, done, away by the demand for it,
created by the railways º: In 1844,
eight millions of laborers were employed on the
German railways ; and their wages had then risen
512
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
thirty-three per cent. Still the works proceed with
speed and activity: º
A movement affecting in so many important re-
spects the social condition and commercial relations
of states, could not take place among those to which
we have adverted, without being shared more or
less by the other countries of Europe. Russian
Denmark, Holland, Switzerland, the Italian States,
and even the Peninsula, have shown signs of their
consciousness of the expediency of some similar
undertakings. Several of them have already taken
active measures in the construction of lines through
their respective territories; and those which have
not gone so far have caused surveys to be made,
and other preliminary steps to be taken. Sweden
stands alone quiescent among the nations of Eu-
IOI)63,
*he system of Russian railways projected, and
in progress of construction, consists of four princi-
pal lines. The first will be carried from St Peters-
burg to Warsaw, and thence to Cracow, where it
will unite with the northern chain of German lines;
thus opening a continuous communication with all
the chief cities of central Europe. Of this line, a
large part of the section between Warsaw and Cra-
cow is completed, and the remainder in a forward
state of progress. The sccond line will connect
Petersburg with Moscow : this is nearly completed.
The third line will be the continuation of the Austro-
Hungarian line to Odessa. The fourth line, intended
for goods only, will connect the Volga, and the
Duna. The total length of this system of railways
will be sixteen hundred miles.
The example of Belgium necessarily attracted
the attention of Holland to the subject of railway
communication, and suggested the policy of at least
attempting to share that German traffic which was
established between the northern country and the
sea, by the Belgian and Prussian chain of railways.
The Dutch chambers were not, however, as keenly
sensible of these advantages as the sovereign, and
declined to give the desired legislative encourage-
ment to such enterprises. Under these circum-
stances, William I, gave his personal guaranty to
a company which undertook the line from Amster-
dam to Rotterdam; which was opened in successive
sections to Harlem in 1839, to Leyden in 1842, to
the Hague in 1843, and to Rotterdam in 1844. The
length of this line is fifty-three miles, and is laid
- down for a double line of rails; one line, however,
being only laid for the present. The cost of the
line (with two lines of rails) will be little more
than £5000 per mile, exclusive of the stock. This
low cost is owing to the easy nature of the ground,
which requires no engineering works of any con-
siderable cost.
The line from Amsterdam to the frontier of Prus-
sia is completed, and opened º. far as Arnheim, a
distance of fifty-eight miles. This was constructed
by the state, but afterwards leased to an Anglo-
Dutch company. The capital invested being
£800,000, the cost is £15,000 per mile. , Privi-
leges have been granted to companies for the con-
struction of various other lines.
In a late session of the second chamber of the
States-General, the minister of the interior announced
the approaching execution, through the instru-
mentality of private companies, of # a complete
system of railways; surveyed and laid out under
the immediate superintendence of the government
—the total capital to be invested in which would
amount to from six to seven millions sterling.
Passing over the Italian States and Portugal,
where little has yet been done in railway under:
takings, we shall only add, as to Spain, that if
behind other European powers in the improvement
of inland transport at home, she has not been 80
supine fl her colonies. A railway, forty-five miles
in length, was constructed across the most fertile
part of the beautiful island of Cuba, so º as
1838, and has since been in constant use. It is
difficult to convey any adequate impression of the
effects produced on the mind of the traveller as he
is carried over this natural garden, in a way so lit’
tle to be expected, amid such scenery. Emerging
from the Tacon suburbs of the Havana, he traverses
fields of pine-apples, bordered by hedgerows bend;
ing under the burden of the ripe orange, and
sprinkled at intervals with the banana, the plantain,
and the cocoa-tree. These are alternated with
sugar plantations and tobacco. Through this
scene, redolent of the tropics, and calling up the
historic recollections of Columbus and his adventur-
ous companions, he is whirled at the rate of twenty
miles an hour, by machines bearing the name of a
Manchester manufacturer, impelled by fuel from
Lancashire, and worked by an engineer from New-
castle-on-Tyne : The swarthy African, as the
strange apparition passes him, pauses from his
toil, and gazes at it with a wonder which time and
custom can hardly abate.
The advantages which railway transit presents
on the score of expedition, economy, and certainty,
have, in the estimation of a considerable portion of
the public, not only in England but elsewhere;
been regarded as subject to a serious drawback and
qualification, in consequence of the terrible charac-
ter of the accidents which have from time to time
occurred. The circumstantial details of cases,
circulated in highly-colored accounts by the daily
press, are certainly calculated to raise much appre-
hension. We shall now, therefore, lay before the
public such data of a well-ascertained nature, as
may enable every one endowed with common sense
and reflection, to decide on the actual nature and
degree of danger to which he exposes his person
when he makes a journey by railway convey-
&lm Cē,
By the official reports of the Belgian railways
we find that 6,609,215 passengers travelled on these
lines between 1835 and 1839. Of this number
fifteen were killed and sixteen wounded by railway
accidents. But of these numbers twenty-six were
persons employed on the road or in working the
trains. Only three passengers were killed and two
wounded. The chances of the death of a passenger
from railway accident were therefore 1 to 2,203,”
215. In 1842, the number of passengers was
2,716,755. Of these three only were killed, one
of whom was a suicide, and the other two me!
their deaths by crossing the line.
On the French lines, the deaths from accident;
have been still more rare. According to an officia
return for the first six months of 1843, upon th9
six lines which issued from the capital, of which
the total length was 212 miles, the circulation hº
amounted to 18,446 trains, which transporte
1,889,718 passengers. The distance travelled ºve.
was 316,915 miles. No traveller was either kille
or wounded. Only three agents of the railway
suffered. —º
It may not be uninteresting to put in juxtapº.
tion with this, the returns of accidents produced by
ordinary horse coaches, travelling in Paris and it”
cnvirons
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
513
Year. Killed. Wounded.
1834 4 134
1835 12 214
1836 5 220
1837 11 361
1838 19 366
1839 9 384
1840 14 394
Total y 74 2073 #
Qn the English railways, of which the extent
*d traffic are much greater, the absolute number
°f accidents fatal or injurious must of course be
$xpected to be more numerous. But we shall find,
y referring to the parliamentary returns, that the
*ctual amount of danger to life or limb, on Eng-
lish railways, is quite insignificant. We take the
gllowing statement from the last return of the
Railway Department to parliament:
*—-
Number of Fºn's b'rl ºr Proportion of the
Num- Injured. º: Total f". . of per-
Years ber of Kill Injur- | of rail- *::::: º: sons initured tº:
* | *lºſ: l = * *
dents. ed. º Total. *: * ried. the º er
ly. - &
1840. Tº ||22 131 || 153 130 Tº I in 39,410
(5 ins.) |
§ 29 24 | 73 || 3 | 15330449,754 in .213,018
§2. ſo | Tă i3 is i77;|37.35344; iii 1.jā’īš
§3. 5 || 3 || 3 || 6 || izāsīſīššº,525 i in 436%;
#4. || 3 || 1 || 7 | g igſ: 3,363 dº i in "3.6%
1845. ià | 3 || 36|| 3 | 3išilišººl ii., §§ 7
It appears, therefore, that the chance in favor of
the safety of travellers who conduct themselves
with ordinary prudence, is half a million to one.
It may perhaps be asked, what is the kind or de-
gree of prudence or caution expected from railway
travellers, as more especially necessary to their
security t We answer, as the result of rather large
experience of railway travelling in nearly every
part of the globe, that the best general rule is to
eep your place in the carriage, if possible, to the end of
your journey; never getting out and in at stations,
*cept when indispensably necessary. *
mong the numerous questions which have
ºrisen out of the conflicting interests, engaged in
ilway speculations in England, there is one which
emands some notice, were it only on account of
* extraordinary extent to which it has lately.º.
grossed public attention. Nothing can more strik-
ºgly demonstrate the profound and general interest
ºlt in everything connected with railways than the
itterness which has marked a contest, in which
ispassionate and disinterested parties would find it
iſficult to discover any ground for a reasonable
oubt as to the proper decision to be come to:
e have seen that there were in operation, at
!he close of last year, about 2100 miles of railway.
* the construction of 1860 miles of these, the space
ºtween the rails was fixed, in accordance with that
opted in the earlier lines, at 56% inches; an uni-
9tmity rendered necessary in order to enable en-
§nes and carriages freely to pass from line to line
roughout the country. A line called the Great
estern had been laid down through a certain
*act of the country, with an exceptional width (or
. §ºuge as it has been called) of 84 inches; and
ºn this line misjuently branches were extend.
having, of necessity, the same gauge. It was,
of Course, evident from the beginning, that this sys-
em of exceptional lines, now amounting to 240
miles, by the adoption of a different gauge, disso-
**ted itself from all other British railways; the
"merce of which could never flow into it, nor
could they receive from it any commerce except by
transshipment. It was said at the time, by the
superintending engineer of these lines, that the
departure from the ordinary gauge was “undoubt-
edly an inconvenience. It amounts to a prohibition
to almost any railway running northward from Lon.
don; as they must all, more or less, depend for
their supply on other lines or districts where rail.
ways already exist, and with which they must hope
to be connected. In such cases there is no alter.
native. The Great Western Railway, however,
broke ground in an entirely new district in which
railways were unknown. * * * It can have
no connexion, with any other of the main lines;
and the principal branches were well considered,
and almost formed part of the original plan; nor
ºan these be dependent on any other existing lines,
for the traffic which they will bring to the main
trunk.”%
The commercial isolation of this exceptional sys-
tem was, therefore, contemplated by the engineer
and directors, and consequently no inconvenience to
themselves or the public was feared. Indeed none,
in that case, wº have ensued. But in the event,
the development of railway transport far transcended
the anticipations of the engineer and directors of
the exceptional gauge, as well as all the rest of
the world; and, contrary to their expectations, the
ramifications of the general gauge have already
come into contact with those of the exceptional
gauge ; and experience has proved Mr. Brunel to
have fallen into a serious error, when-he declared,
so explicitly, that the exceptional system could
never derive its traffic from the general lines of the
country. One point of contact has been produced,
and a line of others must ensue. The question
then arises, what is to be done?
The narrow strip of England, extending west-
ward from London towards Bristol and Exeter,
where the exceptional system of railways now pre-
vails, is about to be insulated from the remainder
of the country, north and south. It will be, so far
as regards railway communication, as though it
were separated from the rest of the kingdom by a
ivºr, toº...wide and too deep to be crossed by a
bridge. The commerce between it and the districts
nºrth and south must be conveyed by ferries at each
Point, on the banks of this river, where the rail-
Wºys respectively abut. Passengers arriving on
either side must leave their carriages, taking with
them their impedimenta, great and small—such as
great-coats, umbrellas, parasols, and carpet-bags.
And all this must happen night and day, in fair
Weather and in ſoul. The wife and children must,
“qually in the pelting storm, and in the darkness of
night, bustle their way through the mud from the
9ne train to the other. The trains of merchandise
must all be unloaded and unpacked on one side,
and reloaded and repacked on the other; to the
loss and damage of the owners, and delay and cost
of transit; for some one must pay for all this labor,
and who that some one shall be, it is not difficult
to tell. Regiments of porters must be maintained
at these limits of the region of the exceptional
gauge; and must be relieved by relays from time to
time, for the work will be incessant night and day.
And this is to be going on perpetually through the
year, and from year to year, as long as railways
shall endure, along a boundary line running on both
sides parallel to a main railway,200 miles long !
* Report of J. K. Brunel to directors of Great Western
Railway. 1838.
514 RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
But it may be asked, whether there there is no
countervailing advantage to set off against this in-
tolerable evil! A long and expensive inquest has
been held on the matter by the queen's commission-
ers, duly appointed, and a ponderous mass of evi-
dence has been collected. The result is, that
either the ordinary or the exceptional system of
railway aſfords all the safety, comfort, regularity,
and speed which the public can possibly desire;
that they both have ample power and capacity to
satisfy all the wants of commerce which either exist
or can be reasonably anticipated. The partisans of
each system contend for relative superiorities in
various respects; but the differences claimed are so
minute as to be discoverable only by those pledged
to the success of the one system or the other; and
arc such as cannot, in the remotest degree, interest
the public. -
The magnitude of the nuisance, then, being ad-
mitted on all hands, and the utter impracticability of
all expedients suggested for its abatement, nothing
remains but to remove it; either by replacing the
general gauge of the country by the exceptional
gauge, (which would render necessary the enlarge-
ment of all bridges, viaducts, tunnels, embank-
ments, and cuttings, and a reconstruction of the
stations and depots,) or to bring the rails on the
240 miles of exceptional lines closer together, and
modify the carriages and engines accordingly. The
former measure is of course out of the question, but
the latter could be accomplished, without interrup-
tion to the traffic, at a cost of something less than a
million sterling.”
It is contended, however, that the exceptional
lines having been constructed under the sanction
of an act of parliament, the shareholders could not
with justice be required to subject themselves to
such an expense for the common good; that still
less could the shareholders of other lines be so
required. We are not disposed, nor will our limits
allow us, to discuss this question of vested rights.
But it appears to us very evident, that the British
public cannot, and ought not to suffer itself to be made
the victims of this nuisance; and that if the ex-
pense of its abatement can be obtained, consistently
with justice, from no other quarter, it must come
from the public treasury.
When the earlier railway bills passed the legis-
lature, the privileges and rights contemplated, as
well by the companies as by parliament, were
merely those necessary to enable them to construct
and maintain a road, which was to be open to all
who might desire to use it, on the payment of a cer-
tain tolſ to the company. In fact, at that time, a
* The question of the relative merits of the two gauges,
involving many complicated points of practical engineer.
ing, is one upon which all that part of the world beyond
the immediate profession of civil engineers, can only
judge by the weight of authority on the one side and the
other among the members of the profession itself. Per-
haps there never was a question on Which so little real
practical difference of opinion prevailed. Nearly the en-
tire profession of England are in ſºvor of the 'ordinary
gauge. A few, were it all to do again, would have adopt-
ed a somewhat wider, but not the exceptional gauge.
13ut none would now think of disturbing the uniformit
which all agree to be of paramount necessity; The engi.
neering profession of France, Belgium, and the Germanic
States, and other countries of Europe, and that of Ameri.
ca, have adopted the ordinary gauge, (56%, inches,)
although they were free to have sclected a wider one.
Thus, so far as regards engineering authority, we have in
one scale the entire engineering profession, in every
country in the world; and, in the other, the solitary indi-
vidual authority of Mr. Brunel.
railway presented no condition or features to dis’
tinguish it essentially from any other highwº.
But simultaneously with the construction of thº'
roads, the invention and improvement of tº
machinery for transport on them, made advancº,
The locomotive engine broke its shell and emerg"
in its incipient form. Its growth was rapid ".
precocious. The vehicles which it drew, and *
which the business of transport was executed, wº
novel. In a word, a system of carrying mechani.
of an entirely new structure, was produced. Tº
mechanism was made for the railway, and the ra',
way was made for it. The system had unity º
connexion. It was impossible to separate it; *
the carrying business could only be conducted by
those who had the direction and management "
the railway. The companies, therefore, fou"
themselves—by a necessity arising from the very
nature of things, and whether they liked it or *
—carriers as well as road-owners. Not only wº
this the case, but they were necessarily the only
carriers. It was impossible even to imagine !
public bringing their private engines and priº.
carriages on the road. A colossal monopoly, neº
contemplated by parliament, nor even forescen by
the companies themselves, had come into being.
The moment that it became apparent, in the
#. results of the operation of railways 1ſ]
2ngland, that these lines of communication mº
displace, in a great degree, if not altogether, the
public highways, as well for the conveyance ".
passengers as for the transport of merchandiº
was perceived, in other countries, that the right .
the state over all high-roads, must be equº.
asserted over the new ways of intercommunicati"
which were about to be substituted for them. B.
further and more stringent power was everywhº
claimed, as the consequence of the inevitable es!”
lishment of the monopoly of transport on theş0
roads. The state must either assume that monº'.
oly itself, as it does universally in regard, tº ".
conveyance of the correspondence of the public;
if it were conferred on private bodies, it mus.
under rigorously prescribed conditions and for liº.
ited periods. Such were the broad general princi
ples assumed, admitted, and acted upon, in 97%
country of the world–Great Britain alone *
cepted. # 40
In some cases, it was the policy of the statº h9
reserve to itself not only the construction but
maintenance and working of the principal railw.
An obvious advantage attended this. º: it sceſſ,d;
expedient to the legislature, the transport of gº".
and persons might be used as a source of resen.
as the conveyance of correspondence generally hº
Or, if the state were guided by a different pol”*
and considered facility of intercommunicatº".
advantage paramount to revenue, it could ſix t
tariſſ so that the net produce would merely pº ri
expense of the transport. Thus, as Englands”
ficed a proportion of her revenue for the publi.
vantage of a penny postage, other countries º,
consider it good to establish a system of ".
travelling. The indirect advantages to the .
chequer might more than balance the revenue .
Belgium acted on this principle with conſ' In’
success. All the principal railways in tha. ig
try are in the hands of the state ; and the tº in’
so regulated as to produce about four per ce. of
terest, on the capital invested in the construct”
the lines. # king
..In cases where the state decides against Wºº .
the railways, it sometimes, wholly or partially, *
RAILWAYS AT HOME AND ABROAD.
415
structs them; and then lets them for a term of
bars, to a company who pays a premium for the
Çase, and completes the lines at its own charge, if
they are unfinished. In these leases, there are
Various clauses restricting the powers of the com-
Pany—reserving a right of revision to the state,
King the major limit of the fares, the conditions on
which the state can cancel the lease, and the terms
on which the line is to be surrendered by the com-
Pany at its termination.
n Austria, the railways were, in the first in-
*tance, conceded to companies on leases for fifty
years. But, subsequently, the government recov-
"red by purchase the roads, and now for the most
Part the railways are under the control and manage-
ment of the state.
In Prussia, the construction and management of
railways are conceded to companies, subject to the
tº: the state. . The tariff is subject to a re-
Vision by the government, and the profits are not in
ºpy case to be allowed to exceed ten per cent.
he companies submit their accounts annually to
the minister; and when, by a sinking fund estab-
ished on prescribed conditions, the capital has been
replaced, the tariff is to be so modified that the
Hºſt shall not exceed the cxpenses of working the
lnes,
In Bavaria, the lines are leased to companies for
* term of years, the tariff being revised by the state
*nnually, for the first three years after the opening
ºf each line, and subsequently every third year.
rivileges are in some cases conceded to compa-
ºles—such as exemption from, or reduction of, the
*Import duties for materials, and gratuitous occupa-
tion of the state lands. In some cases the state
evels the ground at its own charge; in others, it
executes the earth-works. ... In fine, the establish-
ment of railways is generally a matter of bargain
etween the state and the company. . The latter
receives a lease for a term of years, for which it
Pays a certain premium. This premium is ex-
pended in the total or partial construction of the
foad. It submits to certain clauses authorizing the
interference of the state with its tariff; and at the
°xpiration of the lease, receives a fair value for its
. of moving power and machinery for trans-
Ort.
In France, the system of railways, with a few
*xceptions, has been planned, and in many cases
°onstructed, by the government, through the inter-
Mºntion of the department des ponts et chaussées.
ltimately the line is offered to competition by the
inister of public works, who names the major
limits of the duration of the iease, and rate of the
Šariff. The company or individual who, comply:
ºng with the other conditions, offers in sealed
ºals to accept the shortest lease, obtains the
ant.
Before the successful establishment of some of
!he earlier passenger lines, the French government
ound it necessary to extend some further induce-
ºnents to attract capital to these enterprises: Thus,
º the cases of the lines from Paris to St. Germain,
ersailles, Rouen, and Orleans, leases of ninety-
the years were granted. Since, however, the re-
"ults of these first lines have become known, and
**pital has been elsewhere more generally attract-
to railway enterprises, the state has, effected
uch more advantageous bargains. The great
"ºrthern line to Brussels has been taken on a lease
thirty-eight years; the Orleans and Bordeaux
§ a lease of twenty-eight years; the line from
9urs to Nantes on a lease for thirty-four years.
Of the entire system of French lines, there are not
more than one hundred and twenty miles granted
in perpetuity ; and these are chiefly coal and
mineral railways—established long before lines
for passengers and general traffic were contem-
plated. sº
In the United States, the state governments have
generally, reserved, in one form or another, a right
of control over railways. In some cases, they are
themselves the chief shareholders; in some, they
have lent to the companies capital at a low rate of
interest; in some they have given the guarantee
of the state for the capital raised. In all such
cases, the right of control is admitted. In some
cases, the dividends are limited to ten per cent.,
the legal interest money being six or seven per
cent. In some cases there is reserved a right of
revision of the fares every four years. In some of
the principal states—New York, Pennsylvania, and
Virginia, for example—the charters of the compa-
nies contain a clause investing the legislature with
an absolute right at any time of modifying them.
Subject to such conditions, the railway charters in
Some states are not limited in duration; but in the
principal states the duration varies from fifty to
one hundred years.
By the system so wisely pursued in France, and
most other countries, the advantages arising from
private enterprise are combined with sufficient se-
curity for the public, against the abuse of the pow-
ers intrusted to railway companies. Not only is a
general power of supervision and control reserved;
but the tenure of the companies being limited in
duration, the entire internal communications of the
country must revert to the state after a certain pe-
riod. Thus, at the expiration ºf forty years, all
the chief railways of France will be in the hands
of the government; and in about ninety years, pri-
vate companies will cease to exist—unless such
as the government may think fit to re-constitute.
It thus appears, that England is the only coun-
tºy in the world whose legislature has committed
the singular imprudence, of surrendering, without
available conditions, and for an indefinite time, its
public communications into private hands. That
such monopolies can continue to exercise the pow-
* granted to them, without the abuses to which
all monopolies have been obnoxious, is not to be
$onceived. There are already tendencies mani-
fested to struggle for the private objects of these
bodies, against the fair claims and interests of the
public. The railway companies, as they first ac-
quired their rights of incorporation, were numer-
9ts. Each line was a separate property, and ruled
by a separate board of directors. Although it ap-
Pears that no such thing as a competing line is
Practicable, yet in this multitude of lines, there
might be expected something approaching to com-
petition ; many small monopolies, it might be
hoped, would check each other. The practice of
amalgamation and combination, which has begun
already to prevaiſ so extensively, must, however,
dispel these hopes. The lesser companies are sev.
erally gravitating towards, and coalescing with the
greater bodies; and instead of a great number of
small monopolies, in which the system commenced,
it is now tending towards a small number of great
monopolies, in which it must ultimately termi-
Ilate.
The indisputable existence of these monopolies,
and the liability of the abuse of their powers to the
prejudice of the public, necessarily seems to infer
the assumption of a corresponding control on the
416
RAILWAYS AT HOMIES AND ABROAD.
part of the legislature; for to suppose the indefi-
nite continuance of an arbitrary power over the
personal and commercial communications of the
country, exempt alike from the operation of com-
petition and legislative control, is an absurdity too
palpable to be, by any one, seriously asserted.
. It may, however, be contended that no case for
interference has yet arisen, and that, when it oc-
curs, it will be time enough to provide for it. But
is it not certain, that measures have been already
taken to neutralize the competition of the canals in
the transport of merchandise It was proved be-
fore Mr. Morrison’s committee, that some of the
companies have already succeeded in getting pos-
session of portions of canals, on which they have
raised the tolls to their parliamentary limit; there-
by paralyzing the business of the entire line, and
driving the traffic to the railway, on its own terms.
It is proved also, that in order to evade the provis-
ions, few and ineffectual as they are, which the
legislature has made to check the evils of their mo-
nopoly, the larger and more powerful companies
have created fictitious shares in enormous numbers,
so as to make their capital appear larger, and their
profits consequently smaller, and thus to exclude
parliamentary interference, in the only case in
which it was contemplated.
It may be said, that as parliament has established
limits to the tariſſ of railway traffic, so long as the
companies keep within these, they should be subject
to no interference. To this, however, it may be
answered, that when these limits were fixed, the
legislature had no sufficient data by which an equi-
table amount could be established. Can it for a mo-
ment be maintained, that if, by any new inventions,
railways could be constructed by the expenditure
of half the capital sunk on those now open, and
worked at half the present current expense, the
public would not have right to demand a propor-
tionate reduction in the carrying tariff! .
“If a new line could in any case be constructed
for half the expense of an existing line, or, sup-
posing the expense to be the same, if it were con-
structed by parties who would be satisfied with a
dividend of five instead of ten per cent., parliament
is bound to sanction the new line, unless the com-
pany make a corresponding reduction in the fares
on the present line. One or other of these results
must take place; for if the principle be true, that
capital will force its way into those employments
which yield more than the ordinary rate of profit,
it will be impossible to maintain the monopoly and
the high charges of the old companies.” “
The fares on British railways are higher than
on any other European lines. The first class fares
are sixty-three per cent. higher than those on the
French and German railways, seventy-five per
cent. higher than the Belgian, one hundred per
cent. higher than the Italian, and one hundred and
sixty per cent. higher than on the Danish lines.
The second class fares are fifty per cent. higher
than those of France and Germany, and one hun-
dred and twenty per cent. higher than those of Bel-
gium and Denmark. They are one hundred per
cent. higher than those of Italy. The third class
fares are sixty-six per cent. higher than in Belgi-
um, one hundred per cent. higher than in Denmark
and Italy, thirty-three per cent. higher than in
Germany, and fourteen per cent. higher than in
France. In no other country are the working-
classes conveyed in a manner so discreditable to
* Morrison, p. 12.
humanity, and to the true interests of the carriº
themselves. In short, it is evident that the abº.
which have at all times and everywhere atten".
monopolies, have already manifested themselves *
our railway management, and aré certain to a "8
ment, to the great prejudice of the public. act
It would be folly to close our eyes upon the ſº.
that the British public has committed a serious
error, in permitting the legislature to proceed. from
session to session, in the course of legislº.
which has prevailed in regard to railways. Wº
an enlightened public, a vigilant and free press, *.
unrestricted right of discussion and petition, *.
the habit of the legislature to wait for the exprº
sion of public sentiment on such matters, it won *
be unjust to throw upon parliament, or the adº'
istrations of the day, the exclusive blame of .
mistake that has been committed. The publ”
itself must bear the principal share of that bla".
What is the actual state of the case? A ne.
method of intercommunication was discovered, "
nitely exceeding all former methods in cheapnº.
expedition, certainty, and regularity. Surely".
rare opportunity ought to have been seized, to P.
cure the establishment by law of a suitable adm".
istrative body, under which a prudent system,”
inland communication might be constructed. B
what, in fact, has been done! In this, the mº.
active country in the world, with a press absolulº
ly free, with unparalleled facilities for the diffusio'
of knowledge, and the most perfect of all repº.
sentative governments, we have passively surrº.
dered the entire system of national'highways, wº
out a single practicable reservation or except!”
into the hands of a number of private individuº.
to deal with us and our posterity, so far as resp.
our intercourse with each other, as may seem.9.
to them and their heirs, now and forever. Tº
land has ceased to possess highways. The co".
try is intersected only by roads, which no one :
use except by the permission and on the condition
prescribed by their owners! ill
Although it be not till the eleventh hour, sº.
the attention of parliament has been called to .
most important subject; and measures are in P.
gress which, it may be hoped, will correct tº
evils, as far as retrospective legislation can corº.
them. The right of parliament to establish a *.
tem of reasonable control over the inland coºl.
nications of the country, cannot, as we conce.
be denied. All practicable competition haviº
ceased to be possible, administrative control $
supply its place. A board of railway contrºl ".
be established. But, to be really useful, it .
be invested with powers much more extensive.".
those possessed by the late railway departme".
the Board of Trade. The great object of the #:
ernment should be, to bring the power of 5' im
body to bear on the existing railway companiº
such a manner as to protect the public frº."
abuses incidental to them, without viºl.
spirit that contract, whatever it may be, which t
may have made with the state. The bentſ".
such a system of control, rightly administerſ.” {}
not be confined to the public as opposed toº º
nopoly of the companies. It will extend " ady
companies themselves—some of which have ºl.
discovered that the maximum of profits is not *.
sarily attained by the maximum of fares; * blic,
it is possible to consult the interests of the .
by moderating their tariffs, without endang”
their prospective dividends.
SIR FRANCIS B. HEAD's EMIGRANT. 517
From the Spectator.
SIR FRANCIs B. HEAD's EMIGRANT
Is a mixture of light sketches and heavy politics;
the sketches being designed by the author as feath-
jº make the heavier carcass of the politics fly.
his they are scarcely able to accomplish, from want
§ sufficient vitality and natural vigor; and had they
Pºssessed more of {. they would have been unable
raise such a dead and inert mass as the rigmarole
ºs about a long-settled fact, which Sir Francis
ºad intends for political exposition. Considered
mere literary lucubrations, the sketches are
Pleasant reading. But they are disjointed in their
§ucture, and rambling in the story, whilst the
ºformation they convey is often of the oldest. In
*t, they owe their attraction to the peculiar quali-
"s of Sir Francis Head's style; and that, though
isk, rattling, and animated, derives some of its
ºts from the figure denominated hyperbole. *
he subjects are varied enough. The opening
hapter, called “The Sky,” gives an account of
* climate and country, with that old topic Cana-
"an wintº mujmºnis. "The Backwoods” is
..sketch of emigrants, and the toils and pleasures
t emigration; “Sergeant Neill” is an account of
* person's saving a little girl on the breaking up
ºf the ice in the St. Lawrence; “The Ilong Trot”
“The Bark Canoe” are narratives of the
hor's tour through the province as governor,
º his meeting the Red Indians in a council touch-
$ the sale of their lands. Sometimes the sketch
* single and small topic is the subject of a chap-
... as the story of an Emigrant's Lark; whose
.g from his wooden cage spread loyalty and a
ºve for the British connexion through the prov-
"ce; and the bird, eventually dying, was stuffed at
"t author's expense, and is preserved among his
ºlics. Sometimes Sir Francis rises to the dignity
Of istory—as in “The Flare-up;” which repeats
the often-told tale of M'ICenzie's insurrection and
suppression; the ci-devant governor, without a
"notheus to celebrate his exploits, growing vain
8t the mere thought of them, and striking his
. of policy, as well as fighting his battles o'er
in.
() It has been observed by persons who followed the
ld Man in his visit to the Brunnens, that they did
º always recognize the thing from the description:
... it is possible that nature suffers nothing in
. hands of Sir Francis, any more than his own
ºngs. i.
w.ºnes of statement, and the want of logic
§h that quality implies, is the great feature of
* Francis Head's mind." As Shelley's Peter
tº Wils ºn III:l Il
Too great to scan,”
$o Sir Francis is too elevated to attend to fact ;
i. looks rather to what he wishes tº be
j what is, and writes accordingly. This
§ct is continually visible, and the reader will
... a remarkable instance of it in the following
*tract.
W “When I was in Canada, I often thought that it
t ºuld have been as amusing to have kept a list of
* Yarious different reasons that had propelled from
i."; and those who were around me, as it is to read
...! Blas the dissimilar causes which had brought
§t er the motley inmates of Rolando's cave.
me. ... instance, one very gallant naval officer told
§ at after having obtained two steps in his pro-
W. by actions with the enemy, he waited, on
liam the Fourth, when he was Lord High Ad-
miral, to ask for a ship; in reply to which request,
he was good-humoredly told that “he was too
yºff.
“'That a few weeks afterwards, on making a
similar request to Sir James Graham, who had just
succeeded to be first lord of the Admiralty, with
grave dignity he was told ‘That the policy of the
government was to bring forward young men, and
that “he was too old;’’ and so said my friend, ‘I
instantly turned on my heel, and, declaring that I
would never again set my foot in the Admiralty
till I was sent for, I came out to Canada.’
“The inability of the government to attend to
every just claim that was brought before its consid-
eration drove crowds of distinguished officers of
both services to the back-woods. Many fine fel-
lows came out because they could not live without
shooting, and did not choose to be poachers; a vast
number crossed over because they had ‘heavy fami-
lies and small incomes; and one of the most loyal
men I was acquainted with, and to whose protection I
had afterwards occasion to be indebted, in answer
to some questions I was inquisitively putting to
him, stopped me by honestly saying, as he looked
me full in the face, ‘My character, sir, won't
bear investigation?’”
The “few weeks” of the text, between the
Duke of Clarence's resignation and the accession
of Sir James Graham, was in reality two years and
three months. The error is of no great consequence
in itself, but it is a curious mark of a mind which
does not scruple to falsify such a well-known chro-
nological fact, for some mistaken idea of effect.
The position of Sir Francis as governor gave
him great facilities for seeing the most remarkable
features of the country and its inhabitants; which
he appears to have taken every advantage of; and
his descriptions are graphic, if we could divest our-
Selves of the suspicion of exaggeration. Here
is i. striking account of the descent of a slide on a
Iāit.
“A little above the picturesque city of Bytown,
which appears to overhang the river, there are
steep rapids and falls, by which the passage of this
timber was seriously delayed. To obviate this,
Some capitalists constructed a very important work,
by which the torrent was first retained, and then
°onducted over a long precipitous 'slide into the
deep water beneath, along which it afterwards con-
tinued its uninterrupted course.
“Although the lumberers described to me with
great eagerness the advantages of this work, I did
nºt readily understand them; in consequence of
which, they proposed that I should see a raft of
timber descend the slide; and as one was approach-
ing, I got into a boat, and, rowing to the raft, I
Joined the two men who were conducting it, and my
Companions who had taken me to it then returned
to the shore.
“The scenery on both sides of the Ottawa is
strikingly picturesque; and as the current hurried
us along, the picture continually varied.
“On approaching the slide, one of my two com-
rades gave me a staff about eight feet long, armed at
one end with a sharp spike; and I then took up m
position between them, at what may be termed the
stern end of the raft, which was composed of eight
or ten huge trees, firmly connected together.
“As soon as the raft reached the crest of
the slide, its stem, as it proceeded, of course took
leave of the water, and continued an independent
horizontal course, until its weight overbalancing the
stern, the raft, by tilting downwards, adapted itself
51S
str FRANCIS B. HEAD's EMIGRANT.
to the surface of the slide, and then with great
velocity rushed with the stream to the water, which
was boiling and breaking beneath.
“During the descent, which was totally divested
of all danger, I found that by sticking my staff into
the timber, I had no difficulty whatever in retaining
my position; and although the foremost end of the
raft disappeared in the deep water into which it had
been plunged, yet, like the head of a ship, it rose
triumphantly above the breakers; and it had scarcely
recovered, when the raft rapidly glided under a
bridge, from the summit of which it received three
hearty cheers from my brother lumbermen, who
had assembled there to see it pass.”
Apart from tedious personal grievances, regard-
ing loss of places or the withholding of honors
and pensions, the political part of the story amounts
to this. Lord Durham was imposed upon, and in-
duced to sign a report recommending the union of
the Canadas, though he disapproved of the ineas-
ure; the leaders of the two political parties in
England were deceived and bamboozled in combin-
ing to carry that measure into effect; this union,
together with “responsible government” for the
colonies, will eventually cause a separation from the
mother-country; which will be further hastened by
Sir Robert Peel's treachery, et cetera, in granting
amnesties to and promoting persons engaged in the
rebellion ; and, in short, the only mode of obviating
these evils is to repeal the union, and follow the
advice of Sir Francis Bond Head and friends, who
are the Solomons for the government of the North
American colonies. Setting aside the self-confi-
dent part of the business, two things seem opposed
to the conclusion. If the country is so loyal and so
wishful for a British policy as the writer represents
it, what harm can arise from following the popular
will 1 and if the long list of proscribed traitors now
promoted are at all competent to the posts they fill,
the family compact must have been what it is said
to have been—a narrow oligarchy, which created
dissatisfaction by confining all offices to their own
clique, and by their domination produced the discon-
tent they denounced.
From the Examiner.
“As the common crow is made up of a small
lump of carrion and two or three handfuls of feath-
ers, so is this volume composed of political history,
buoyed up by a few light sketches, solely written to
make a dull subject fly.” W
This is the ultra-modest tone in which Sir Fran-
cis Head prefaces his. Emigrant. ... But did we take
him at his word, and call the politics of his book
carrion, he would doubtless think it a gross injus-
tice. This mode of fishing for a compliment by a
self-condemnation, whether in print or conversation,
deserves the punishment of quiet acquiescence. As,
however, we do not think Sir Francis' politics to be
altogether carrion, widely as our estimate of them
may differ from his, we shall not be guilty of the
insincerity of saying so. But we need not scruple
to say that the feathers are more to our taste than
the flesh. * -
The light sketches are indeed admirable. He
has never excelled them. They are vivid, graphic,
full of color, and full of feeling. They set before
us the natural phenomena of Canadian scenery and
weather far more perfectly than has yet been done.
But easy or effortless º are not. With Sir
Francis Head it is not ars célare artem. He makes
us feel that he has been making up his mind to do
the thing well, and that it has cost him an effort.
But then he does the thing well. itic8
Let us show this, before we speak of the pº
of the book, by some extracts which the reº.
will be well pleased to see transferred to * C6
columns. And first for Niagara. The appear.
of the White Mist is strikingly described and iſ
trated. his
“My heart felt sick the instant I beheld 'ſ,
mist; and I am quite sure that if I had not knº
what it was, and had not listened to a strange wº.
of admonition which for some time I had dise.
to be rumbling through the air, I should have obº
the instinctive feeling, which, though I cannº" ſº
scribe it, earnestly warned me to “get ashore's
deed Nature has benificently implanted this fee;
in the hearts even of beasts, a curious instancº
which occurred a few years aco. ... their
“Some people in the neighborhood, who in thé
composition had rather more curiosity than nº.
subscribed a sum of money for the purpose of .
ing a vessel full of living animals over their wa.
precipice into a watery grave. As soon, howe".
as this unpiloted vessel reached the vicinity
which I had arrived, the sagacious bear on †
ing the mist, felt exactly what I felt, namely, ed
there was danger ahead, and accordingly jun’ by
overboard ; and being diagonally hurried dº.
the current, with great difficulty he reached tº
tle island flourishing on the brink of the grave tº
fore him. The other animals made similar atteº.
but in vain ; and thus, on the vessel reaching º
cataract, the only living beings that remainſ.
board, and who, therefore, must have been dº.
of the instinctive feelings which had ejecte
rest were those who, having wings, had no no
it, namely, geese; but their brother biped, itive
had cut their wings; and as they had no in".
disposition to escape, and could not fly away, º d
met the doom which had so unkindly been preſ'. .
for them. Several were killed; and althoº.
few, by fluttering, preserved their lives, they .#
almost immediately killed for the sake of t
feathers, which were sold to the human speciº”
curiosities. wº my
“‘Put me ashore, if you please,' I said ºft
pilot, as soon as I saw this mist; but the ſº.;
fellow knew that, without any danger, he “”my
carry me a little further, and so, much again.
will, I proceeded to a spot somewhat lower do cd
on which, with very considerable alacrity, I lº".
on the shore, which was about six feet abº beſ
water; and the boat then veering round whº and
stern towards the mist, was soon drawn hig”
dry on the beach.” lesſ
Sir Francis' visit was in the depth of a mo"
winter night.
ed of
m30,
NIAGARA II RARD.
“But although I could see nothing,
and heard a great deal. Otiſ!
“My first sensation was, that the “dreadſ.
of waters in mine cars' was a substantial da.
and that I was an actor in, and actually in the .
of what, as a passing stranger, I had com? "...s
to contemplate. The cold, thick vapor that king
from the cauldron immediately beneath m0 p.
of eddies in the atmosphere, created, alºng,
was passing below, ascending and º hiſ
rushed sometimes downwards upon me frºm . is5
as if it had determined to drive me into the .eré
when it quietly enveloped me, as if its object tl
to freezeme to death; then suddenly it woul" P
yet I felt
SIR FRANCIS B. HEAD's EMIGRANT.
519
fill in
lm my face, and then whirl round me as if to
Wlto
...tº me to join in its eccentric dance. tº
“But while my eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair
Were heavily laden with this condensed vapor, which
* rested upon them like flour upon the head of a
Ini ler, from the same cause my attention was con-
*ntly arrested by loud crashes of falling ice from
* boughs of the trees behind me, which thus oc-
§ionally ridded themselves of the enormous masses
lich from the congelation of this vapor, were
*istantly settling upon them.
i. Yet, although the sensations and noises I have
*scribed were quite sufficient to engross my atten-
*n, it was of course mainly attracted by the con-
"sed roar and boiling of the great cataract, whose
§erlasting outline, though veiled by darkness, was
"mediately before me. ſº
“For a considerable time I listened to it all with
the feelings of confusion I had so often before expe-
§enced; but as I became gradually accustomed to
* Cold whirling vapor that surrounded me, as well
to the sudden crashing noises behind me, I felt
hyself by degrees enabled—at first, imperfectly,
*"d then distinctly—to analyze and separate from
*ch other the various notes of the two different in-
*uments of which the roar of Niagara is composed
Jhamely, the deep thundering tone of the fall of
*re than a hundred millions of tons of water per
§ur over a precipice of 150 feet; and the raging,
jºg, lashing, and boiling of all this broken wa-
ºn the confined cauldron beneath.
Cl The more I studied this language, the more
*arly I understood it, until, in the ever-changing
§l unceasing thunder of its eloquence, I could
§lways trace, in different proportions, and often ap-
§rently in different places, the presence of these
"o voices in concert. . .
“Sometimes the stunning, deafening noise, pro-
..ºding from three thousand six hundred millions
cubic feet per hour of an element of the same
jºific gravity as oak, suddenly arrested in its fall
ºm 156 feet, would apparently so completely over-
º every other, that I felt I could point in
j dark precisely to the bottom of the falls; at
ºr times, nothing beneath was heard but the
*ging of broken water; while the thunder that
ºated it was resounding high over head, and some-
es far away, as if a heavy battering train of artil-
º were trotting through the forest over a paved
NIAGARA SEEN. *
ey ‘It was bright daylight. Behind me every tree,
..y rock, as well as the solitary cottage that en-
ºns them, were covered with a glittering coating
congealed ice, which was also reposing in heavy
§§ses upon the depressed branches of the adjºin-
§ forest. The unusual brilliancy of this white
l] §ery was deserving of great attention; but,
ºther dared, nor had I inclination, to look at it,
s *ause close to and immediately before me, there
ºl, partially enveloped in the halo of its own glo-
§3 that great cataract, termed by the Indians—
"Nºwºn !"—" the thunder of water.”
recºs soon as by the utterance of a deep sigh, I
“overed from an attempt to repress, the various
°tions that overwhelmed me, on suddenly finding
Self within a few feet of so many millions of
* of falling water—which have not unjustly been
Pared to an ocean thrown over a precipice—the
detail that attracted my eyes was the astonish-
Slowness with which the enormous mass was
"Parently descending into the milk-white ‘hubble-
ton
first
bubble-toil-and-trouble' scene of confusion which
was raging far beneath.
“About four fifths of the water which formed
the cataract before me was of a lovely, clear deep-
green hue; and as I earnestly gazed at it, it was
beautiful to observe in this semi-transparent fluid
the opaque"masses of ice which, first appearing on
the crest, were easily traced descending leisurely in
the fluid, in which, like the white patches in green
marble, they were embedded.
“The remaining fifth part of the magnificent
curtain, before me was composed of muddy water
from Chippewa Creek, which, running into the Ni-
agara river about a mile above, flows, without being
permitted to mix with the pure stream, until fall-
ing with it over the precipice it forms a broad red
border to the variegated mass I have described.”
Sir Francis' sound common sense enabled him
to see at a glance, and with sly humor to expose, in
his picture of an Indian village, the hollowness of
all the apparent success of attempts to civilize and
settle the Red Indian : ... ?
“I found few at home except women and chil-
dren; some of the former were dressing their chil-
dren, a few were playing with them, and some were
feeding the ravenous little things with spoons as
large as a common saucer.
“Many of the huts were clean and tidy; and, as
I was kindly received in all, I was well enough dis-
posed to take a favorable view of the condition of
their inmates. There was, however, something in
the complexion of most of the children who were
playing round the doors that completely divested the
picture of the sentiment with which I was desirous
to adorn it.
“Whether eating rice had made all their faces
white—what could have made so many of their
eyes blue, or have caused their hair to curl, I felt it
might be unneighborly and ungrateful to inquire;
and yet these little alterations, insignificant as man
may deem them to be, created in my mind .
erable disappointment; indeed, I felt it useless to
bother myself by considering whether or not civili-
zation is a blessing to the red Indian, if the process
Practically ends—as I regret to say it invariably
does—by turning him while tº
SAVAGE AND CIVILIZED.
. “The truth is, that between what we term the
civilized portion of mankind, and what we call ‘the
Savage,' there is a moral gulf which neither party
°ºn cross, or, in other words, on the subject of hap-
º they have no ideas with us in common.
or instance, if I could suddenly have transported
one of the ruddy squaws before me to any of the
Principal bedrooms in Grosvenor square, her first
feeling on entering the apartment would have been
that of suffocation from heat and impure air; but if,
gently drawing aside the thick damask curtains of
a four-post bed, I had shown her its young aristo-
cratic inmates fast asleep, protected from every
breath of air by glass windows, wooden shutters,
Holland blinds, window-curtains, hot bed-clothes,
and beautiful fringed night-caps—as soon as her
smile had subsided, her simple heart would have
earned to return to the clean rocks and pure air of
ake Huron; and so it would have been if I could
suddenly have transported any of the young men
before me to the narrow contracted hunting-grounds
of any of our English country gentlemen; indeed,
an Indian would laugh outright at the very idea of
rearing and feeding game for the sake of afterwards
shooting it; and the whole system of living, house- .
520 SIR FRANCIS B. HEAD's EMIGRANT.
fed, in gaiters, and drinking port-wine, would to his
mind appear to be an inferior state of happiness to
that which it had pleased ‘the Great Spirit’ to allow
him to enjoy.”
-. In the following sketch, the writer is speaking of
the Rideau Canal. It reminds one of the pleasant
places of Mr. Dickens' Eden. º --
DROWNED LANI).
“In taking the levels for the construction of this
vast work it appeared that there were two modes in
which it could be executed. -
* 1st. By deep cuttings and embankments to
.." the water within the usual limits of a canal ;
and,
“2nd. By constructing locks at more advanta-
geous levels, and then by flooding considerable por-
tions of land between them, to form a series of arti-
ficial lakes, instead of a narrow channel.
“The latter course, after very mature consider-
ation, was adopted; and although its advantages
may be undeniable, yet it has produced a very
appalling and unusual picture. -
“The flooding of the wilderness was a sentence
of death to every tree whose roots remained covered
with water; and yet no sooner was this operation
affected than nature appeared determined to repair
the injury by converting the fluid which had created
the devastation into a verdant prairie ; and accord-
ingly from the hidden soil beneath there arose to
the surface of these artificial lakes a thin green
scum, which gradually thickened, until the whole
surface assumed the appearance I have described.
“But this vegetable matter, beautiful as it
appears, mixed with the gradual decay of the dead
trees, becomes rank poison to human life; so much
so, that by native-born Canadians, as well as by
emigrants, it is invariably designated by the horrid
appellation of fever and ague.”
“As I proceeded in a steamer through this
treacherous mass, which, rolling in thick folds
before the prow of the vessel, again closed in at its
stern, the view was desolate beyond description.
“As far as I could see, in all directions, I was
surrounded by dead, leafless trees, whose pale,
livid, unwholesome-looking bark gave them the ap-
pearance of so many, corpses; and as the wind
whistled and moaned through the net-work of their
stiff, stark, sapless branches, I could not help feel-
ing it was wafting with it, in the form of miasma,
nature's punishment for the wholesale murder that
had been committed; in short, I felt that as a single
tree may stand in the middle of a deserted battle-
F. surrounded by countless groups of mutilated
uman corpses, so I stood on the deck of the steam-
er, almost a solitary witness of the melancholy pic-
ture of a dead forest; or, as in Canada it is usually
termed, of “drowned land.’” . .
Sir Francis Head is quite as happy in his sketches
of human action and sentiment as in those of the
still life of nature. He thus brings home to us the
painful reality, the despondency of “labor in
vain,” which so often lies hid beneath the simple
words— g
KILLED BY THE FALL OF A TREE.
“In riding through the forest I, ºften passed
deserted log huts, standing in the middle of what is
called “cleared land,'—that is to say, the enormous
pine trees of the surrounding forest had been
chopped down to stumps about a yard high, around
which there had rushed up a luxurious growth of
hard brushwood, the height of which denoted that
several years must have elapsed since the tenan!”
had retired. b6
“There was something which I always felt .
deeply affecting in passing these little monuſ. ht
of the failure of human expectations—of the blig
of human hopes 1 * ling
“The courage that had been evinced in se”
in the heart of the wilderness, and the amount
labor that had been expended in cutting dº.
many large trees, had all ended in disappºin.
and occasionally in sorrows of the severest deSC €I*
tion. The arm that had wielded the axe had §
haps become gradually enervated by ague, (". d)
always ungratefully rises out of cleared gro";
until death had slowly terminated the existen”
the poor emigrant, leaving a broken-hearted wº.
and a helpless family with nothing to look º
support but the clear bright blue heavens “
them. ined
“In many of the spots I passed, I ascert”
that these dispensations of Providence had be".
sudden as they were awful. The emigrant.
arisen in robust health—surrounded by his nº ely
ous and happy family, had partaken of a hº
breakfast—had left his log-hut with a firm stºP.n
with manly pride had again resumed his attack!.
the wilderness, through which every blow 9 dy
axe, like the tick of a clock, recorded the s!” 3t
progress of the hand that belonged to it, º
the hour of dinner he did not return e .
waited—bid her rosy-faced children be patiºne
waited—felt anxious—alarmed—stepped beyon $38
threshhold of her log-hut—listened; the axe .
not at work . . Excepting that indescribable **i.
murmur which the air makes in passing throug".
stems and branches of the forest, not a soul.
to be heard. Her heart misgives her; she wººd
runs towards the spot where she knew her huºis
to have been at work. She finds him, withou"
jacket or neckcloth, lying, with extended alſº
his back, cold, and crushed to death by the lºs.";
he had felled, which in falling, jumping ſº".
stump, had knocked him down, and which i.
resting with its whole weight upon his
breast! r S t()
“The widow screams in vain; she endeavº.
extricate her husband's corpse, but it is utterly t's
practicable. She leaves it to satisfy her in”
hunger—to appease her children's cries' cm3
“The above is but a faint outline of 3 . 1 *
that has so repeatedly occurred in the wilder th9
of America—that it is usually summed up *
words, “He was killed by the fall of a tree.’”. theſ”
Two more extracts with a political tone " "iſe
may fitly introduce the politics of Sir Francis.
thus describes official experiences at Torontº t
“Within a week after my arrival at Toron".
had to receive an address from the Speak.,
Commons' House of Assembly; and on inq.
in what manner I was to perform my pºrt I was
ceremony allotted to me, I was informed that h
to sit very still on a large scarlet chair wº
hat on. . . . . but
“The first half was evidently an easy ; and
the latter part was really revolting to my h".; and
feelings, and as I thought I ought tº º :
govern by my head and not by my hat, I fe being
Vinced that the former would risk nothing by *.
for a few minutes divorced from the lat” ºld
accordingly I determined with white #!. lish
the thing in my hands; and several of my ...;
party quite agreed witn me in thinking tº . Oſl
not only an innocent but a virtuous act of *
SIR FRANCIS B. HEAD's EMIGRANT.
521
..y: however, I happened to mention my
...ion to an Upper Canadian, and never shall I
€ ºf the look of silent scorn with which he lis-
...tº me... I really quite quailed beneath the
ºf, which, without the utterance of a word,
in After scanning me from head to foot, his mild,
Ślligent, faithful countenance read to me, and
"ch but too clearly expressed—"What! to pur-
*e five minutes’ loathsome popularity, will you
. one of the few remaining prerogatives of the
...h Crown Will you, for the vain hope of
...lating insatiable Democracy, meanly sell to it
ºf the distinctions of your station! Miserable
. ! beware, before it be too late, of surrendering
§emeal that which it is your duty to maintain,
..or which, after all, you will only receive in
ºnge contumely and contempt” -
remained for a few seconds as mute as my
*adian Mentor, and then, without taking any
ºice of the look with which he had been chastis-
. ºne, I spoke to him on some other subjects, but
"d not forget the picture I had seen, and accord-
i. y my hat was tight enough on my head when
i speaker bowed to it, and I shall ever feel
de ted to that man for the sound political lesson
ºn he taught me. -
could mention many similar reproofs which
Verbally received from native-born Canadians,
ºilly one which very strongly condemned me
J. desire I had innocently entertained to go once
°rely as a compliment—to the Presbyterian
...th, which, when quartered in Scotland, I had
. attended ; but I was gravely admonished by
lo Son of the soil on which I stood, that, although
§e ght to protect all churches, yet, as the repre-
ºlive of the Established Church, I ought to
§ part in no other service but my own; and a
moments' reflection told me that he was right;
3. * - º
ld as a further illustration of this transatlantic
jºine, I may state that when the bold, Vener:
8
and respected leader of the Church of
§and in Upper Canada was lately appºinted
Shop of Toronto,” he was not only immediately
ºd by the title of My Lord,' but his hºle
§ling was, and to this day is, designated The
jºe, for the simple reason that the emigrants
i.lative-born inhabitants of the province saw n°
Of i. for being ashamed of British institutions, .
et . distinctions which characterize them; .
| "... astonishing it is that people in England,
|. Whigs and tories, will persist in declaring
i.monarchical pomp cannot possibly be popular
for * British North American olonies, and there.
{..that it ought not to be maintained there!
h.”W, thanking Sir Francis for all the .
b."º has given us, let us take the liberty o
bj "g that he does not appear to us to see very far
ºf the surface; nor to be capable of viewing
ºl phenomena in that combined operation, apart
i. which they can hardly be very accurately
§§§d. The Hºuſ wili find little in the book
&nd rect and guide his efforts in a new county,
Wa Still less to guide government in smoothing the
but or him there. Indeed, the Emigrant plays
\m subordinate part in the work which takes his
ºj 'from him. Some graphic and pleasing
tººs. of individual enterprise; some touching
Of § individual sentiment;—that is all we have
º politics of the book consist of a history
Wh. ſackenzie insurrection in Upper Canada,
bjº Sir Francis Bond Head plays a ºt
§ part, in company with Sir Francis M'Nab
*v. Living AGE. vol. xi. 33
and “Judge, Jones.” The opposite party are
depicted, without exceptions or relief, as block-
heads, blackguards, and cowards. And all the
public men on this side of the water are demon-
strated to have entirely mistaken the real position
and wants of Canada.
This is accomplished by the following process.
The jobbing and lawless oppression of the family
compact” is passed over in silence. The reader is
introduced to the opposition of Upper Canada after
years of hopeless misgovernment had driven the
rash and the least intelligent of them frantic, and
made even the more judicious hesitate between
legitimate and illegitimate modes of seeking re-
dress. In this repulsive mood they are placed
before us, without any explanation of the circum-
stances that had occurred to induce it; and then
Sir Francis himself is presented like some preur
chevalier, resisting the unmanly multitude. “Alone
he did it,” at least for a time. Lord John Russell,
Lord Durham, Mr. Hume, Mr. Roebuck, Sir Robert
Peel, cum multis aliis, are summarily disposed of,
by the easy expedient of contrasting sayings which
have dropped from them at one time, with sayings
which have dropped from them at another. Having
then pointed out some circumstances of more or
less importance, which had come within his own
experience, Sir Francis assumes that the Canadian
policy ultimately recommended by Lord Durham,
adopted by Lord John Russell, and adhered to by
Sir Robert Peel, must be wrong. This being set-
tled, he assumes that his own must be right.
At present, however, we have to do with the
Emigrant only in its literary capacity. And in
this view, even its politics are very cleverly set
forth ; though we might point out some minor
errors of taste. There is surely something un-
manly in describing an opponent as “Chief Justice
Robinson's late housemaid's husband, an English
emigrant, who had worked industriously in Toronto
as a journeyman carpenter.” But, apart from a
few blemishes of this kind, the history of Sir
Francis Bond Head's defeat of Mackenzie is quite
as interestingly told as Cicero's defeat of Catiline,
and with at least an equal amount of self-compla-
cency. It is as good as a Roman Feuilleton." It
would dramatize admirably—with Sir Francis
superintending the hauling up of the English flag
at Toronto for the first scene, and Sir Francis stand-
ing, on the deck of a steamer pointing with his
cocked hat to the union-jack overhead, for the last.
As for his Scamper through the out-settlements of
the state of New York, with a pack of sympa-
thizers like hungry wolves on his trail, it is as stir-
ring as the Gallop across the Pampas, or as Marry-
at's hunt of the wolves in his novel of the Poacher.
NIGHT PRAven.—Death in Scripture is compared
to sleep. Well then may, my night prayer be re-
sembled to making my will. I will be careful not to
die intestate; as also not to deſer my will-making
till I am not compos mentis, till the lethargy of drow-
siness seize upon me.
ut, being in perfect memory, I bequeath, my soul
to God; the rather because I am sure the devil will
accuse me when sleeping. Othe advantage of spirits
above bodies? If our clay cottage be not cooled with
rest, the roof falls a-fire. Satan hath no such need :
the night is his fittest time. Thus man's vacation is
the term for the beasts of the forests; they move
most whilst he lies quiet in his bed.
Least, therefore, whilst sleeping, I be outlawed for
want of appearance to Satan's charge, I commit my
cause to Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps : AN-
swer For Me, O My God!—Fuller.
522
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT,
From Tait's Magazine.
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
BY MRS. GORE.
CIHAPTER I.
Peasants must weep,
And kings endure;
That is a fate that none can cure.
Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow:
She bringeth bright hours,
She weaveth sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers,
For all below.
HARTINGTON is one of the pleasantest villages
of the county of Sussex, where pleasant villages
abound. Nowhere is brighter verdure to be met
with ;... nowhere a clearer or more rapid stream.
The district, in a green nook of which it lies im-
bedded, is essentially rural. For ten miles round,
nothing in the shape of a factory is in existence.
No mechanic employs more than his single pair of
hands, whether shoemaker, saddler, wheelwright,
or carpenter.
The main cause, however, of the cheerful aspect
of IIartington is a pleasant village green ; having
at one extremity a group of fine lime trees, whose
blossoms form the sustenance of all the beehives in
the neighborhood, and whose shade the refuge of
... the village children during the six brighter months
of the year; and at the other, a duck-pond, the wa-
tering-place and rendezvous of all the carters and
cowboys of the place. -
On a strip of ground beyond the road skirting
one portion of the green, is a saw-pit, surrounded
by the usual depository of planks and timber; a
happy resource for the urchins of Hartington, to
form see-saws, or benches, when weary of flinging
stones at the ducks and injuring the branches of
the lime trees. -
Around the green are dotted the more thriving
and sightly cottages of the village; and, at a turn-
ing of the lane leading from its southernmost cor-
ner, you catch a glimpse of the wicket-gate of the
churchyard: the curious old Saxon church, of
sandstone, standing a trifle back from the road; its
stunted tower so completely overgrown with ivy,
that it might almost pass for a pollard of one of the
stately chestnuts surrounding the venerable struc-
ture.
This lane, by the way, forms the chief causeway
of the place. For, independent of the grand dis.
tinction which entitles it to be called Church-lane,
both the blacksmith, and wheelwright—the two
kings of Hartington—have their workshops therein;
as may be inferred, even at a distance, from a vari-
ety of old broken wheels, deficient some in spoke
and some in tire, that lie crushing the hawthorn
hedge opposite the house nearest the church: while
a little farther on, the hedge is not only crushed,
but withered, by the emanations of the adjoining
forge. # * g.
In compensation for the mischief, however, the
blacksmith's shop throws ever and anon a cheerful
glow upon the surrounding objects, which, in win-
ter-time, assume far from an agreeable aspect;
thanks to an overſlowing or rather ever-flowing
ditch: the oozings of the duck-pond on the green
making their way to the stream that ripples
athwart the bottom of the lane—rendering it, the
greater part of the year, plashy, muddy, and hard
to pāSS. *
Still, as has been said before, the green, situated
at the highest point of the village, is an unusually
PRoctor.
pleasant spot. On emerging into it from Warling.
wood, some miles in depth, in the skirts of which
Hartington lies nestled, the broad sunshine, *
hanced by such continuous shade, often appea"
too bright to live in.
And then, after the stillness of the wood, wher.
nothing louder than the song of the birds is ever º:
dible, the village appears so wide awake Ther? º
so much life in the laughter of the carters, º
whooping of the cowboys, the clang of the º,
the mallet of the wheelwright, the grinding of th
Sawyer; the
Village children just let loose from school,
The noisy geese that gabble in the pool.
The very dunghill-cock, that struts and crows before
the door of the little public-house of the Black Liº.
makes more noise in a day than any three of
species elsewhere in the county. :...wtoſ,
From all this it will be inferred that Harting".
is a thriving spot. It was so, at least. Thiſ
years ago, it might be cited as exceeding prº.
ous. The larger half of the village belonged ſº
Sir Clement Colston, who resided at an old-ſº 6
ioned manor-house about a mile distant; and ".
old baronet being a kind-hearted and careless ...
lord, letting people and things about him go .
own way and do as their fathers had done be .
them, if he did not interfere to repair their house t
or amend their system of morals or education, .
least he neither raised their rent nor depressed th”
spirits. All
The consequence was that they flourished.
that they did, whether as husbandmen or artis.
was done in the clumsiest and most slovenly .
But it answered. The system worked well. Ex-
unpruned branches bore fruit in due season...”.
treme poverty was as unknown at Harting "s;
extreme comfort. The venerable father of €
Clement might have protruded his well-wº
head from the huge slate stone under whi.
reposed in peace in the parish church, will ;
finding so much as a new hovel on his prºpº";
but he might have laid it down again afte: '.
survey, satisfied that his tenants were not * his
worse off than when he bequeathed them tº
son. Far more than can be said of the Helº.
many a more theoretic and more active co"
baronet. ſº
Among strangers in the county, Sir Cl**
passed for an old bachelor. And no wonder kay?
nothing could be more bachelor-like than his...is
and appearance. But the families coeval Wºo
own, knew better; and were disposed intº 33
retrace the oddity of his habits to having tº
much married as possible—married to a.
who gave him so sickening a dose of matrº
that on her decease, at the close of a couple ºil;
quiet years, he had relapsed at once into thº. "...ind
of his single life, in order to drive from ".rgº.
all trace of the overbearing, restless Lady A ñad
ret Colston, who, during her wedded .nº
taken care not to spend two days at his “...ſly
seat; and whom, at her death, he was º soul
careful to inter in the gay city in which !. gton
delighted, in order that nothing at Har so dis’
might ever serve to remind him of a persoº t
agreeable. €
gº o wonder, therefore, that people should ;
he had been married. He had almost ſº. hap"
himself. Forty years of profound peace "...;
pily obliterated all remembrance of tºº. ng’
days, when he was racketed from one *
eaſ
f
my.
m*
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT. * 523
Place to another, from London to Paris, from Paris
.*\aples, without rest or intermission; distracted
. e balls, operas, and masquerades of half the
*itals in Europe." In the joy of his release, the
lºwer had probably made some secret vow that,
.# his own master again, nothing should induce
... second time to renounce the ease and com;
*9f a country life; for, from the day he returned
artington Hall after his lady's funeral, he was
ºr known to quit the precincts. An easy walk,
*asy ride, an easy drive, constituted the pleas-
i. of his tranquil life. Early hours and mod:
h . diet, old-fashioned books and old-fashioned
*its, satisfied his unambitious mind; the sort of
Yea
"hay existence that makes neither friend nor
t but it is under the sceptre of such country gen-
... ºn that our oaks acquire giant growth, that a
th Village greens are left unencroached upon by
* lord of the manor; and that such highways
* rather byways as the Church-lane of Harting-
are left to put to the proof the pattens and
º of the church-going old dames of the
lSh, -
The crossest of them, however, never uttered a
ºd of displeasure against Sir Clement. The
Šiet little jã gentleman was the idol of his ten-
º half of whom had never exchanged a word
º him, though for nearly half a century he
dwelt upon his estate. But in England this is
... common thing; and many are the men who
i... the life of Robinson Crusoe, without having
§ cast away on an uninhabited island. * -
º he only person with whom he lived in habits
jºintimacy, was the parson of the parish, an old
ºllege chum, whose temper and pursuits were
º as torpid as his own. In youth, both of
jº had been fond of fishing; in age, both of
i. were zealous antiquaries ; and they, met
ly and talked of the things of this world as
jºb they dwelt in another; a little to the ºr
Sºtion of Mrs. Wigswell, the rector's, wife,
º saw no reason why a man of Sir Clement
§§on's fortune, and a beneficed clergyman like
usband, should not extend the sphere of their
§alities, and live like the rest of their neigh-
tºle was forced, however, to limit her appeals
lº mpathy to letters to her married daughters in
§ºn; for, at Hartington, what auditor could
i. found for grumblings against the rector or
80 i. the manor Both were so good to the poor,
tº ind to their servants, and so.guiltless of offence
ūjº or beast, that, in the eyes of the parish,
j. Gould do no wrong. Madam Wigswell hºr:
fººdeed, passed for “a little uppish, and a bit
tº. {Inflint;” but not a tongue was ever wagged
"st the parson or his patron. .
by ºlong those by whom this species of steeple-
ºly was mainly upheld, was the parish-clerk;
haº an abject spirit, but in pure thankfulness for
ing been, for the last five-and-twenty years, an
of bounty to both. And, in his turn, John
h jing was a man who had some need of bounty.
'he he uneventful history of the village, his was
With ºgic tale. When a young man, struggling
bi.e. world, and having four children to main-
le. °ºt of the humble fees of his clerkhood, he had
Wo."prived of the best of wives, a pretty young
lift. of five-and-twenty, by an accident which
Of i.ed to excite on winter nights the sympathy
firesides of Hartington. By the carelessness
º
ºbj
§
of a drunken nurse attending upon her fourth con-
finement, she was burnt to death; surviving the
sad catastrophe only long enough to increase the
anguish of the survivors.
To nurse her in her last moments, the sister of
her husband, who inhabited a village about eight
miles from Hartington, had hastened to his assist-
ance; and, when her sufferings were relieved by
death, the good woman had mercifully accepted the
charge of the motherless infant.
Better had she extended her kindness to two
others, who were scarcely able to run alone !
HEAven, however, did for them what the circum-
stances of the husband of Dame Harman did not
allow, HEAven took the helpless children to
itself! Within five years after the loss of his wife,
John Downing had but two children remaining—
Jack, his eldest born, a fine robust boy, well quali-
fied to defy the rubs of life, whether of indigestion
or starvation; and Luke, Dame Harman's adopted,
whom his father would have been content to re-
ceive home again, now that the feebleness of his
infancy was past. But the boy's attachment to the
young cousins at Norcroft, among whom he had
been reared, and the cuffs his milksop habits were
apt to provoke from the rough hand of his sturdy
elder brother, rendered the change hazardous; and
the poor clerk was consequently obliged to solicit
for the boy who had been so tenderly recommended
to him on her deathbed by his unfortunate wife, the
continued harbor of his sister and brother-in-law.
Till ten years old, therefore, Luke remained at
Norcroft, doing errands about his uncle's farm, and
scouted as a poor relation by all the family except
a little girl named Esther, a year younger than
himself, who comforted him by her overween-
ing affection, for his troubles, past, present, or to
COII]{2.
The first great trouble, however, of which he
was conscious, was his final banishment from Nor-
croft. After a time, matters went ill with the
Harmans. They were forced to give up the greater
portion of the land they rented from a less indul-
gent landlord than Sir Clement Colston; and get
rid of their supernumerary laborers and sickly
nephew. Willingly would Downing have paid
for the keep of his boy. But as it sometimes oc-
curs in a higher walk of life, his kinsfolk were too
proud to receive money for what they were too
poºr to give for nothing; and Luke was transfer-
red back to Hartington, to receive from his father
those rudiments of learning which Downing, as be-
game a parish clerk, assured him were better than
house or land.
He, had enforced the same axiom upon Jack.
But the bolder boy dissented in toto. Because
neither house nor land was to be his portion, why
was he forced to accept a horn-book in their stead?
He would not learn. Nothing and nobody could
ſnake him learn; not even his father, who wasted
both argument and coercion in the attempt. Jack
was thrashed and Jack was lectured ; but he still
º in believing that bird-nesting and wiring
ares, rather than A B C, were the only pleasant
substitute for lands and houses. .
It is true the situation of Downing's cottage on
the verge of Warling-wood, was peculiarly propi-
tious to the development of this opinion. The wood
was such a capital covert for his truancies." There,
Jack was able at all seasons to defy his father's
researches. He knew every tree and every step of
it; besides bypaths and even runs through the under-
524
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
wood, made by the beasts of the field, but not the
less available to the urchins of the village. The
wood was in fact the natural home of Jack.
A savage wildness round him hung,
As of a dweller-out of doors;
for the avocation of his father rendering it impossible
for him to be followed in the discharge of his duties
by an ill-conditioned boy of fourteen, lacking the
exterior decency indispensable to even the most
minor of minor ministrants to the clerical calling,
there were many hours of the day in which Jack
Downing had every excuse for slinking along the
brook-side, watching his opportunity, (as his ene-
mies averred,) for tickling the trout of the preserved
stream, or stealing off into the wood in search of
squirrel's nests. For these purposes, the clerk's
cottage was favorably situated; in the midst of a
patch of garden ground at the bottom of Church-
lane, divided from the stream only by a margent of
short, green turf, dotted with straggling alder bushes
—a margent widening here and there almost into a
little valley, still shrubby and still verdant, for nearly
a mile, till it entered at one extremity the precincts
of Hartington Park, and at the other aſſorded a short
cut to the nearest market-town. Sloping upward
from this riband of velvet-like herbage commenced
the limits of Warling-wood; and Jack Downing
had consequently a safe covert for his double depre-
dations. -
It was just when his father's indignation was at
the hottest against him, in consequence of a domicil-
iary visit made to the cottage by Sir Clement's keep-
ers, accompanied by the constable, to search for a
brace of trout which had been seen thrust into a
basket of grass by Master Jack, in the twilight of a
fine midsummer morning on the banks of the stream,
(known in the village by the name of the Hams,)
and of which nothing was found but the baskets
filled with grass and the fishy odor left behind them,
that Luke was dispatched home from Norcroft, to
profit by the admonitions against picking and steal-
ing bestowed upon his elder brother.
The moment was unlucky for the boy's inaugu-
ration at the cottage. The sudden change from a
household governed by the experienced hand of his
aunt and the gentle tendance of Esther, to a spot
lacking all aid of womanly housewifery, was far
from pleasant. He did not feel at home there; he
could not feel at home there; and, when forced to
become a witness of the furious altercations between
his father and brother, his gentle nature shrank, as
if touched with a hot iron. The very names he heard
applied to his brother, were new to his ear. But
more abhorrent still were those which Jack soon
began to apply to himself-as a poor, pitiful, sneak-
ing urchin, who, after eating beggar's bread at his
uncle's table, was returned as worthless on the hands
of his father. To the young ruſſian of Warling-
wood, the poor boy seemed an instinctive object of
hatred. Luke had seen him brought to shame;
Luke had seen him chastised by his father. He
had been specifically warned to avoid corrupting the
morals of a brother more righteous than himself;
had been told, that in the event of his persisting in
his evil ways, his father's savings as well as his
father's love, would be for the youngling. Every-
thing, in short, had been done, as is too often the
case among injudicious relatives, to create dissen-
sion between the brothers.
Luko was bitterly disappointed. It had been his
consolation for losing the company of Esther on his
return home, that he should obtain that of his
brother; and he had created a great joy to him;
out of the endearments of brother-love. The roug
entreatment of his harsh, hob-nailed, elder cous”.
had often caused him to sigh after a defende.
defender and friend, such as an elder brother coul
not fail to be ; a friend who would admit him tº 3
share of his pastimes, and whose burdens and tº
he would rejoice to share in return. 6
But this was not to be. He soon found that lº
was to be as lonely at home as he had been at Nº.
croft. Jack regarded him as the spy who wº.
obtain reward by denouncing his misdoings; a Bº.
jamin, to whom was destined a double mess, P.
loined from his share. And right glad was Pº.
Luke whenever his brother did set forth, duº.
their father's absence, upon one of his maraudiº
expeditions; not that he might betray his fault, .
that he might be at liberty to follow unmolested hi
own more harmless devices. ised
For his spirit of orderliness had already devi.
means of adding to the comfort of the falſº §
Though little more than twelve years old, i-
was an active and intelligent lad; and the indº.
ous habits in which he had been reared by the 13
mans enabled him to turn to advantage the inter".
of the tasks of reading and writing, set him by.
father. By his zeal, the cottage was whitewash.
By his zeal, the floor was new laid, the furiº.
repaired and rubbed, the broken panes replaced,
thatch mended. A very small outlay, and a gº
deal of spirit and intelligence, sufficed to impa.
completely new aspect to the place. From the *º
of his wife's death, Downing had never cared .
such things, but suffered his house to fall into dº
Being a great gardener, the little leisure he º
command was devoted to his out-door belongiº.
and so long as his early vegetables flourished.
had never troubled his head about the dilapids.
of his premises, till the activity of his younge.
pººl them before him in the state they oug
€. W. ſº
The satisfaction he evinced on the occasion,”
ever, served only to stir up further strife bel.
Jack and his family. Encouraged by his falº".
praise, Luke took upon himself thenceforwº.
chargé of the house; and though the elder brº
declared the tasks he adopted to be just fit for j,
a milksop, who was good only to roast, and louš
and wash, and mend, he was not the less j9% ob"
of the affection which these aids and endeavor”
tained for the new-comer from the old clerk. that
Luke, however, was content, Finding.'.
nothing like brotherly love was to be won fºs
uncouth Jack, he satisfied himself with the fondn of
lavished upon him by one who, since the dº” Cſik"
his poor wife, had ſound no object of atta”.
and devoted himself with all his heart and *his
his father. Submissive as he was industriº. 6
parent's slightest wishes were forestalled ; *
poor clerk, who had been afraid of incur.
additional burden, soon found that he had ob”
a faithful servant as well as a loving child.
iſ!
And then, Luke evinced as much sympº. ted
his pleasures as zeal in his service. Luke *.
him in his garden, and was as proud as him. of
his cauliflówers and prize carnations; and }ºns,
evenings, worked so hard with him at his les reqſ:
that, by the time the lad entered his fiſtcenth y ted
no one—not even the parson of the parish- IS
John Downing's assertion, that at his dº ºul
when he became too inſtrm to officiate, Lukº "...
be fully qualified to succeed him in his clerkly
tion.
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
525
"A pleasant life, and I wish the spoony joy
*'t!” was Jack's comment on the announcement,
When twitted with it by some of his loose compan-
*s. “Thank God, I knew better than ever to
*rn to sign my name! Readin’ and writin’ for
°m as is fond on 'em—free air and a fair field for
F-none the worse if the hares come a-feedin'
there of evenings. As to spendin’ the best o' one's
*ys in bawlin’ ‘Amen” for the christenin' of a
}*k o' squallin' bantlings, or listenin’ to the toll o'
he bell for shovellinº poor folks into their last home,
‘Wasn't that for which God Almighty made me,
['m much mistaken. My arm’s got a plaguy
*I too much whipcord in 't for that?” # , º, .
t length, after frequent threats of enlisting, in
ºr to get away from Hartington and its discipline,
* finding that his father was in treaty to bind him
*PPrentice to a currier in the nearest town, Jack
ºwning proposed, by way of compromise, to enter
** service of a fºrmer a ſawmiles off, who had
ºurage to encounter the hazards announced by his
"promising reputation, in consideration of obtainin §,
9W wages, one of the stoutest young fellows in
* country.
, , *
CHAPTER II.
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most 7
SHAkspeaRE.
h By this change, both father and sons became the
ºpier. Conscious of having a character to acquire
* the new master, who had accepted him on
*t, the surly John addressed himself with some
siduity to his calling; and the two that were left,
§lways happy in each other, had no longer a motive
* concealing their mutual content. A painful
"Straint was removed, when the loud step and
"d voice of Jack Downing no longer shook the
"age. His absence was as a lull after a raging
Storm. i.
Even Parson Wigswell noticed how much more
lately than usual John Downing's duties were
...harged, after the removal of his sole cause of
ºitation; and many a time did the rector's lady
*P into the little garden, to admire poor John's
ºwned auriculas and piccotees, (whenever the
ºr part of Church-lane was free enough from
º for a lady to pass dryshod,) now that the sul-
us Young man was gone, who, on such occasions,
"d to stand surveying her, leaning impudently
§ainst the door-post, with a ſlower stuck in his
*th and his hat on one side, undoffed in defer-
§ to her presence.
be."re was peace, in short, in the cottage; and
p! ace imparts the semblance of plenty, even where
ºnly is not. But in John Downing's house there
b. Just so much more than enough as to enable
. tº lay by a trifle at the end of every week IIl
() *Villagé Savings' Bank, and without churlishness
ho ºnhospitality. A friend was always welcome,
i; Was the beggar sent empty away. So quiet,
thi *d, was the cottage under the new order of
§§ as to have become a worthy corollary to
fitt and rectory. The squire and the parson were
. to a nicety in their steady, taciturn, sober-
ºd clerk.
* alas! as in the case of Sir Balaam,
The devil was vexed such saintship to behold;
Q
3. g * *
§ *evening, when, after the ending of his day's
§ uke had obtained his father's permission to
t N 9rcroft, to carry a present to his aunt of some
choice ſlowers, as a pretext, perhaps, for conveying
to Esther tidings of the brighter prospects of his
destiny, and the hopes it aſſorded that, some day or
other, he might be able to earn a living and claim
her for a wife; John Downing, while sauntering
hatless and coatless up and down the narrow, thrift-
edged walk of his garden, on the look-out for snails
and other depredators, and lost in admiration of the
happy results of one of the finest summers e.
known, noticed with surprise a well-dressed gentle-
man pass the garden hedge, descending leisurely
the lane tº: the stream; and after casting an
admiring glance at the flower-plots, just then so
bright with blossoms, quietly continue his perambu-
lations.
“Some angler, attracted by the fame of our
trout-fishing,” thought the clerk, peering out at
him as he pursued his way to the bºok.” Afore
he comes back with his rod and line, however, he
ºust take care to get a regular ticket from 'Sir
Clement's keepers, or no Sport for him here-
away !”
After a few minutes' loitering along the Hams,
however, the stranger retraced his steps. Th;
Spot was a damp one after sunset. But this
time, on reaching the clerk's garden, he made a
dead stop, as if the beauty of the ſlowers was not
to be passed by ; and stood gazing at the fine clove
Qarnations, and inhaling their fragrance over the
little gate, till even a less benevolent man than John
D wning might have been tempted to say, “Walk
III
The stranger, however, was the first to speak.
“Mr. Downing, I believe?” said he, touching
his hat—though the clerk, in his own garden on
a July evening, was uncovered. “ My informants,
I find, did not deceive me,” he resumed, when
answered by a civil bow of assent. “I was told to
look for a cottage surrounded by the finest flowers
in the country. By that direction, I readily found
my way.”
Touched in the tenderest point by this compli-
ment, the old man no longer hesitated. Opening
wide the wicket gate, he invited the Stranger to a
* lºspection of the “finest flowers in the
Country,” with all the simplicity of a Dr. Prim-
*; and though his visitorovinced in the COUrsø
9f the first five minutes conversation. degree of
Ignorance concerning all things horticultural, which
rendered somewhat 0xtraordinary his deep interest
in an humble cottage-garden in the village of Hart-
ington, the clerk readily forgave his want of sci-
* in favor of the encomiums lavished upon the
Parterres around him.
“I have been making a tour through the south-
: "...99 inties,” said the stranger, seeming to think
1. necessary to account for himself—“chiefly for
the purpose of visiting their flower-gardens and
media:val relics.”
(Jºhn Downing was puzzled—marvelling much
whether the plants whose names were so new to
lm, were annuals or perennials.)
am much struck by the beauty of the
°hurches in this neighborhood,” added the Stranger,
“of many of which I have made sketches, and
should be glad to add Hartington to my collection.
I am told, Mr. Downing, that the keys are in your
ºustody. May I inquire whether it is too late in
the evening for a sight of the interior?”
“By no manner of means, sir,” replied the civil
clerk. “If you will have the kindness to wait
while I slip on my coat, or walk slowly up the
lane, I will join you before you reach the porch.”
526
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
The man who rejoined the scientific traveller,
therefore, was no longer the free and easy amateur
of streaked dahlias and spotted piccotees; but a
spruce and sable-suited parish clerk, bearing in one
hand two ponderous keys that might have put St.
Peter out of countenance.
There was little enough to see in Hartington
church. Not a monument worthy to be so called !
One or two of the tombs erected to the Colston
family were raised a degree above mere tablets, by
having demi-columns and an architrave in colored
Imarbles, or the family arms emblazoned on a
scutcheon in the corner, But all the other memo-
rials to the departed were of an humble kind;
mere gravestones of slate or granite, with long
inscriptions
Where, to be born and die,
Of rich and poor, made all the history.
The stranger, however, professed himself deeply
interested in the architecture of the nave; pointing
out, imperceptible beauties in the capitals of the
whitewashed columns, and a few fragments of
colored glass remaining in the often re-glazed win-
dows, till John Downing began to fancy there
must reside a charm in learning, even beyond the
axiom he habitually recited to his sons; seeing
that much reading enabled this stranger to discern
not only the merit of a tri-colored piccotee but the
charm of an old oak staircase leading to the sing-
ing loft, which he declared to be contemporary
with the reſormation.
“And the door under it, I conclude, leads into
the vestry!” inquired the stranger.
“Would you like to see it, sir! Many folks
declare it is the oldest part of the church,” said the
clerk, leading the way to the iron-knobbed door,
which he opened with a curious old key. “The
rectors of the parish, for the last four hundred
years, lie buried under this here vestry,” said he ;
“and we keep here the altar plates and parish
registers,” said he, opening a large oaken cup-
º, which somewhat resembled a banker's
S3 IC.
“Do you mean that the curious old parchment-
bound volume with iron corner-pieces, which I see
chained yonder to the wall, is the register of Hart-
ington?” inquired the stranger. In answer to
which question, the civil clerk hastened to unfasten
by a key appended to his pinchbeck watchchain,
though pretty nearly of the dimensions of a latch-
key, the padlock, securing the “mighty book,”
which he regarded as the choicest treasure in his
keeping. º -
* In most parishes, sir,” said he, “the registers
bide in the keeping of the clergyman. But his
reverence and I comed to this parish together;
and as he's a gentleman what does not like to be
disturbed at unusual times, and knows the key’s
as safe in my keepin’ as in the bank of Eng-
land—”
“He leaves it in your custody. Quite right;”
observed the stranger. “Trust engenders fidelity.
The padlock is, as you remark, a curious relic;
º monastic—a remnant of some old Ab-
cy!”
“Ay, sir—sure enow—strange—I never thought
on't before —But his reverence, Mr. Wigswell,
ben't a book-larned gentleman, beyond scripture
matters and divinity. And as you say, there’s the
ſoundations of the old Priory still to be seen, half-
a-mile or more adown the Hams, which
The register, however, scarcely belongs to so
early a date,” said the stranger, carelessly turning
over the leaves. “Sixteen hundred and thirty-
ºn!" said he, placing his finger on the first
€:11-
“The pages are a' most filled, sir, you see,”
said the clerk, as if in reply; “and when we get"
to the last, no doubt his reverence will have a new
volume, and this be laid by in the deed-chest!”
He spoke to disregardful ears; the individu
he addressed was following with his forefinger.
line by line, the faded and scarcely legible entries
of the last century. Antiquaries have such strangº
crotchets in their brains ! Otherwise, what interés
could that long array of names—names of the
grandfathers of the fathers of the existing generº
tion, possess for a stranger sauntering his summe;
ramble through the county of Sussex; His eye.
appeared literally to devour those crooked-legge
signatures, and his whole soul seemed engrossº
in the survey ! Once, twice, thrice, did John
Downing interpose his explanations touching the
registers, the manor, the living of Hartington.
without so much as a nod of acknowledgment 1. '
return; nor was it till the increasing darkness 9
the evening rendered it impossible for eveu tº
most searching eyes to discern more than the foº
of the volume, that, with a great gasp to relieve tº
tension of his breast, he turned towards the clerk,
as if suddenly recovering the consciousness of h"
presence. .J.
“Night be comin' on, sir,” said John Downing,
who felt a little affronted at the damp throw”
upon his endeavors at conversation. “Night tº
comin' on. I don't like to seem as if puttin'9
a stranger out o' doors. But we can’t bide *
longer here.”
*And my search but half accomplished!”.Y.
the involuntary ejaculation of his companion. “
be off at daybreak too !”
Quietly resuming possession of the huge volum".
John Downing was beginning to attach the iroſ
clasps, previous to replacing the chain in the stº 6
of the padlock, when his visitor suddenly slippe
sovereign into the hand all but as hard and brown
as the parchment binding.
“I must see this book a little longer, my gº
friend,” said he. “IReturn to your *...".
€
light, while I remain here; and you shall
loser by obliging me.” * *
The poor clerk was perhaps of the opinion enº.
tained by many modern casuists, that Satan *.
sumed in paradise the form of the serpent, 9. 0
because coined gold was not in existence; ſo.
moment he felt the touch of a coin, so much heaviº.
than the shillings to which his palm was agº.
tomed, John Downing recoiled as from some *
thing. ; : **
“I never, loses sight, sir, of that volum".
said he, with more dignity than he had even.”
had occasion to infuse into the representatiº his
his office. And the stranger, perceiving thº. €
suspicions were awakened, and pressed for .i.
without further disguise of his purpose, drew . €
his pocket-book a ten pound bank note, to enfo
his request. Oſlº
But the amount of the bribe served only tº * Ul
firm the suspicions and refusal of the *.
clerk. was it likely that a man who all hº f
long had walked without swerving in the P.
righteousness, would suddenly succumb to tempº
tion without even the plea of personal n°
extenuation of his fall! ind at
John Downing held firm; and John Down”8
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
527
length exhibited such sturdy disposition to eject
y force from the vestry one who, in spite of his
ºur presence and fair speech, had manifestly entered
* with evil intentions, that the soi-disant archaeolo-
§lst judged it wiser to make a hasty exit; and,
thanks to the increasing darkness of the evening,
Sontrived to make a rush up Church-lane, before
he clerk could ascertain the direction taken by the
elinquent.
He would almost have disbelieved the evidence
ºf his senses, and ſancied the following morning
that all had been a vain delusion of his evening
*p, but that there still remained imprinted on the
Slayey soil of the lane, which, even in summer
me, was kept moist by the oozings of the pond
§ove, prints of a foot of very different form and
mensions from the hobnailed shoes of the village.’
or weeks afterwards, those foot-marks haunted
e mind of John Downing, like the foot-print
Şhich so sorely agitated the soul of the unfortunate
Şrusoe. But with a species of false pride, savor-
lºg of more delicacy than belongs to his condition
$f life, he did not confide his story to his patron,
lest peradventure his reverence might suppose that
*e insisted on the merit of his own magnanimity in
ºfusing the bribe. Aware of his intentions of
.*dication in favor of Luke, the moment the young
ºan's age and the sanction of the vestry per-
"litted, he thought it might appear a too strong
$gument in his favor, if he related his heroic
. efence of the parochial archives. In the course
ºf a few months, however, the circumstance passed
ºltogether from his memory, as insulated events are
*pt to do from the memory of the old. He had a
thousand other things to think of; and even the
Sonduct of his sons aſſorded him painful grounds
or reflection. * º -
It happened that the farm in which Jack had
§gaged his services, was considerably nearer to
Norcroſſ than to Hartington; and an acquaintance
Šas consequently brought about between him and
his cousins, which, so long as Luke remained their
{\mate, he would have been at little pains to meet
half way. Besides, the Harmans were then rich—
àr richer than himself—a thing sufficient to provoke
e enmity of his envious mind; whereas, they
Were now sufficiently fallen in the world for the
ºr of one whose deposits in the savings' bank Were
ºdged to be considerable, to be entitled to look
ºwn upon them, even though, like themselves, for
e time an hireling. He therefore no longer
hºle a difficulty about accompanying them, home
orcroft, from the fairs and junkets, where a
...non love of bowls, skittles, and cribbage,
*ºught them into frequent fellowship. -
he great recommendation, however, of Dick
. Maurice Harman, was that they hated his
rother. The same meek spirit of order which
..!ered the serviceable lad an object of dislike to
º, had made him unpopular with his cousins-
hat is, with all his cousins but Esther; whom, on
'siting the farm, Jack Downing beheld: and not
"moved, for the first time since they had been
Šildren together. And from the days of Cymon
till now, the rural savage had been found more
ºnalſ. to the influence of beauty, than to the
* of God or man. tº
t ope thou’rt not quite as pººr a creature as
i. milksop of a brother 1" was old Harman's salu-
"on to the handsome well-grown boor, who came
jºing down his shaggy curls to the hearth-
... Where his aunt and cousin sat quietly at work.
That I’ll warrant him he ben’t,” was the fa-
vorable attestation of his cousin, Maurice. On
which, Esther raised her gentle eyes in silence to
examine him; and seeing that there was indeed no
likeness, between the brothers, speedily resumed
her work.
But it was upon her only that the impression
made was not in favor of the new-comer. Dame
Harman liked him at first sight, as reminding her
of her brother John in his days of jovial bachelor-
hood : and the others, because he was a strong-
armed, stalwart, iron-natured boon-companion,
always ready to wrestle, or drink, or play. The
first notice, meanwhile, received by Luke of this
untoward intimacy, was by meeting his brother
staggering through the barn-yard gate of Norcroft
one Sunday evening, when he had been obliged to
postpone, till after the last ovening service his
trudge across the fields to obtain a glimpse of Es-
ther, and carry her the plunder of his father's gar-
den, in the shape of his choicest carnations.
Not recognizing at once the fellow, a little the
worse for ale, who came shouldering rudely against
him, Luke endeavored to fling him off; on which
Maurice and Dick Harman, who had been watch-
ing the departure of their friend, the one with a
pipe in his mouth, the other with his hands in his
pockets, rushed forward for the purpose of what
they called “seeing fair play”—or, in other
words, getting up a quarrel.
But Luke could not be provoked into fighting—
more especially with his brother—still more espe-
cially on the Sabbath day.
“I did n’t know him; I did n’t see it was Jack,”
sufficed in his opinion for explanation.
“Then you must have thought 't was one of us.
'Twas for one of us your d d impudence was
intended !”—rejoined Maurice Harman. “So strip,
my fine fellow, and let's see what you're made
of?” added he, rejoicing to have a match at fisti-
cuffs transferred to his shoulders.
“I’ve no quarrel with any one of you, and am
not fond of fighting for fighting's sake,” replied
Luke, thinking more of protecting his carnations
than of protecting himself, as he endeavored to
Ward off the attack of the bully. But the violence
with which both the drunken man and his seconds
now yented their invectives on his “confounded
Spooniness,” luckily brought forth Dame Harman,
who was dozing within, over a volume of occa-
sional, sermons. And though she exhibited the
usual injustice of an umpire by protesting that they
had “all been friends and happy together, and that
there had been no squabbling till Luke made his
ºppearance;” Jack Downing, conscious of seeing
Our cousins and two aunts, and afraid lest he
might chance to see two Esthers, if he did not
skulk off and make the best of his way home to his
Work, abandoned the field to his brother, while the
two grumbling and muttering Harmans trudged
after him to bear him company.
“No good ever com’ yet of quarrels atwixt
* º
brothers tº was Dame Harman's gratuitous exhor-
tation to her younger nephew, as he followed her
with downcast looks into the house.
“ Birds in their little nests agree,’
as I used to teach my lads as soon as they was
coated. And though a scholar, Luke, and a man
grown, you needn't be ashamed, even now, of
larning the lesson.” *
At that moment, Luke was ashamed of nothing.
For at the sound of his voice, Esther, who all the
afternoon had remained in her own room, waiting
528
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
for the close of the carouse to steal down into the
orchard for a breath of evening air, made her ap-
pearance to welcome their visitor; and long before
the conclusion of her mother's homily, the nosegay
had been given and accepted, unperceived by the
somewhat lengthy expounder of Dr. Watts' pleas-
ing philosophy.
But from that evening, poor Luke became less
easy in his love. So great a favorite as Jack ap-
peared to be with his aunt and cousins, might end
by becoming the favorite of Esther herself. To be
sure she said not. Esther assured him that, even
had there been no cousin Luke in the world to
bring her carnations, cousin John would have re-
mained an object of aversion; and it was only
when the younger brother passed with ease under
the doorway of his father's cottage, which compelled
the more finely developed Jack to bow his head, or
surveyed his own inferior proportions, betrayed by
his shadow, when walking homewards at sunset,
that his heart sank within him on reflecting upon
the influence exercised by personal attraction on
every female eye and heart.
Of the charm of his sweet countenance and
gentle address, he knew nothing. But even had
he been aware that many an artist would have
given him his day's worth in gold, to sit as a study
for the head of St. John, or the beloved disciple, he
would have dreaded lest the favor of Esther's family,
the natural love of change, and the passion which,
according to his misgivings, he soon found to be
professed towards her by his brother, might, in the
end, prevail against him.
All this he freely admitted to his only confidant
and friend. For living in undivided affection with
his indulgent father, what other friend or confidant
had he need to seek 1 To all his lamentations,
however, John Downing made his usual reply—
“Bide a bit, my boy, bide a bit till you’re old
enough to step into my shoes. And when you've
got a house over your head, and a living provided
for you to give bread to a family, then, Luke, I'll
step over to Norcroft myself, and have a talk with
my sister about what’s to be done for you, and
settle all with her husband, so as a man in Harman’s
hap is not like to find-fault with.”
To a homestaying man like John Downing, who
had not been half a mile beyond the bounds of the
parish for as many years as Luke was old, the ex-
ertion of “stepping over to Norcroft,” seemed to
ensure half the success of the enterprise.
“But one thing, Luke,” his father could not
refrain from adding, “one thing, my dear boy,
bear always in mind; that however long this wed-
ding may be in coming about, none the less would
be the sin in the sight of God, if you made it a pre-
tence for wishing your brother ill, or withholding
from him the love which the Almighty exacts bc.
tween brethren. Remember, Luke, that however
secret the sin, before the face of the quick and the
dead must be the atonement!. At the last day,
that searching eye which seeth into our inmost
hearts, will judge betwixt thee and thy brother "
=="
CHAPTER III.
Revenge my ſoul and most unnatural murder.
HAMLET.
As months and years passed on, John Downing's
exhortations to his younger son concerning the
virtue of family concord were so often renewed, as
to afford proof that the young man's provocations
!
were neither few nor far between. It is true that
John seldom made his appearance at Hartington ;
never, unless for the purpose of wrangling out 0
his father the means of indulging more costly vices
than were within reach of a farming man's wages.
He usually came penniless, and rarely went away
empty-handed. * tº
But it was not on these occasions he vented his
animosities against his father's favorite and succes-
sor in office. Backed in his own parish by the
parson and constable, his father was a too impor:
tant personage to be trifled with by maltreatment of
his boy; and it was only when they met at Nor-
croft, that Jack took occasion to repay with interest
the double injury of being supplanted with his father
and his love.
His worst usage, however, was borne by Luke
with the courage of the lion and meekness of the
lamb ; always the first to extend his hand for recon"
ciliation, and comforted under the sense of his
wrongs by the certainty not only of being best
beloved by Esther and his father, but that through-
out his native village there existed not a breathing:
soul he did not call his friend. . . . . .
.*
“They all like me. Not a neighbor we have . .
got that would hesitate about doing me a goo
turn”—was his secret reflection; and it served to
make his head lie lighter on his pillow.
*.
*- *
*
|
* *
• *
While things were in this situation, John Down: “”
ing was standing one fine summer morning in his
cottage, with the doors open to admit the dewy
fragrance of the early morn, when a somewhat un"
usual sound became audible, as of an assemblage
of many persons at no great distance. Probably.”
gang of Irish haymakers or harvesters, such as 1... .
summer-time may be found in every county and .
corner of England.
his time in idle speculation, he threw his spade
over his shoulder and proceeded into his garden;
where he was soon hard at work, trenching the
ground, in preparation for some young cabbag”
plants that lay shaded from the sun, under the
bushes hard by.
So busy was he with his task, that he seemed
to take no heed of the gradual approach of thº
movement in question, or that it stopped suddenly,
at about a hundred yards from the hawthorn hedgº
bounding his garden. His foot was on his spadº
and his face bent over it, as if thoroughly ab-
sorbed; nor was it till one of the parties engagº
in the throng alluded to, actually entered
garden, and was standing beside him, that he de-
sisted from his work to look up and recognize tº
intruder. d
It was no Irish haymaker. The broad, haſº
some face of the young fellow who addressed hiº.
was that of a brother cricketer and a favorite co*
pany-keeper of his son Luke. :… his
“Fine morning, Harry !” said he, resuming h
trenching, when he saw who was his visitor. d
“Fine morning, Master Downing !” repº.
Harry Meade, who seemed heated and confusº.
as though he had been drinking. “Is n't Lukº §
and about yet! I want to speak a word **
Luke.” 3
And suiting the action to the word, he Y.
turning to make towards the house, when t II]
clerk, without discontinuing his labors, called hi
back.
“Luke's not at home,” said he.
“Out so early 1” cried Meade, looking
ly vexed and disappointed.
grievou"
Instead, however, of losing
º
g
TEMIPTATION AND ATONEMIENT.
529
“Outsin' yestesday morn,” rejoined his father,
lºſing his spade as actively as either of his
IlS.
“Since yester morning?” reiterated Meade, well
*Ware how little his young friend was in the habit
* quitting home.
“Luke's been talking this long time, you know,
Harry, about goin' to Lon’on to get his ankle
looked at, where the small bone was broke a year
*gone at the Hillfield match,” resumed old Down-
"g. “Mr. Wigswell got him a letter yesterday
9 St. George's hospital from Sir Clement; and
§ay be he took his uncle Harman on the way.
orcroft lies towards the Lon'on road where he
*lked of getting on the coach.”
“And to think of his having choosed yesterday,
Sfall the unlucky days in the year !” cried Meade,
§moving his straw hat for the purpose of wiping
is forehead. “I made sure of findin’ on him—
Sure ! 3 *
, “And can't I do as well for what you're want-
"gº" demanded the old man, apparently a little
"exed in his turn.
“Yes, Master Downin', you will do, you will
do, only too well !” said Harry; his voice becom-
"g thick, and his manner still more confused as he
“inder than I can.
.
*ttempted to proceed. “Only I’d ha’ been glad had
#. been home to take the matter off my
ând. Luke would ha’ broken it to you, may be,
For after all, Master Downin',
here ben't much to be said about things as troubles
"s that can ever make trouble come easy.—All
# lºst out, sooner or later, Master Downin'.-And
m sure you'll bear it like a man, that is, like a
C ristian, when I tell you there 's somethin’ hap-
*
pened hard by, pretty near the worst as could
happen. And as folks is at hand who 'll soon
blurt out the truth, I’d better say it at once,
ſaster Downin'.”
But while threatening to speak out, the poor fel-
low literally stopped from inability to utter a short
Syllable. After a momentary pause, during which
$very vestige of color forsook the face of the clerk,
§§ he stood with his foot resting on the spade, and
!g drops, either from terror or hard labor, rising
§§n his brow, Harry contrived to stammer ºut-
Your poor son Jack’s been foully murdered,
Neighbor Downing. We found the body just now
pon the Hams, a quarter of a mile up the river,
oubled up and cold. They're bringin' on him
°ine, poor fellow, on a hurdle.”.
D he young man was just in time to save poor
ºwning from falling, as, on hearing this tº-
fible
ands. tº
“If Luke had only been here!”, muttered
Meado, as the head of the half insensible, man, he
§§§ holding dropped, heavily on his shoulder.
uke would ha’ broke it to him more nat'rally.
§uke wºº have known how to comfort him.
Better let me lead you into the house. Better not
Bet 'em at the gate;” continued the warm-heart-
te young fellow, whose eyes were moistened with
drS.
J And as though blindness had fallen on him,
ohn Downing submitted to be guided into the
ºttage. The tramp of footsteps was again ap-
Roaching, and he knew that the corpse was at
§d. Smitten as he was, the old man could not
$ºr to render his anguish a spectacle for the
Crowd.
*rrived in the house, he sank into his customary
-chair, with a groan so heavy that it seemed
announcement, the spade dropped from his.
wrung out of the depths of his heart; and covering
his face with his hands, he awaited in inexpressible
agony the coming of the dead.
At length, the sound of measured footsteps on
the path became terribly audible. The crowd was
evidently in the garden; to the utter demolition of
those favorite flowers, so short a time before, how
dearly treasured. Though their voices became
subdued to a reverential whisper as they approach-
ed the presence of the father of (and as they be-
lieved, the brother of) the murdered man, it was
not likely that their deference should extend to
their garden. º:
But they might have trampled on the very heart
of John Downing ere he was sensible of more than
that the murdered body of his first-born was about
to darken, his door!
Already, the shadow of the bearers was on its
threshold. Already, the flesh of the poor father
crept, and his hair stood up, as he knew himself
to be in presence of the son whom, for some time
past, he had not loved as a father, and whose voice
he should hear no more.
Still, however, he did not remove the clasped
hands from his convulsed face. The young men,
the laborers, staggered in with their load. He
heard the gasping of their manly chests. He heard
the creaking of the hurdle. He felt that fearful
object pass him by.
“Lay him on the bed.—There’s a bed in tº oth-
er chamber.—Lay him on the bed;”—said Harry
Meade.
And the men, who had rested for a second,
obeyed. But when they reached the inner door,
the anguish of John Downing burst forth into
words.
“No, no—not there !” said he. “That is his
poor brother's room. Put him into mine. Yon-
der, yonder!” And pointing to the door of the
small lean-to, in which it was his pleasure to
sleep, in order that Luke might be better accom-
modated, he uttered a few incoherent, inarticulate
words; and endeavoring to rise to see that his in-
* were obeyed, rolled insensible upon the
OOT.
When he came to himself, he was seated in his
chair before the cottage door, his neckcloth untied,
and his garments wet with the cold water that had
been humanely flung in his face by those whose
arms still kindly supported him ; and as he came
gradually to himself, and beheld the summer sky
and the vernal beauty of that favorite spot, he
trusted—he fondly, faintly trusted—that the horri-
blo impression on his mind had been all delusion—
all a dream;-that he was still a happy father, that
he might still look up to heaven—still take delight
in his flowers.-
“Harry Meado,” said he, in a subdued voice, on
ascertaining whose brawny arm it was that sus-
tained his head. “Is it you, Harry —Where is
Luke 1–Cannot you call Luke 1–1 want, I want
my son.”— # *
“Luke is gone to Lon’on, neighbor Downing,”
replied the young man, lowering his voice to the
mournful whisper of the sufferer. “But you said
just now as he’d soon be back again.”
“Aye, so I did.—I forgot, Harry.—I was so
lucky as to forget myself a moment. I wish I could
forget myself again—I wish, I wish I could forget
myself for always.”—And turning round towards
the friend of his beloved son, he hid his face in his
breast, and sobbed like a child.
“Don’t take on so, Master Downing, don’t take
530
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
*
on so ſ” cried a rougher voice than Harry's ; the
voice of his old neighbor, Jukes, the wheelwright,
who had hurried to the cottage on learning the ca-
lamity which had befallen to his old friend. “Don’t
take on so, man.—You shall be righted. Poor Jack
shall be avenged.—The spillers of blood shan’t go
free.—We have set people on their track a'ready.
-The constable 's off to the rectory, to ask parson
Wigswell's advice about what magistrate is to be
applied to for a warrant, and holding the crowner's
'quest. As sure as we live before God, neighbor,
murder will out; and the wretch who did this
bloody deed, shall answer on the gallows for the
life of poor Jack.”
Heavy moans were all the agonized father could
utter in reply. But if incapable of speech, he was
not incapable of hearing. And he soon learned
how the reapers, in pushing their way along the
stream to Warling farm, had discovered the body,
lying among the alder bushes; and near it, a reap-
ing hook, with which, it was supposed, the deep
wound in the abdomen had been inflicted, that must
have caused almost instantaneous death.
“Might not accident have done it!—Might n’t
his foot have tripped, if the poor fellow was in
liquor, (as was often the case,) and the hook en-
tered into his body as he fell upon 't!”—demanded
John Downing, who listened with a face as pale as
ashes.
“Not possible. You'll say so yourself, Master
Downin', when you’ve taken heart to look at the
body,” said young Meade. “Besides, there was
marks as of a struggle between two or more, near
the place where the body was lying.”
“Footprints?” demanded the father.
“No ; they can’t be called footprints. For ’tis
where the turf's so oozy, that even the feet of the
cattle coming to drink, don't leave a mark but is
flooded out in an hour or so, by the force of the
stream. But the grass was trailed over with wa-
ter weeds, as though two or three persons had been
pursuing each other into the brook and out again.
and poor Jack's boots and stockings are still wet to
the knee. No doubt some kind of brawl led to the
fatal blow being struck.”
“God sees all, and men will soon know all !”
was the pious ejaculation of the wheelwright.
“You must get up your courage, Downin', to face
all this,” continued he, on perceiving that, in spite
of the endeavors of one or two of those who had
accompanied the body, home, and, by the consta-
ble's orders, were guarding the garden gate against
intrusion, a few of the notables of the village had
forced their way in, and were making their way
towards the clerk, with neighborly inquiries; while
all along the hawthorn, hedge, a line of faces was
perceptible, peering with looks of wonder and hor-
ror into the garden, as if some concluding act of
the tragedy were still to be enacted.
On perceiving this, John Downing was readily
ersuaded to reënter the house; and scarcely had
le sunk once more into his place, when the rector
in person made his way into the house, unshaved,
uncombed, half-dressed; having hurried to the spot
on being waked from his sleep with tidings of the
terrible event which had occurred in his quiet par-
ish ; occurred, too, to the person of all others, who,
next to his own family, he could least afford to see
overwhelmed with affliction.
“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,
Downing !” said he, placing his hand affectionate-
ly on the shoulder of the poor clerk. “It is long
since any of us could expect other than a violent
death for yonder unfortunate young man. Bº
cheer up, Downing; you have still a hopeful child.
You are not left wholly alone. God hath been
pleased to visit you with a sore trial. But yo”
must submit to His will, my good friend; you mus'
submit, unquestioning, to his will ; or Luke, yo."
good boy, your excellent son Luke, may be maº
to pay the penalty of your want of duty. Rende,
your sacrifice, Downing, even as Abraham render®
his sacrifice; for the son whom your soul loveth.”
not his young life also in the hands of the Mos'
High tº -
Just as the kind pastor had anticipated, at th’
sound of that beloved name, the tears of the suffe"
ing man burst forth; and for a time, his sorrow wº
relieved. * &
As soon as he became more tranquil, the partlº.
ulars of the unhappy case were fully entered in!"
by Mr. Wigswell. By his instructions, a ma"
and horse were despatched to Lewes with a suſ.
mons to the coroner, till whose return no furth”
steps could be taken. He also forwarded a lett”
to his friend Colonel Garrett, the nearest m*.
trate, requesting his immediate attendance. An
what better proof of the habitual subordination 9
the village of Hartington, than the difficulty hº
found in deciding what steps were to be taken, aſ
who were the proper persons to be applied to, "
promote the avenging of the spilling of blood?
It was strange enough, as David Jukes observed
aside, in a whisper to his reverence, that the only
crowner's 'quest held in the village in the memory
of man, was in that very house, on the body of poº
Mrs. Downing.
When the business to be done was adjusted, tº
pastor prepared to return home, to satisfy the an”
iety of his terrified family.
“If your reverence could only prevail on Masº.
Downing to look at the body, afore you leave tº
house,” resumed Jukes, in the same whisper, “”
worst would be over, and a load off his mind. Joh"
Downin' is n't the man to resist whatever might
proposed by your reverence.”
“I see no purpose in distressing him by such *
spectacle,” replied the humane clergyman, perhap”
a little in awe of participating in the sorry sig".
“There is no possible advantage to be derived ſº
harrowing his feelings. Far rather that my inſ.
ence could prevail with him to resign himself wº
meekness to the chastisements of the Almighty ill
would ſain hear him say, before I go, God's "
be done l’” 8
A moment afterwards, extending his tremulº.
hand towards his kind master, John Downing ‘.
peated in broken accents, “Yea, God's will
done ſ” as though he had overheard the me.
interposition of the pastor to secure him agains!"
sight which he so much dreaded. b6
“Don’t leave him alone, Jukes. You ca"
trusted to take care of him. You must givº ;
your work for to-day,” said Mr. Wigswell." .
wheelwright, on quitting the cottage. “I will º:
in again presently; but I doubt whether we of-
be able to get the jury summoned before tº. ly
row ; and till then, remember, nothing—absoluº
nothing—must be done to the body.” ise,
The worthy rector was, true to his prºj
But in the interim, manifold had been his dutl Vē
An occurrence of so appalling a nature migh" *::
created consternation, even in such hotbedº thé
crime as Birmingham or Nottingham. But ºn:
quiet Hams of quiet Hartington, in that unin" Old
tal village, the effect was almost alarming.
TEMIPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
531
§ºn prophesied, and young men became speechless.
Mothers grew hysterical, when they thought of
"heir absent sons; and the maidens whose lovers
Mºre also gone forth to the fields, loitered in groups
9: two and three under the old lime-trees, wonder-
"g whether others besides John Downing, had
ºnemies capable of waylaying and slaying a de-
°nceless man.
: All this irritation, old Mr. Wigswell, usually so
§ort, was forced to do his utmost to allay; exert-
"g himself to pacify the poor old bed-ridden crea-
ºres who shuddered lest an assassin should be
*mong them; and exhorting the young and active
"join with him in his efforts to assist the researches
9f justice. It might still be possible to detect the
track of the murderer. # * * * * *
But his greatest task of all was to tranquillize
the mind of his poor old friend, Sir Clement, to
"hom the news had been rashly conveyed by his
*rvants, and who sat trembling in every limb at
"he notion of so heinous a perpetration upon his
Yell-ordered estate. He, who had retreated to
Harington and enjoyed there nearly half a cen-
Mry's seclusion, as the most orderly place upon the
*ce of the habitable globe, to be pursued even to
!s hearthstone by blood-thirstiness and violence
or he felt himself half-murdered in the person of
*ck Downing.—Every nerve was thrilling and
ºry bone aching in the body of the little nervous
"d gentleman, with the merg agony of his fears.
, “My dear friend,” faltered he, in answer to the
Piºus exhortations of the wiser Wigswell, “say
at you will, it is all over with us. I have been
°ng aware of the growing malignity of the rural
Population. I knew what all this over-teaching
ºld over-taxing would do, when brought into col-
Sion. Flint and steel my dear Wigswell, flint
$nd steel ! Hitherto, by the mercy of Providence,
e have had no incendiary fires in this neighbor-
ood. My barns and ricks have been respected;
ºr am I aware of an occasion for the interference
... criminal justice in the parish of Hartington for
¥enty years past. But there is a beginning for
... things; and mark my words, Wigswell, before
9 year comes round, our friend Garret will have
had to despatch half a dozen felons from hence to
the county jail.” º
igswell hoped not, and Wigswell thought
º; and Wigswell having induced the trembling
little baronet to swallow the chocolate, which his
§arcely less agitated body-servant brought frothing
"to the study, Sir Clement, a little restored in
Pits, began to think and hope so too...
fter many hours consumed in the discharge of
these duties, the rector got back to the village,
"ly in time to learn that the coroner had appointed
tº following morning, at ten, for holding the
jº and had sent instructions concerning the
ºnmoning of the iury.
l ll § day, à ãat evening, the household
*hors of the village, nay, even the toils of the
ºld, were left undone; while some sat cowering
Within doors, and some leaned against the shady
"cs of their cottages, neighbor with neighbor
ºussing the dread event of the day. ; what ene-
$nies John Downing had made for himself—what
ºwls he had been engaged in--Surmising how
* poor father, already once so heavily visited,
§uld be able tº and against this new domestic
§amity—now on the aui news would reach
* Luke in London-when the dead would be
jº-and where, if detected, the murderer would
* judged.
So absorbed were they in the details of the case,
the finding of the body, the shock of the first
startled discoveries, the pool of blood in which the
corpse, was lying, the aspect of the poor clerk's
wher: the intelligence was communicated, that they
saw not the sun pursue its path in the heavens and
go down in glory to the west, till the gathering
shades of evening apprized them that the heavy
day was done.
How it sped with the poor, horror-struck old
clerk, it were too grievous to inquire. His friends
surrounded him, like those of the man of Uz;
some declaring they always knew it would end so,
that a violent end awaited the violent youth:
others rebuking him for not having kept a tighter
hand in boyhood over the poor lad, and in his riper
years compelled him to remain at Hartington,
instead of going to service, where indulgence in
vicious courses had doubtless engaged him in evil
company; while one or two went so far as to hint
that his partiality for Luke had roused the devil
within the mind of his elder-born, and driven him
to acts of desperation, rendering him an object of
desperate vengeance. º
But to all this, John Downing answered never a
word. Rebuked by the dread hand of God, he
cared not for rebuking at the lips of mortal man.
Bowed to the dust, he neither listened nor answered.
His meekness was as that of stupefaction. No
word seemed to have reached his understanding
since the one that told him his son was lying dead
by the river-side.
They placed food before him; but he took no
heed, except to moisten his lips with a little water.
They opened, on the table near him, the great book
of the gospels, which had been his father's and his
father's father's before him, and bore the names of
each inscribed in their several hand-writing, and
the names of his two sons, with their date of birth,
carefully entered in his own; a record now to be
followed by that of a judgment how terrible But
there must have been a mist before his eyes. For
he noticed not even that sacred volume, which he
never permitted himself to open with unwashed
hands, or without bending his head.
“Let him alone —let no one harass him 1"–
said his kind patron, when he found him in this
overwhelmed condition. “If left to himself, nature
will work her way.—When Luke comes back, he
will bring healing to his father. If you torment
him by well-mean: consolations, he will perhaps be
unable to afford his evidence to-morrow morning at
the inquest.”
CHAPTER IV.
The brand is on thy brow,
A dark and guilty spot, -
'Tis ne'er to be erased,—
'T is ne'er to be forgot!
The brand is on thy brow,
Yet I must shade the spot,
For who will love thee now
If I º: º: º in’d
oul is dark, is S !
T. out the bright world thrown,
By God and man disdain'd,
But not by me, thy own 1–
Oh! even the tiger slain
Hath one who ne'er doth ſlee,
But soothes his dying pain,_
That one am I to thee! Procton.
When the morning dawned—the morning which
at that season of the year steals so close upon the
steps of midnight—Jukes the wheelwright, who
532
TEMIPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
had repaired to his own house for a few hours' rest,
was astonished, on returning to the cottage, to find
his friend still seated in the old arm-chair wherein
he had desired to be left to his reflections. He
appeared never to have stirred. His eye was
still fixed—his hand still motionless. Yet when,
accosted by his old friend, he turned his face wist-
fully towards him, time appeared to have ‘stirred
mightily with him. Years might have passed over
his head on that single night—so hollow were his
eyes, so furrowed his withered check. Yet though
in looks thus sunken, his soul had gained strength.
He was able to listen while Jukes recounted all that
had been done by the magistrates to further the
ends of justice ; and when, after the arrival of the
coroner, and the calling over of the jury, sum-
moned by the constable, the chosen º arrived
at the cottage to view collectively the corpse which
each had severally viewed the day before, poor
Downing bore the intrusion without flinching; as
he had borne, the evening before, the examina-
tion of the body by the surgeon deputed for that
purpose by Colonel Garrett.
- ot for a moment did he quit his seat, which
commanded a view of ºne inner room, and from
whence every syllable uttered there was audible.
When the jurors quitted the cottage, Jukes still
remained.
“Mr. Wigswell seems to think they will want
ou as a witness, Downing,” said he. “And
arry Meade bade me say, that, if required, he
would come down himself with the constable, from
the Black Lion, to lend you an arm up the lane.”
“I shan’t go f" was Downing's dogged reply.
“I shan’t make my sore trouble a sport for the
eyes of all the folks of the village, assembled no
doubt on the green, to pry into what is going on.”
“Not a sport—don't say a sport, John,” remon-
strated Jukes, perceiving that trouble had some-
what cankered his mind. “Not one on 'em but
has felt for you as neighbors ought.”
And Downing, who knew that it was so, writhed
under the consciousness of his peevish injustice.
“If Luke were here, if Luke were back again
it would be different!” said he, his eyes filling
with tears of repentance: , “But I am alone now,
Master Jukes, alone, and helpless. I can't go up
to the inquest. Tell his reverence, I can't! Surely
they won’t force me—me—a sorely troubled man—
to go and talk about the spilling of my poor boy's
blood?”
“But if what you’ve got to say, goes to help
their laying their hand upon the murderer?”
argued the wheelwright. “ Surely that would
make you overlook your own feelings!”
“His reverence said, at first, that the crowner
would come and take my deposition here, when all
the other witnesses had been examined,” persisted
the clerk. º
“Oh if Parson Wigswell said so, you're safe
enow,” rejoined his companion. And though soon
afterwards the constable made his appearance to
require the attendance of Downing at the Black
Lion, when he saw the state of mind to which the
mere proposal reduced him, he had too much ten-
derness towards his respected old neighbor, not to
hurry back to the court, where both Mr. Wigswell
and Colonel Garrett were in attendance, to entreat
that the “Crowner” and jury would repair once
more to the cottage.
The distance did not exceed five hundred yards.
It would have been monstrous to refuse. The
magistrate and rector were of opinion, indeed, that
the examination might be altogether dispensed
with ; for what evidence could the poor clerk haº”
to give It was known that he was quietly.”
bed and asleep at the time the state of the body,
when found, induced them to conclude the assº”
sination had taken place. -
The coroner, however, thought otherwise. Aſ
his suggestion, John Downing was question?
concerning what enemies the deceased possesse"
and who had anything to gain by his death.
“Poor John had many enemies!” was tº
reluctant reply. “My son's temper was violen;
and when in drink, he was sure to be in quarrels.
He did not, however, like to particularize hº
son’s enemies by name or number. It seem?
like reflecting on the memory of the dead. “A”
to who had aught to gain by his untimely endº.
the only gainer would be his brother—his brothº.
who was the kindest, meekest, and affectionates'
creature upon earth.”
“And where was his brother now, and wher.
was he at the time of the murder” was the ne”
inquiry.
“Both then and now in Lon'on. Luke was º:
out-patient of St. George's Hospital. He hº
gone up with a letter from Sir Clement, to get hº
leg looked to, severely injured by an accident *
cricket.” * d
“Had the young man been made acquaint”
with his brother’s death?”
“Ay! sure—and I'm every hour expecting.”
poor lad home again;” replied John Downing,
with a heavy sigh. €
The coroner now applied to the foreman of . f
jury, (one of the most considerable tenants on Si
Clément Colston's estate,) as to the propriety º
adjourning the inquest till the younger Downing
evidence could be forthcoming. But this propº.
was coldly received. . The time of such jurº.
those of Hartington, is worth to them so much P.9
hour, and they were all disposed to make the º:
day lost to them, suffice. Moreover, the state."
the weather rendered desirable the early interm”
of the body.
All’present, therefore, were unanimous in %.
sition to an adjournment. What light could L.
Downing possibly throw upon the matter?
was at sixty miles distance when the murder.
committed. It was, in fact, because his brº.
had promised to sleep at his father's during
absence, that the unfortunate young man. ".
making his way to Hartington, when waylaid by
one or other of the numerous enemies created ſor
his lawless life, for purposes of vengeance, nº nd
purposes of plunder—since his pockets were .
to contain all the money he had about him on . eſ
ting Norcroft, amounting to a small sum in º' ;
and halfpence ; as well as a handsome pocket. i.
still more likely to have become an object of "*
depredation. ing
he jury agreed, therefore, that Luke Dow.
the º, worthiest, and softest-hearted yº” f
man in the village, might be spared the tormer"
a useless interrogatory in a public court. er-
An open verdict of “Wiiful. Mundºn by.
son or persons unknown,” was accordingly retº". 6
But the evidence afforded by the surgeon.9 nd
nature of the wound inflicted upon the victim.
the next to impossibility but that the assassi". Iſ?
have been saturated with his blood, aſſorded º O
sort of hope of discovery to the magistrates . . 1U 9
the moment the verdict was announced, repulſº
the rectory to draw up minutes to be forwarde
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
533
the metropolitan police, and deliberate on the further
Steps to be taken.
. Meanwhile, poor Downing was led home by the
Fiend of his son. But so far from having to
undergo by the road the molestation he dreaded,
lot a creature of the village but carefully avoided
neeting the afflicted man. Church-lane was as
Silent and solitary for his transit, as on the Sabbath
uring the celebration of divine service. Strangely
°nough, however, as the poor clerk pursued his
Way down the hill, his downcast eyes falling upon
e oozy channel that occupied one half of the road,
Fecalled to his mind even in the extremity of his
§rief, the ominous foot-print he had discovered
here the preceding year;--a memento of the mys-
°rious interview so long forgotten.
“If I had then fallen into temptation,” mused
the heartbroken man, “I should have felt, perhaps,
At this moment, as if my present misery were a
Judgment at the hands of God!”
On arriving at home, though his foot lingered on
the threshhold, so great was his reluctance to
*ēnter the presence of Death, it was rather a
§rievance than a comfort that his neighbor Jukes
ãd profited by his absence to see the last duties
§ischarged to the dead. With the aid of the alms-
Ouse nurse, the body had been washed, shrouded,
*nd placed in its coffin ; and though livid streaks
Were already apparent on the face, no one had
!ºoked upon that fine young man, untimely cut off
* his sin, but admitted that his countenance was
*suming in death an aspect of gentleness and
*renity, such as, in his lifetime, had been foreign
"o his turbulent nature.
“Just take a single look, at the poor fellow,
heighbor Downin’,” said the wheelwright, after
§eplacing the clerk in his arm-chair, “and you will
e comforted. He looks for all the world as happy
*nd peaceful as a child.”
But the boreaved father would not be entreated.
§e had not yet looked, nor could he be induced to
look, upon the face of his son,
“It will only disturb my mind. I am more easy
*ow,” said he.
e even proposed that, as the funeral was
*ppointed to take place on the following morning;
e carpenter, who was still on the premises, should
‘lose the coffin at once. - º
* “It will put an end to idle curiosity,” said he,
and the summer weather may perhaps bring about
Thore afflicting change.”
ut to this Jukes strongly objected. º
i...Don't have the coffin screwed dºwn before his
rother arrives?” said he, almost indignantly. “I
how poor Luke's affectionate heart. I know his
. feelings. He would never forgive us, if we
$nied him a sight of the brother whom, in spite
ºf all Jack's lawless acts and misdoings, he loved
&S learly as dearly might be.”
D heavy groan was the only responso. For
jing new, by long professional observation,
. the afflicted are never masters in their own
°use; that in moments of trouble, every Stranger
and every fool feels entitled to dictate.
t ll he begged further, therefore, was to be left
°himself. He wanted to be alone. He wanted
8t Sustain his mind with prayer, that he might have
.gth to confer with his son Luke, on his arrival
r home. It would be a trying time. He wanted
* that he might meet it with composure.”
fai eluctantly, (for Jukes and his wife had little
* in the salutary effects of solitude, but on the
contrary, entertained a notion that the human mind
is only to be eased by much outpouring of its grief
in friendly talk;) reluctantly did the kind neighbors
bend their steps towards their own homes. They
proposed, indeed, sending one of their children over
to the cottage once or twice in the course of the
evening, to see how Downing was, and whether he
wanted for anything. But of this he would not
hear. “He could want for nothing, except the
comfort vouchsafed him from on high; and it would
be a trying thing to one of the poor children to
enter that awful house ! By the evening, too, Luke
would arrive by the Lewes coach, and he should
no longer be alone.”
No sooner were º gone, than, the better to
secure his tranquillity, John Downing closed and
barred the door of the cottage, which, during the
summer season, invariably stood open; the window
shutters being already up to prevent the sun from
shining into the house of death. And now all was
still, and all was lonely, and all was dark, save the
one bright ray of sunshine slanting across the room
from the round opening in the shutter. None
remained under that doomed roof but the murdered
man in his coffin, and the father whose heart was
bleeding from a wound equally fatal.
The pastor, the only person living of sufficient
authority to knock and know that the door would
be opened, was up at the Hall, with his poor old
friend; acquainting him with the proceedings of
the inquest, and cheering him with hopes that, now
the metropolitan police had got the matter in hand,
the murderer must be speedily detected ; while Sir
Clement, with blue lips and a slight quivering of
the cheek, sat with his hand fast locked in that of
his companion, listening to details every syllable
of which caused his thin blood to curdle.
Meanwhile the churchyard of Hartington for
once replaced the favorite green as the rendezvous
of the village. Into the deep grave which had
been digged to receive on the morrow the body of
the victim, every one chose to look down, as though
the darkness of the pit had more to unfold concern-
ing, the dread event than the open light of day;
shaking their heads in sad response to the lamenta.
tions of David, the gray-headed sexton, who could
not restrain his tears while relating how “them
poor, Downin' boys had used to play about him in
the churchyard, after they'd lost their mother; and
how little he'd ever thought, in them days, of livin'
to make a grave for e'er a one o' their young heads.”
t was late in the evening. The jackdaws had
long deserted their perch on the weathercock creak-
ing on its iron rod above the ivy-covered old tower,
before the last of the visitors quitted the spot,
friends of either Jack or Luke, who had made their
Way to Hartington at the close of their day's work.
ne, and all, however, had asked leave of their
employers to attend the sad ceremony of the mor-
row. The murder was the great tragedy of the
country round: and such a gathering was expected
at the funeral, as never had been seen in Hart-
ington. t
At last, night came on, as dark as if overshad-
owed by the coming event. When the last strag-
gler, (one of the young Harmans from Norcroft)
quitted the churchyard, the dim twilight had given
place to a leaden sky. , Not so much as a single
star twinkled out from the heavens, as a beacon of
hope to the mourners. -
ut to them what mattered the gloomy aspect of
the sky!
534
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind
On grief's vain eye, the blindest of the blind.
And had the fairest moonlight softened the surface
of things, the soul of John Downing, as he sat
beside his lonely hearth, would not have been léss
black with despair.
But if he saw not with his eyes, his ear was not
equally deadened. Now that every human being
was asleep in the village, and he was secure from
all fear of intrusion, the cottage door was once
more placed ajar to admit the sweet night air that
came sweeping over his beds of flowers; and he
sat and listened, as though there were something
soothing in the gentle rustling of the leaves, as the
long streamers of the variegated grass swept
against each other in the flower-pot near the door.
It was as a supernatural whispering, the voices of
garden-haunting sprites communing with each
other of their tasks.
At length, the listening man started up. His ear
had caught a distant sound, for which, apparently,
it had been long on the watch, the sound of coming
footsteps. Yes; he was not mistaken . There
were feet upon the sand near the brook. There
were steps in the lane. The garden-wicket was
cautiously opened. The gravel on the path creaked
under advancing feet. “He was come at last!”
Stealing out into the darkness, with his heart
swelling so as almost to suspend his breath, he
advanced to meet the person who was coming
under the shadow of night.
“All's safe, all's well,” said he, whispering
faintly, though no living soul was near but him lie
came to welcome. “God bless thee, Luke' God's
mercy bless thee, boy! All's well !
He was about to fall on the neck of his son,
when the light of the watchlight within gave to
view the features of the individual whose arm he
was grasping. No It was not his son
His first movement was to drag the intruder into
the cottage, to determine who had thus nefariously
taken his place. His next was to recoil with
horror, as the movement brought him face to face
with one, beheld but once, and yet beheld too often:
The stranger of the preceding year! As thoug
his presence there on such a night, at such an hour,
were not of suſliciently evil omen, poor Downing
staggered back to his chair with the cold dew of
anguish rising on his brow, on discerning that ”
smile of sarcastic triumph brightened the Satan!”
face of his midnight guest.
A BRITISH OFFICER ON THE MEXICAN WAR.
Inquiry having been made of us for a letter at-
tributed to a British officer of large military expe-
rience, upon the American plan of campaign against
Mexico, we find a place for the whole letter. It
was originally contributed to the Montreal Gazette :
—Picayune.
Tb the editor of the Montreal Gazette:
SIR-If the American press, which exults in the
rivilege, rather American than dignified, of mak-
ing, if possible, its own government appear con-
temptible, has succeeded in bewildering the Mexi-
cans by its crude and ridiculous conjectures on the
designs of the war authorities, as completely as it
has bewildered its own countrymen, the service
done the “state” has been most patriotic.
Instead, however, of being involved in a daily
changing vortex of puerile perplexities, as it has
pleased these papers to represent, the government,
having a feeble foe to deal with, commenced hos.
tilities upon a well-digested plan of operations, and
has pursued them with undeviating regularity; nor
was there but one possibility that could cause a de-
viation. In the catalogue of contingencies, there
was a possibility that some party in Mexico might
receive Gen. Taylor with open arms, as an instru-
ment for elevating it to supreme power. The en-
thusiastic Mr. Bancroft, of the navy department,
may have given it some consideration, while his
sagacious colleague, Mr. Marcy, of the war de-
partment, would give it very little, and the result
has proved that it was worthy of none at all.
The original design has therefore gone steadily
forward, which was simply a succession of inva-
sions or attacks on the “flank” of Mexico, each of
which cuts off her territory, at a certain parallel,
and paralyzes her authority to the north of it. For
the west “flank,” or coast, the fleet stationed in
the Pacific was quite sufficient—and Col. Steven-
son's regiment, which has gone round to garrison
the posts to be maintained, is a stronger force than
the Mexicans ever had at their place of destination.
It is singular that anything should appear iſ
print so supremely silly as the idea of Gen. Woo
and Gen. Kearny marching to the city of Mexicº,
the journey being some two thousand miles, wiſ
all their supplies to be brought that distance.”
wagons, through an enemy's country; and as 1".
sufferably silly are the continued reports of largº
bodies of Mexican troops either in California or tº
northern departments, or “shortly expected,” ſº
it is well known that Capt. Fremont, of the U. º'
Topographical Engineers, has explored, and cº
tinues to explore the country through to the Pacifiº
in every direction, with a detachment of fifty dº.
goons, which have thus far been sufficient to resist
all the “armies” to be found there.
The first movement (not in order of time, but
geographically) is that of Gen. Kearny, who, wº
2700 men, has proceeded west from Missouri t()
Santa Fé, 600 miles south of the American boº.
dary at 42 degrees. His command will maint”
possession of this very liberal slice of Californ. 3.
part may be pushed forward to the Pacific, (1*.
miles,) and he may open to the south a commº.
cation with Gen. Wool; but the march to Mex”
must be laid aside, as one of those Munchau;.
fantasies for which “letter-writers” are becom"
celebrated. Iſl
Gen. Wool, with 5000 men, is proceeding º i-
San Antonio de Bexar, due west 500 miles, 19 C º
huahua, which is 300 miles south of Santa Fé, .
500 north of Monterey, and spreading his ſº.
westerly, through the departments of Chill.
and Sonora, he will occupy all the comma" .
positions to the Gulf of California, (500 miles).
thus cut off another slico from which the author"
of Mexico must withdraw. te-
Gen. Taylor has, as we know, reached Mº'.
rey, with orders to take Saltillo, which, appº".
be on the table land, at the head of the Pº
“Canada,” leading down to Monterey, in the ar"
land." Sºltiio and the pass, when taken and ;
risoned by the volunteers, will protect the ions
lands to Matamoras, and the Gulf from invº
AMPUDIA's FIRST DESPATCH.
585
of the Mexicans, and thus enable the general to
E. south with the regular troops to San Luis
otosi, 400 miles. The long-talked-of march from
Saltillo to Mexico will turn out another campaign
of the “letter-writers,” for where no portion of
the population are favorable to the invaders, and all
supplies must be brought from the rear, (that is
900 miles from Camargo,) it would require 30,000
men to keep communications open and conduct
wagon trains, to say nothing of the fighting part.
eople who buy their beef in the market don't cal-
culate how many wagons it would take to draw the
provisions of 10,000 men, and provender for their
horses, 1000 miles.
Gen. Patterson is ordered upon Tampico, a
place of no strength ; but, if I remember rightly,
there is but ten feet of water on the bar, and, con-
sequently, no vessels of war, except schooners, can
get in. #. city is 400 miles south of Matamoras,
and being accessible to small craft and steamboats,
supplies for an American army, operating in the
rear, could be placed there with great economy,
despatch and facility. San Luis Potosí lies about
200 miles west of Tampico, 400 miles south of
Monterey, and 350 miles north of the City of
ſexico. The ease with which men and supplies
can be thrown on this point will probably make
it the pivot of American operations in Mexico
lººr, during the winter, should hostilities con-
lſlue.
The last movement in the plan will be the cap-
ture of San Juan de Ulua and Vera Cruz; for the
“naval heroes” must have their share of the “glo-
Ey.” The possession of neither Tampico nor Vera
Cruz was desirable in summer, for the climate of
the low or hot country of Mexico, in this region,
(tierras calientas,) has the reputation of being, at
that season, deadly to strangers. The castle is
*poken of as amazingly strong, which is good poli-
by, for otherwise there would be but little glory in
its reduction; but as the Americans can bring an
immense weight of metal to bear against it, I do
not think the exploit will amount to much, after
all. San Juan de Ulua was built a “long, long
time ago,” when engineers were not quite so sci-
$ntific as at present, and when attacks from artil-
£ry of modern calibre were little dreamed of in
at quarter. tº
If there be not masonry not exceeding six feet
ick exposed to shot, and parapets of four feet and
* half—and if there be not bomb-proofs that have
"ouble enough to support their own weight, slight
§ it is, without having bomb-shells falling on
them, I am mistaken. 5uring the latter days of
Spain's dominion in America, all the public works
Yere tending to decay and ruin; and as all the
ghting of the Mexicans has been among them-
*lves, they have had no cause for keeping up a
àstle' out at sea. The French certainly made
*hort work of it; nor have I much faith in the re-
Orted “repairs.”. A new “water battery” is
lentioned, which, if it exists at all, is probably an
xterior work—a mere platform, from which the
Šunners would be driven at the opening of a can-
onade. -
I have thus described five distinct attacks on the
ank” of the Mexican dominions, which, if suc-
§ssful, will confine Mexico to the table land, and
"e the Americans all the rest, with open, free
junication to their own country, along the
hole line for supplies and reinforcements.
M era Cruz is about 300 miles from the city of
*xico, and apparently, though the route of San
$4
Luis Potosi has peculiar advantages, those who
would revel in the “halls of Montezuma,” had bet-
ter march, as the shortest cut, by the main direct
road, passing Jalapa. # *
I have set down distances in miles, on a rough
calculation, merely as a guide to your readers
though they may be longer to those who have tº
march them, but they are sufficiently accurate to
show that the whole eastern side of the Mexican
possessions, from the 42d degree of latitude, and
Santa Fé to Vera Cruz, a line say of 2500 miles,
is now covered by American troops or ships of war, .
and though so immensely long, all perfectly safe in
its rear, and resting upon supplies. If the Ameri-
can government has not, to gratify their newspa-
pers, brought the war to maturity with the hasty
expedition of a ninety-day note or a shipment of
flour, it has, in a short time, established a grander
base of operations (in extent) than has ever been
seen in modern warfare.
These observations are not intended to censure
or approve anything going forward; but simply
to explain what it appears originally was, and
what continues to be, the “programme” of the
Wär,
AMPUDIA's FIRST Despatch.-The Union has
received a copy of Ampudia's first despatch to the
Mexican secretary of war touching the capitulation
of Monterey, and furnishes the following transla-
tion of it. It is not too harsh to say of it, that it
declares one flagrant falsehood—we allude to “the
scarcity of ammunition which was beginning to be
felt:”—Picayune. -
. Most ExcelleNTSIR-After a brilliant defence,
in the course of which the enemy was repulsed,
with the loss of fifteen hundred men, from various
posts, he succeeded in possessing himself of the
heights commanding the Bishop's Palace, and an-
other to the south of it, and likewise of a detached
breastwork called the Teneria, and continuing his
attacks through the houses, which he pierced in a
direction towards the centre of the city, he suc-
ceeded in posting himself within half gun shot of
the principal square, where the troops were posted,
who suffered much from the hollow shot.
Under these circumstances, I was requested by
various principal officers to come to such terms as
would diminish our losses; for to open our way
with the bayonet, surrounded as we were by en-
trenched enemies, would have resulted in the dis-
persal of the troops, and nothing of the materiel
would have been saved. These considerations
having been weighed by me, I also took into view
what the city suffered and would suffer from the
attacks, by the piercing of the houses, as well as
the destruction by the bombs; the scarcity of am-
munition which was beginning to be felt ; the pro-
visions which we were losing, as the enemy's lines
approached the centre; the distance from our sup-
plies, and finally that to protract this state of things
for two or three days, even if it were possible to
do so, could not end in a triumph, and I consented
to open propositions, which resulted in the annexed
terms of capitulation. º
Your excellency will perceive that they preserve
the honor of the nation and that of the army; and
it is to be observed, that if they do not grant us as
much as was perhaps expected, that of itself proves
the superiority of the enemy, not in valor, which
he displayed in most of the combats, but in his po-
sition within the squarcs of pierced masonry, which
536
THE SONG OF THE BELL.
surrounded the square and cut off any suppliès of
provisions, wood, or other articles necessary to
subsistence.
With the greatest regret, the army withdraws
from their capital, abundantly watered with its
blood, leaving under the guarantee of the promises].
of the American generals the severely wounded
and the neighboring population of the state, whose
civil authorities will continue in the exercise of
their functions. To-morrow I shall continue my
march to Saltillo, where I will await the orders of
the supreme government. And in communicating
this to you, I have the honor to reiterate the assur-
ances of my highest respect.
PEDRO DE AMPUDIA.
God and liberty
Headquarters in Monterey.
September 25, 1846.
-ºš
From the Buffalo Commercial Advertiser.
THE SONG OF THE BELL,
WAKE, Wake, Wake :
Up, sluggard, up ! the sun appears
Awake, awake—thy bed forsake
Before the ſlowers have dried their tears
Before the last star sinks away,
Lost in the golden hues of day.
Hark, the Matin Bell
Sounds o'er hill and dell
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Bread, Bread, Bread!
Merchant, scholar and artisan,
Hasten, hasten—the board is spread—
Thank the Giver, thou thankless man
How many poor ones hear my voice,
Yet never, never like thee rejoice
At the dinner Bell,
With its peal and swell,
Ding, Dong, Bell.
One, Two, Three :
Hark, the numbering of the hours
Mark, mark, the moments swiftly flee—
The past the present still devours.
Seven and eight and nine and ten.
They never will return again.
Mark the hourly Bell
Its oft-told story tell,
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Fire, Fire, Fire!
Hurry the engine, hearts of oak,
For the flame is rising—higher, higher
Man on the ladder, mind your stroke
Dash in the window—grasp that child,—
Pass him along—the mother is wild
Peal, peal, the Fire Bell,
Crash, crash—who was it fell ?
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Toll, Toll, Toll
As the dark hearse moves o'er the lea.
Toll, toll, toll for the passing soul
Whose earthly house dissolved must be
Dust goes to dust and earth to earth,
Cease, careless trifler, cease thy mirth,
For the funeral Bell
Soon will ring thy knell,
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Peal, Peal, Peal
he merry, merry Marriage Bell—
Two hearts are joined for woe or weal,
Together, while life lasts, to dwell. '
Pcal out—the golden knot is tied,
Who would not bless the fair young Bride
List—the merry Bell
The joyful tidings tell.
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurrah!
The battle’s done, the town is won,
The thunder notes of victory
Drown the cry of the desolate one ;
Fathers, husbands, children are slain,
Who heeds the dead? Who heeds the pain
While the pealing Bell
The victor notes swell,
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Hürry, Hurry, Hark away !
The steam-ship vomits fire and smoke,
'Gainst wind and tide she moves to-day
With hundred arms and giant stroke—
Like a fiery steed she pants and springs,
Let go there, men, the last bell rings.
Run, run, the ship Bell,
Rush on board pell-mell.
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Pray, Pray, Pray!
The Sabbath Bell rings solemnly
For thy soul's good, oh, come away,
Visit the house of prayer to-day;
Listen to the gospel, given
To guide thee on the road to heaven.
Hark, the Sabbath Bell
To win thy soul from hell.
Ding, Dong, Bell.
Rest, Rest, Rest?
Weary laborer—go to thy bed
Under the eye of the Ever-Blest,
Who watches thy defenceless head;
Sleep while the gay, the rich, the proud,
Weave in the dance an early shroud,
Though the Vesper Bell
Hath warned them well.
Ding, Dong, Bell.
APACE, APACE.-Rowing on the Thames, the W.
terman confirmed me in what formerly I had lear”
from the maps; how that river, westward, runs
crooked, as likely to lose itself in a labyrinth of
own making. From Reading to London by laſ”
thirty; by water a hundred miles. So wanton)
that stream disporteth itself, as iſ as yet unresolº.
whether to advance to the sea or retreat to its fou"
tain. ible
But the same being past London, (as if seniº
of its former laziness, and fearing to be checked.”.
the ocean, the mother of all rivers, for so long 19.
ing; or cise, as if weary with wandering, and 12.
to lose more way; or lastly, as if conceiving .
wildness inconsistent with the gravity of his chan".'
now grown old and ready to be buried in the sº!
runs in so direct a line, that from London to Gº.
end, the number of the miles are equally twenty”
by land and by water, Oh
Alas! how much of my life is lavished away? f-
the intricacies, windings, wanderings, turnings,
giversations of my deceitful youth ! I have livº
the midst of a crooked generation, and with.'
have turned aside unto crooked ways. High tº:et
is now for me to make straight paths for my . .
and to redeem what is past by amending what aſl
present and to come. Flux, flux, (in the G.
tongue quick, quick,) was a motto of Bishop J. e. &
presaging the approach of his death.. Myśl.
good use thereof, make haste, make haste; God!"
ñow little time is left me, and may I be a good
Ul
sº £f
band to improve the short remnant thereof—Full
LITTELL's LIVING AGE.-No. 136–19 DECEMBER, 1846.
From the Christian Observer for November.
FRANCE AND Spain—AND THE BALANCE OF
POWER.
The continent of Europe is very much in the
condition of what mathematicians call unstable
equilibrium. In stable equilibrium—that is, where
the centre of gravity is below the point of suspen-
sion or support—there is a tendency in the mass,
when disturbed, to right itself; it may be agitated,
or oscillate, for a time, but gravity does its duty
and restores it to its poise. Not so where the con-
ditions are unstable; cvery agitation then throws
the centre of gravity further from its line of support;
each increment of swerving increases the danger;
there is no self-restoring principle; and a feather
added to the weight on this side or that, overbalances
the whole, and precipitates the catastrophe.
Our own happy country has often proved itself to
be in the stable position; and we see no reason to
doubt but that, by the blessing of God, it will con-
tinue to be so. The mighty pyramid of its institu-
tions rests not upon its vertex but its base. Were
it in the former condition, a totter would become an
overthrow ; and cven where there seemed not a
breath of wind to shake the fabric, its materials
having no erect support, and being kept together
only by cohesion, might crack and split, and one
fragment detached would destroy the balance of the
whole. But resting upon the broad, solid basis of
its well-balanced constitution; having a free popular
parliament, an unshackled press, equal laws and
liberties for all its vast population, and a general
system of self-control and mutual dependence, from
the house of lords to the parish vestry, from the
palace to the cottage, from the queen to the constable,
each atom rests upon another; the basis widens
with the superincumbent weight; and even, the
crown, though high in dizzy air, has the whole
pyramid for its support. We have had a Saxon
heptarchy; a Norman conquest; Tudor attempts at
espotism; and a Laud and Charles on the one
hand, and a Prynne and Cromwell on the other; a
commonwealth and a kingly restoration; again a
revolution and a kingly abdication or ejection; not
to mention subsequent alternations, down to the ten-
pound suffrage revolution and the corn-law revolu:
tion; and yet, after every earthquake the pyramid
has stood firm and erect; no external force has
overturned it; the chippings which have sometimes
frightened us with their explosions and clouds of
dust, have not rended the edifice to its centre or its
foundation; and if any danger is to be apprehended,
it is perhaps lest, the basis should be so much
expanded, while the elevation remains the same,
that there might be some liability of the centre
sinking, like an arch too much flattened or deprived
of its key-stone. The United States of America
show us that democracy may spread out so widely
as to become loose and disjointed for want of the
hesion of a due portion of aristocracy. ... The one-
eaded and seven-tailed dragon glided easily through
the hedge; while the one-tailed and seven-headed
Stuck fast and was killed. The American Union is
$ne of the freest places upon earth for those who
old market-house opinions, and make town's talk
CXXXVI. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI. 34
. #. '. º man who has to
àr Convicti
a dislike to tar and feathers. #. s.
their confederation hitherto, because this has j
for their mutual interest; but let Maine find that it
would better itself by splitting from Georgia, or
Kentucky from New York; Utica from Troy Or
Buffalo from Schenactady, and flat falls the fabric of
the Union into “the dust and powder of individu-
ality.” In England, of late years, there has been
a tendency to widen the extension and snub the
altitude ; and thus the arch or the pyramid might
fall in ; were it not for counterposing forces which
come in to buttress up the antagonistic masses.
These rectifying aids are derived from the very
nature of our free constitution; for though all can-
not rise, yet some of all conditions may, and man
do; and thus aristocracy gains zealous and able
recruits from democracy. The village grammar-
school boy may become an archbishop; and the
apothecary’s son lord chancellor. . The youth who
melts glue and ſlogs flooring boards, aspires to be a
builder; and when he has erected a house in car
penter's Gothic style, and let it to a retired citizen,
he is as stout a conservative as a duke. A chartist
attorney declaims himself into the good graces of a
municipal corporation; a radical tradesman gets a
contract from the parish vestry; the old ranting dema-
gogue has become boot-maker to Lord A., or con-
fectioner to Lady B. ; and all are now quiet citizens,
and take things as they are. The alderman who
dipped his hands in a log-wood vat, or was adroit
in pitching and catching Dutch cheeses, has sent
his son to Eton, and allows him a tandem for the
honor of the family. There is no fear of that
household wishing to overturn the constitution.
The cotton-spinning class merges into tho pheasant-
slaying class; Bright, Cobden, and Hawes add M.
P. to their names; and the son of “Old Peel.”
might long ago have been an earl if he pleased.
Thus the pyramid keeps its proportions and its
strength; and the little sparkling diadem at the top,
though pressing a female brow, seems in no special
danger.
But the continental powers—for the most part—
are not thus happily balanced, either individually or
collectively. There are shakings and rockings;
and where those affect bodies not poised in the line
of stable support, there is eminent danger. France
stands on its vertex, not its base. It has been kept
in forced cohesion against gravity ever since the
revolution of the Barricades, by the skill and pru-
dence of one man; who, though he wears a crown,
is neither young nor, immortal. Russia, Prussia,
Austria, and the small despotisms of Germany, are
in an inverted condition, with a broad body and a
narrow base; and a very little force from within or
without might overset them, and convert autocrac
into republicanism...The new pope saw this danger
in his peculiarly ticklish empire; and Very wisely—
and we would hoºk upºn principle as well as policy
—determined to liberalize its institutions, in order
to prevent their subversion. . Whether he has yet
discovered the true centre of Oscillation, we know
not; but all the states of Italy are on a knife-edge
balance. Switzerland also, thongh from different
53S
FRANCE AND SPAIN, AND THE BALANCE of Power.
causcs, is in a state of great agitation. The demo-
• cratical element preponderates in its cantons; and
has lately exploded in Geneva. The revolutions
and counter-revolutions in Spain and Portugal, are
so numerous and labyrinthine, that we never
attempt to chronicle them. There has just been a
new one in Portugal; and the seeds of one or more
are sown in Spain by the marriage of a French
prince with the queen's sister, the remonstrances
of the Carlists against the royal alliance, and the
violence done to the Treaty of Utrecht and the
balance of European power; and the consequent
differences of opinion, or of interest, in England,
France, Austria, Prussia, Russia, and Spain itself.
One hears the frequent foreboding that all Europe
seems resting upon a smouldering volcano; that
some explosion will occur, and that the fire once
enkindled will spread widely; but when, how, or
where, who shall predict 4 Europe was not more
visibly agitated previously to the outburst of the
revolutions in 1830, than it is at the present mo-
ment; and heaps of fulminating materials have
accumulated since that eventful era. It is often
with political craters, as it was in the divine inflic-
tion upon the cities of the Plain, that the impend-
ing catastrophe is not indicated by preternatural
phenomena. “The sun was risen upon the earth
when Lot entered Zoar.” It was perhaps a bright
summer's morning ; the air might be calm and the
sky azure, so that the faithless, apprehended no
danger; yet the very next words are, “The Lord
rained” “brimstone and fire from the Lord out of
heaven.” The next war of Europe, Mr. Canning
predicted, would be a war of opinions. The events
of 1830 verified his omen; but that war was only
partial ; in France and Belgium the insurgents
were victorious; but Russia, Austria, and Prussia
resisted the shock. But the assailants are still
numerous and powerful ; and at a given signal all
Europe may be in a political conflagration. When
elements are predisposed for an explosion, there
wants but little to precipitate it. The chemist in
* his laboratory pictures to us the play of affinities in
the moral world. Here is a lock of cotton; it is
soft, unsullied, and elastic ; nought has touched it
but one of the constituents of the gentle air we
breathe ; but it is secretly prepared for the match;
—it explodes, and nothing remains to indicate its
original fabric. Yonder is a vial of water cooled
down unnaturally below the freezing point, under
forcible conditions which prevent its following its
bent. Shake it not 3–there ; a touch has caused
it to rush to ice. Yonder vase is transparent; you
discern not that it contains anything but pellucid
air. The electric spark suddenly awakens dormant
cnergies; and out bursts a vast fuliginous cloud,
which descends in black massy flakes, apparently
generated from nothing. Look again; that solu-
tion is transparent; you know not that it is super-
saturated with materials disposed to crystallize, but
suspended by art. You drop a fragment of an
affiliated crystal into the inert compound ; and in
an instant the liquid has turned to a mass of solid
crystals. In the vicissitudes of empires, the match,
the spark, the crystal of affinity, the touch of
vibration, may be a Maseniello, a Wat Tyler, a
Cromwell, a Bonaparte—in Paris it was a squadron
of newspaperites—and then, “Who would have
thought it?” England has weighty duties to dis-
charge in the play of international affinities; and it
becomes her not to shrink from her obligations.
She may do much to promote peace, to heal strifes,
to induce her neighbors to see their mutual inter-
and little good has come of it.
ests, and to persuade them not to stand in their
own light. We are not now speaking of her more
solemn and bounden duty in reference to religious
and spiritual labors—perhaps that is rather the
business of individuals than of governments;–but
as a powerful, an enlightened, and a free nation,
she may use her moral influence with great effect
to promote the general welfare. But why should
she meddle with internal dissent? Proverbs
xxvi. 17. * -
Such being the state of various continental
nations, is it not the interest or the duty of Queen
Victoria's government to cultivate, as much as
possible, friendly relations with all, but to meddle
as little as may be with the internal disputes of
any In the affair of the Spanish marriages, the
nation cannot repose the same confidence in Lord
Palmerston which it did in Lord Aberdeen, for the
exercise of statesman-like wisdom and dignified
forbearance, so as neither to relinquish our just
osition, nor to provoke hostility in retaining it:
e have interfered just enough to be foiled and
made to look small, without, we fear, effecting any
good purpose. We have protested against the
marriage, but not hindered it; we sulked and were
laughed at ; our ambassador shut himself up in
miff in his dark room, while the Spanish court
were dancing, bull-fighting, and illuminating ; and
Lord Palmerston has vainly protocolled with M.
Guizot in despatches destined to weigh down some
future parliamentary blue-book. There has been a
great deal too much of sealing-wax and red-tape
exhausted between England and the continental
powers, both before and since the peace of Utrecht,
The balance of
Europe in days to come, or even for the passing
hour, is not within the control of any one, or all,
the great powers of the civilized world; yet every
nation must hold itself ready to trim it, at what:
ever risk of war and bloodshed. France talks of
sending troops to Switzerland, to help the Switzers
to arrange their domestic institutions. If the
queen of Spain should have no child to come to the
throne, then of course England is to go to war with
France, to prevent one family having influence in
two kingdoms; though such a compact is just as
likely to hamper and weaken one or both thosº
nations, as to consolidate them to the injury 0
others. Austria again is looking jealously at the
internal affairs of the papal states; and keeping its
bayonets bright for service in Italy; and Russiº
and Prussia are equally on the alert against every
tendency to place their own institutions, and the
toppling governments of Germany, upon the bas.
of the pyramid instead of its vertex. Surely it.
cannot be the duty or the wisdom of England 19
become either a make-plot or mar-plot in thes”
intricate entanglements of continental policy aſ
impolicy. In intrigue France can always out!”
us; in diplomatic formalities we are no match ſº
Austria. Even at the congress of Vienna, Dng
land, which had achieved the great European *
tory, sent only her straight-forward Wellingtº:
and her constitutionally restricted Castlereagh.”
cope with a Metternich and a Talleyrand. t
do not consider this to our national dishonors.”
it should lead us to discern where our strength”
and not to adventure without necessity where wº
are weak, and are likely to be foiled without effect
ing any good purpose. ... Even politically spe;!
the visionary balance of power concerns us, in 9 ©
insular situation, much less than it does tº
nations which have no breadth of salt-water, *
ANGERS BREWING BETWEEN FRANCE AND ENGLAND.
539
tween their frontiers, and whose sentries are within
hail of each other. If we can make it important
to the continental nations, and to ourselves, to
maintain the relations of peace, by the ties of
mutual interest, especially in our commercial rela-
tions, we need not heed if a daughter of Austria
should wed a son of Russia, or two, or twenty
powers exclaim that the Alps or the Apennines are
no more. The timber lords and serfs of the Baltic,
and the corn exporters of the Ukraine; the sherry
growers of Andalusia, and the port-wine-growers
of Upper Douro ; the claret merchants of Bour-
deaux, and the olive pressers of Tuscany and
aples; will not wish to quarrel with England
while they can maintain more inviting intercourse;
any more than the whig butcher and baker will
confederate to withhold sirloins and manchets from
their tory customers; or the dissenting cordwainer
refuse to take the length of the foot of the parish
parson ; and where it is powerfully felt by the in-
ſluential majority of two nations, that it is their
best interest to be at peace, there is a strong
guarantee against their being hurried into war.
We are not confining our view to base, sordid con-
siderations; but rather regarding that general
good-will and exchange of useful offices, which it
was the design of Divine Providence should exist
among the nations of the earth, created by the
same Hand, redeemed by the same Blood, and
placed in various climes and conditions—inland and
maritime ; tropical, temperate, or frigid ; with
mountains and prolific mines, or valleys and sunny
vineyards and olive yards; with flocks and herds,
or with corn-fields and forests –that each might
minister to each, and no one be perfect without his
neighbor. War dislocates and rends asunder this
beautiful machinery; and international jealousies
and petty hagglings for power, make even peace to
be but an armed truce. England may do much
for herself, and for other nations also, by rising
into a higher, a calmer, a holier region. We are
not denying the duty of exercising prospective wis-
dom, and endeavoring to prevent probable calami-
ties. We are not even saying that statesmen who
have longer heads and larger experience than ours,
may not be right, and ourselves wrong, in the par-
ticular matter which suggested our remarks—the
possible disarrangement of the Furopean balance
of power by the late match between a young
gentleman of France and a young lady of Spain–
it is the general principle only which, as Christian
observers, we would uphold, leaving the details to
wiser men whose vocation it is to deal with them.
A proper abstinence from vexatious mistrust, and
irritating interference, is not—or ought not to be—
in the selfish, niggardly spirit of “Am I my bro-
ther's keeper 1" but should be connected with
arge views, liberal policy, and a desire to promote
the welfare of all with whom we hold intercourse;
and we feel the more strongly upon the subject be-
cause the miserable policy of secular statesmen has
fearfully impeded the progress of Christ's holy
Gospel throughout the world, and separated those
who should be united as one brotherhood, though
not “in the flesh,” yet “ in the Lord.” We
lately had the alarming prospect of direful and
Sanguinary hostilities with our own kith and kin,
*nd for the most part our professed fellow-Chris-
tians, in the United States of America : and this
ºr considerations the most paltry—that is, con-
sidered in themselves, though giving birth to higher
Questions of national honor; and we saw on that
ºccasion how ready, how eager, were thousands
of persons on both sides of the Atlantic, to rush to
warfare, to the irreparable injury of both the bel.
ligerents, and—in the results—of a large portion
of the human race. Two or three times we have
been seemingly on the verge of an outbreak with
France; and this not so much for matters of in.
sic moment, as on account of the unnecessary and
inexpedient multiplication of salient points of col-
lision. . This is an evil to be avoided; and ev.
eſſort should be made to increase the relations ;
beneficial contact; and not least—yea most in
regard, to those higher gifts, which England, 5.
God's blessing, having herself enjoyed, is able and
bound largely to dispense ; that every nation which
knows her power may know her principles; and
that her efforts to promote the glory of God, and
peace, good-will to man, may, to say the least, not
come short of her zeal for her wooden walls, her
colonies, and her commerce.
ANGERS BREWING BETWEEN FRANCE AND
ENGLAN D.
IT is not to be concealed that an estrangement
between the governments of France and England
has taken place. The confiding friendliness of the
two countries, which had been growing up of late
years, is checked ; newspapers proclaim that the
“entente cordiale” is broken ; the same impression
is confessed with regret by the first and best men
in France ; and many persons of influence in Pari-
sian circles lament, prospectively, the loss of that
social intercourse with their English compeers
which was doing so much good. . This is a deplor-
able change, and great-is the fault of those who
have brought it about. -
We are aware that the British government is
not without a case to allege against the other side
in the affair of the Montpensier marriage. The
accusation stands something in this way. The
“entente cordiale,” so formally proclaimed by the
French king, was accepted by the government and
people of this country in the most perfect good
faith; and when the young Queen Victoria visited
the aged monarch with friendly familiarity and
marks of an almost filial regard, her doing so was
yiewed with hearty approbation } all her subjects.
he sway of good sense appeared to have reached
the royal classes of society. King Louis Philippe
was frank in his demeanor, paternal in the venera-
ble audacity of his blandishments; his respectable
Queen Amélie was induced to assist at the recep-
tion of Queen Victoria; the widowed Duchess of
Orleans emerged from the seclusion of her grief;
and the other ladies of the family contributed to
impart to the intercourse an air of domestic freedom
that professed to be full of the kindliest feeling and
devoid of all reserve. Plans and projects were
touched upon; this very Montpensier affair came
upon the carpet. Who could suspect that all this
engaging ingenuousness on the part of King
Ulysses.” Philippe was only acting ! Who can
doubt that Queen Victoria was indignant when she
learned that her fatherly host had befooled and
tricked her? ſº
Perhaps, indeed, it was not all acting. Cunning
of the highest kind involves much that is genuine
amid its pretences: Louis Philippe is really a good-
natured man, really sensible, really disposed to
hearty alliance; though he could not withstand the
bait of a good match.
Many believe him to be actuated by purely mer-
cenary motives; but who knows what passes in
*# 3
540
ANGERS BREWING BETWEEN FRANCE AND ENGLAND.
the deep recesses of his mind? We suspect that
far beyond any mercenary motive lies the ordinary
dynastic ambition. He strives to strengthen the
dynasty of the Barricades by allying it with the
older dynasties. The project does small credit to
his astuteness. What he gains in an apparent
increase of hold on the throne by extending his
royal connexions, he loses in the influence which is
his real strength. To ally his line with the decay-
ing dynasties of Europe, is to link the fate of his
family with a class which is on the decline;
whereas the very tenure of his occupancy depends
on his alliance with the rising institutions and influ-
ences of limited monarchy. If France is to have a
king of dynastic pretensions, why not have a Henry
the Fifth rather than a Louis Philippe 3 For him
to cancel the revolution of July, is to strike the
“consideration” out of his bond, and to vitiate his
own lease.
But the badness of his position is no set-off
against the badness of the position to which our
official representatives retreated. Quite the reverse.
The better our case, the more easy and desirable
was it to take up a true position. The British
government made a blunder in attempting to stand
upon the old treaty of Utrecht; that treaty affords
no sound locus standi; it possesses no legal force
to prevent the marriage in question ; it was practi-
cally untenable. If the British government desired
to frustrate Louis Philippe's match, that end might
have been attained in a much surer way, by pro-
claiming the project, discussing it in the face of
Europe, and defeating intrigue by transparent
openness. Had that been done, the strongly
expressed opinion of the Spanish, possibly of the
French people, and of the governments of other
European states, might have induced King Louis
Philippe to abandon his game.
We recognize distinctly the untoward results
that may flow from impaired cordiality between the
courts of St. James and the Tuileries; but the
worst of those consequences can hardly happen
without the active participation of the British min-
isters. In itself, the Montpensier match presents
nothing that need much shock us. The chance
that a breach of an obsolescent treaty may accrue
is very remote; , the danger of any inordinate
increase to French power through a “footing” in
Spain is more than problematical. The marriage
really concerns the people of France, England or
Spain, only in a very slight degree. Its worst
incident is, that it is a cause of offence to high per-
sonages and to diplomatists. But if the officials
suffer their displeasure to entail deplorable conse-
quences upon the nations, they will not escape a
fearful responsibilit by pleading the misconduct of
Louis Philippe. Far graver will be their own
misconduct.
And the course imputed to them now is obnox-
ious to very grave suspicions. The time is come
for speaking out. Their attitude is dangerous to
the stability of peace. Not that war is immediately
imminent; but the progress of two such neighbors
as France and England must always be towards
closer peace or towards contest, and we see that
the direction in which they have moved has been
reversed. The nation should know, before it be
too late for correction, what its public servants
have done and are doing. When satisfied that
war is necessary for the interest and honor of the
nation, the British people will always support its
rulers in war. But there has as yet been no
aggression except upon the self-importance of
**
diplomatists; and the English people will not con-
sent to war merely to point the periods of scolding
despatches, or back absurd and offensive demands.
§ or would a merely negative course on the part
of our ministers satisfy expectation: they will be
required to show that they have really done their
best to preserve peace. When the most deplorable
of visitations is brought upon the country, it will
not suffice for our own government to turn round
and exclaim, “Thou canst not say that I did it.”
It is not enough for the guardian to show that he
is not murdering his ward; what is he doing to
turn away danger!
We are told that King Louis Philippe has
effected a match for his son which endangers the
peace of Europe ; how is it that we hear of the
affair and of its terrible contingency so late that
nothing can be done to stop it! hat were our
ministers, the late ministers as well as the present,
about in the interval! what aid did they invoke!
what made them neglect the most effectual appeal
of all, the public opinion of Europe! When we
are told that all this mischief must flow from the
wedding, it looks very like nonsense, or gross mis-
conduct on the part of our diplomatists. Grant the
utmost turpitude in the French king's behavior,
and our managers do not escape the presumption
of gross bungling in suffering such dangers to
attend an event so paltry. Has diplomacy made
no advance, since a Helen was the origin of a
Trojan war? Cannot our well-paid statesmen per-
form their business better than that?
We are told that the alliance between France
and England is effectually broken. If so, it is not
merely the fault of the French king and his minis-
ters. Louis Philippe may be disposed to draw
back from an alliance which he has not duly hon-
ored; but our representatives ought to know how
to assume a position so just and so tranquil as to
neutralize intrigue, or the humors which intrigue
may make its tools. With the altered political
condition of states, we say, diplomacy has acquired
an altered function ; which is now, to find out a
ground of common intelligence between any peo:
ples parties to a question in dispute. We fear that
our diplomatists are at this moment neglecting that
newer and higher part of their vocation, which was
recognized and honored by their predecessors in
office. In conducting disputes with other count
tries, Sir Robert Peel's cabinet manifested no dis’
position to offend, but adhered to the plain merits
and justice of the case. Unless he has been
greatly misrepresented by the published account;
of his despatches, Lord Palmerston has returne
to the litigious, attacking, taunting style, thº
distinguished his correspondence down to 1841.
and, by an unfortunate coincidence, so clº
as to look like more than the effect of chance, the
English ministerial journals are backing the ſº.
eign secretary's aggressive tactics. he whole
course of the compositions imputed to the viscounº
and reflected by his partisans in the press, is.”
of incrimination against persons in France, whº
misconduct even would not warrant diplomatist: "
taking so truly false a course as one calculate to
drive powerful antagonists to desperation.
The conduct of true diplomacy is the very oppº
site all this. It would foster, not misundersta" .
ing, but better understanding ; a phrase, synony
mous with friendliness, which shows how the reº
val of misconception is felt also to remove enm.
Much of the misunderstanding between all cº.
tries lies in reciprocal misconceptions of ideas *
PALMERSTON HOSTILITIES WITH FRANCE.
541
language; and true diplomacy would clear up those
obscurities, calmly extracting the truth even out
of blundering reproach. For instance, La Presse
charges England with the odious policy of keeping
European states unsettled and doubtful of the
future. It is true, that the traditional notion of
maintaining a “balance of power,” in former times,
induced England to prevent decisive results: but
she has grown wiser; and, instead of setting Lon-
don journals to rail against France, it would much
more conduce to the objects of true diplomacy, if
the reproach were made the occasion, as it might
justly be, of showing that England has corrected
her policy—that the country, which restored Louis
the Éj recognized the Revolution of 1830.
It is for the British public to consider whether it
wishes a war about this Montpeusier marriage. It
behoves that public, so slow in entertaining ques-
tions of foreign affairs, to know that this question
is becoming one no longer of foreign politics, but
of the safety and peace of the country. It is to be
hoped that the more discreet members of the cabi-
net will recollect that there are days of reckoning,
and that, though the declaration of peace or war
lies with the crown, the ministers who carry out
the royal will are responsible to the nation.—Spec-
tator, 7 November.
PALMEIRSTON HOSTILITIES WITH FRANCE.
OUR account of the impaired friendliness of the
relations between Britain and France has been con-
firmed from a quarter open to the best information :
our statement was in no degree exaggerated—it
only fell below the truth. Very gloomy forebodings,
prevail in Paris; and the sole reliance for an inter-
vention to prevent deplorable consequences rests on
the good sense of the English public.
The difference between the conduct of the
French government and that of the English minis-
ter for foreign affairs is this ; the French gov-
ernment is chargeable with taking advantage of a
technicality, in order to break the spirit of a solemn
understanding; but it was Lord Palmerston who
introduced the flaw into the compact which made
the breach practicable, and he has followed up that
diplomatic blunder by committing himself to the
overtly aggressive position of an enemy. No alle-
gation of sinister purposes on the other side can
justify the great indiscretion of that conduct from
first to last.
It is true that Lord Palmerston's breach of the
compact at Eu did not warrant France in departing
from it also. The government at Paris rests, too
lauch for its own credit, on that technical flaw in
the case of the English diplomatist. According
to the French themselves, Queen Victoria was per-
sonally a party to the compact; and although in
this country we do not view with much favor the
personal intervention of the sovereign in official
business, some deference was due at least in cour-
tesy to the young queen who was drawn into the
discussion by the opposite parties. It seems not to
be denied that Lord Palmerston did break the com-
pact to the extent of instructing Mr. Bulwer to
treat Prince Leopold of Coburg as a candidate for
the hand of Queen Isabella. The French seized
advantage of that false move, to set aside the com-
pact and push forward their Montpensier. Now,
our neighbors represent Lord Palmerston as palpa-
bly betraying his duty, and as falsely representing
the British nation: if so, it would have been more
becoming in them, not to take advantage of his
Bºroº, but merely to protest against it—to recall
|...lºcºmpact mºd:
.. ſº º: That they seized
#99 ºred by what they denouncé as the
personal misconduct of England's attorney, is an
ugly feature in their case; and while they consent
to rest any part of their defence upon that techni-
cality, they virtually confess some stain ºf jji
ness and trickery. *
But it is worse than idle to Perseycre in a course
of bandying, retrospective, accusations. Wi. is
done cannot be undone. The marriage is consin.
mated, and cannot, be dissolved. The Fiji
ſº has stolen that march upon us. It
Qes, not appear; howevor, that any hostility, i.
England or English interests was intended: it was
a pure act of self-seeking, and it is the fault of our
statesmen if they suffer it to involve us in any disa
greeable consequences. Let them meet intrigue
if they suspect it, by standing on substantial •
grounds and dealing with perfect openness and sin-
gleness of purpose. The remote eventualities
which statesmen affect to apprehend from the
Montpensier marriage have no substantial exis-
tence : there is as yet no difference between the
marriage actually accomplished and that to which
Queen Victoria and Lord Aberdeen promised their
consent: if any difference do accrue, it must be an
affair of the future. But sufficient unto the day is
the evil thereof. The eventuality, so far as the
present goes, is a shadow, a pretext; whereas a
misunderstanding between France and England
would be a real calamity; and that calamity stares
one in the face as the imminent consequence of
Lord Palmerston's administration. The thing of
present urgency is, to do whatever will restore the
good understanding between the two governments;
and it is precisely that which Lord Palmerston's
demeanor is rendering impossible.
Nobody, it is said, for all the blustering, really
thinks of quarrelling or of war. That is true, in
England, and in Downing Street. The bullying
“tone” is a trick of trade. But when we only talk
of quarrelling, the French do think of it; for they
do what we do not—bring their feelings into the
question. War is a weapon more readily seized by
them than by us, and more easily laid down. The
flippant tone of the bully is not suitable to England,
with her slowness to come to action, her slowness,
to relinquish a contest once begun. --
It is desirable that the English public should
fully understand “the situation,” and should watch
it jealously. We write from no hostility to Lord
Palmerston. We do not enter into the French
project of pelting him from office with newspaper
attacks. But if his aggressive disposition be suf-
fered to run riot, it will be in breach of the under-
standing on which the whig ministry is supposed
to have been formed, that Lord Palmerston should
amend his ways and be discreet. He is charged
with flagrant dereliction of that understanding-
with a false, move by which he lost England's
position in the matrimonial game and incurred
“fool's mate;” and he has not mended that posi
tion by his present attitude. He is represented tº
demand that the Dukº and Duchess de Moji-
sier should disclaim for their Progeny all right to
the throne of Spain; a demand which :
framed to be offensive and impracticable. It mºst
lead to nothing, if not to discord. Thºse two sin.
gularly false moves, that wanton courting of
calamity, cºnstitute the charge against Lord"Pal-
merston. It is incumbent upon him—or ratherit
5:12
MIEXICANS-IIRELAND.
JONATHAN ANI) THE
is incumbent upon those colleagues who share the
responsibility of his acts—to be prepared either to
disprove that charge before the English public at
the meeting of Parliament, or to show that steps
have been taken to avert the lamentable conse-
quences, as sopn as they were perceived.—Specta-
tor, 14th Nov.
JONATHAN AND THE MEXICANS.
THE Times compares the war between the United
States and Mexico to the struggle between an
eagle and some huge fish, into which the bird has
struck its talons, flying away with it at first, grad-
ually borne down by its weight, till the fish returns
the compliment, and swims down with the bird
stuck fast into its own deep element.
Mexico is indeed “very like a whale.” And
most naval nations have tried their hand at striking
a harpoon into its mass. England has tried, France
has tried, and now Jonathan is trying. Each blow
certainly draws blood and weakens the victim.
France extracted some five or six-millions of dol-
lars. And now Jonathan would not only draw
more millions in the way of indemnity, but eat the
blubber out in the shape of Mexico's richest prov-
inces. Still the inert mass resists; and though the
boats of the enemy have attacked it on both sides,
they seem as yet in as much danger of being
swamped and stove in, as of succeeding in the task
of slaying and turning away the monster.
The Americans have struck a blow at California,
another in Santa Fé. They are taking aim, but
afraid to strike, at Tampico and Vera Cruz. As
to Rio Bravo and Monterey, their stroke has told,
but they are themselves almost as much endan-
gered and entangled by it as Mexico. And it is a
puzzle to discover what aim General Taylor seeks
to achieve, except that of winning dear and useless
victories, and of obtaining scant and uncertain sup-
plies. The wisdom of the Washington war-office
does seem Sadly at fault. The valor of the Ameri-
cans will no doubt fight them out of any scrape.
But, in truth, this valor has been as little husbanded
as the dollars of which Jonathan is so chary.—
Eraminer, 14 Nov.
IRELANI).
It needs a strong and hopeful faith to look into
the turmoil that Ireland presents just now—the
tangled troubles, the disheartening weaknesses, the
utter demoralization throughout—and to see even a
dawn of hope beyond. Ferhaps nothing is more
repulsive than the general contempt of truth, which
not only makes it difficult to extract the facts out
of the conflicting evidence, but permits all classes
of the people to tamper with the facts themselves,
so that the very essence of things is false. The
incidents of the week, trivial as many of them are,
yet taken together become truly appalling as indi.
cations of the pervading inconsistency, helpless-
ness, and corruption. It is the same whether we
look into official documents, newspapers, or the
speeches of public men.
The lord-lieutenant has found it necessary to re-
eat the declaration that officers intrusted with the
conduct of public works will be protected from the
violence of the very people whom they are deputed
to relieve. He points out that the continuance of
murderous attacks would prevent employment, and
wº
s”.
deprive the poor of subsistence ; and the works at
Tulla in the county of Clare have actually been
º until the restoration of order.
ivers Roman Catholic clergymen of Mayo have
appended their names to resolutions which may be
characterized as ruffianly, prophesying in a very
suggestive way that the patience of the people will
yield, and that there will be consequences destruc-
tive to law and order. In these resolutions is re-
corded the complaint, that curates, who know the
wants of the people, are excluded from relief
committees: with this fact may be coupled another,
that the lord-lieutenant has found it necessary to
issue a general notice, that presentments for the
building of places of worship [Roman Catholic
chapels] out of relief funds have uniformly been
disallowed.
The Pilot of Dublin exclaims against us because
we said that subsistence had been secured for all
who will work. There are many signs to corrobo-
rate such an assertion. The Dublin Evening Mail
mentions that the price of provisions is already fall-
ing, under the influence of large arrivals at Liver-
pool and announcements of an immense maize crop
in America; “even potatoes were, on Saturday,
sold at twopence per stone less than on the previous
day.” The enforcement of task-labor on relief
works has caused a marked decline in the demand
for labor tickets. It has long been observed how
strange it is, that, at a time of scarcity, the Irish
supply of labor for England is stopped ; the same
extraordinary absence of Irish migratory laborers is
noticed in the Scottish Highlands, where wages of
2s. a day fail to attract at this time of “starvation.”
The Times professes to have information in support
of the charges, that the poor are concealing their
potatoes lest they be found not worthless; and that
farmers are reserving rent and wages, charging their
laborers and creditors on the relief funds. The
deposits in savings-banks exceed the withdrawals in
the most distressed districts. The Pilot and several
of the public speakers talk of actual deaths from
starvation: there may be such disasters, among a
people who seem to prefer turbulence to industry,
even at the expense of their own lives; but how
extraordinary it is, that under so terrible a necessity
they suffer their claim to be vitiated by these many
concurrent and most equivocal appearances !
Even what might be deemed favorable turns as
sume an ugly aspect. Mr. O'Connell made a speech
at Conciliation Hall, on Monday, which was 1:
marked contrast with the turbulent oration that fel
from him at Fermoy. He has discovered that the
abused Board of Works is doing all it can. Task"
work, so virulently condemned at Fermoy, he talk;
of as if it were a bright idea of his own, suggeste
by him to the lord-lieutenant as an advantage tº
the poor, and “promised” by Lord Besborough.
In short, Mr. O'Connell's new strain is one of absor
lute pacification; but it is weakened by affording'
in its tergiversation, a grosser instance of that “le.
ity in his nature” which he deplores, than evº
the jokes with which he enlivens this period of
starvation. -
Mr. O'Connell seems to support Lord Besborough
in contradistinction to the ministers in England, *
if he thought the lord-lieutenant's post in som”
danger; is it so?
The Irish complain that their condition is not º'
derstood in England: we suspect that it is real?
better understood in London than it is in Dublin-Tº.
though they do their best to make it unintelligible
everywhere.—Spectator, 7 Nov.
LORD BROUGHAM AND LOUIS
PHILIPPE-TURKISH SLAVERY.
543
FROM Ireland, with further confirmation of the
fact that the famine has been effectually provided
against, we have further proof of the extent to
which the Irish have been trading on the dearth
and the English intervention. The importations
of silver to pay for wages on public works do not
circulate, but disappear at once ; absorbed, we
must conclude, in the hoards of a barbarous people.
And the officers on public works complain of fla-
grant and wholesale attempts at imposition. At the
same time, the farmers proclaim that they cannot
obtain work at practicable wages. Having pro-
vided for the great danger, the exertions of the oſſi-
cials must now be directed to stem that contagious
corruption which spreads like an epidemic, and
threatens to convert the real necessities of the peo-
ple into a wholesale swindle and a national impos:
ture. The best instrument for checking this kind
of abuse would have been the machinery of a real
poor-law; and the want of it now is one of the pen-
alties to be paid for the selfish timidity that has pre-
vented its establishment.—Spectator, 14 Nov
LORD BROUGHAM AND LOUIS PHILIPPE.
IT is time for the French king, his friends and
his organs, to begin to show a little magnanimity.
After having triumphed in their hearts' desire, and
cheated and humbled at least, if not hurt, old Eng-
land, they ought really to grow pacific and good-
humored in their victory, as we have become in our
defeat. Considering the provocation and the cir-
cumstances, our Foreign Office has behaved very
moderately and mildly. . It has protested in very
courteous language; it has invoked the right of
treaties, and made certain reserves for the future,
without anger or menace ; in short, it has taken
merely the due steps for supporting what was cer-
tainly a serious blow to our character and interests,
with decorum as well as resignation.
Instead of meeting this in a kindred and generous
spirit, instead of doing its utmost to conciliate the
very natural resentment of the whig cabinet, the
French court seems determined to carry on a war
of big words and small intrigues. Its organs have
openly announced, and emphatically repeated, that,
after having humbled England at Madrid, they will
force her not to resent it, by ejecting the whigs,
and especially Lord Palmerston, from office. All
the little court lap-dogs in Madrid and Paris have
set up this self-same cry to the same tune, and tire
yelping at our foreign secretary, just as if it was
the day after the bombardment of Acre. Lord
Palmerston, it is thought, will succeed in holding
over the head of the French king the declaration,
that the progeny of Montpensier shall not succeed to
the crown of Spain. Had Louis Philippe modesty
and prudence, he would leave this question to time,
which after all would carry it for him, in case of the
queen leaving no heirs. But he frets at the paper
obstacle, which Lord Palmerston puts in his way,
and is bent on revenge. r
The king has called for this great purpose to his
councils, his faithful vassal, the Baron de Cannes,
being no other than our old friend Lord Brougham
and Vaux, a man who, having split most of his
opinions, has at last done the same, with his alle-
giance. To get up a storm against Palmerston, and
blow him out of parliamentary waters, is now the
aim. The hiº intrigue, which Count
Bresson soadroitly began in Madrid, Lord Brougham
is to terminate in London. By way of prelude
to the great act, the usual bellows has been
*
applied to all the organs of the press in the three
ºuntries, whose pipes are filled with air from Louis
Philippe's reservoir. The Heraldo swaggers and
swears against braggadocio Englishmen, who are
always showing ill-humor, but no ionger have the
pluck to fight. The Presse threatensº chasise is
with the Czar; whilst the English writers in fººm.
interest declare they will set all right by offering u
Lord Palmerston as a scape-goat. #. .
more entitled to be listened to than the press .
urgent letters to preserve the peace of Europe b
hastening the same sacrifice. The hopes of t;
Paris court are buoyed by exaggerated stories ºf
those dissensions which attended the abortivo birth
of the present whig cabinet on a certain occasion
And efforts are directed to open old sores, to shed
poison in lieu of the ointment which healed them
and to introduce, if possible, a little of Schönbein;
cotton into the ears of the most pacific of the whig.
ImlnlSterS. &
To point out and unmask the intrigue, is to
defeat it. We have no wish to exaggerate the
consequences of the Spanish marriages, or to make
their perpetration the origin of an anti-Orleans cru-
sade, for which the country has neither leisure nor
interest. But at the same time, a statesman's
entertaining a just sense of indignation at an ungen-
tlemanly and dishonest trick, is not to be swelled
into a crime, in order to gratify the personal pique
and political selfishness of a foreign prince, who has
repaid the hospitality and zealous alliance of this
country with the basest and meanest ingratitude.
If Lord Brougham has a feud with the present
foreign secretary, let him fight it out under English
colors, on English ground. Let him not turn sap-
per and powder-monkey to work the mine, which
foreign governments may choose to run beneath the
foundation of this country's policy and government.
-Examiner, 7th Nov.
TURKISH SLAVERY.
. If the report which we copy from a contemporary
is true, the British minister for foreign affairs has
revived an extraordinary demand formerly made
upon the Porte, to abolish slavery throughout the
Ottoman empire? The statement is almost incredi-
ble. If it is not a fabrication, the proceeding hap-
pens most singularly out of time, when even zeal-
ous protesters against slavery have learned to doubt
whether our whole system of compulsory prosely-
tism in that behalf is not utterly mistaken and
self-defeating. It happens most inopportunely, too,
at a juncture when England is becoming suspected
of a revived propensity to meddle in the affairs of
oreign nations. º
But to Turkey this particular, mode of meddling
is equally offensive and alarming. Slavery is a
basis of the social-of the household arrangements.
in the country. However desirable it may be to
extirpate such an institution from the world, theat.
tempt is equally distasteful and impossible to the
Turk. Suppose the Turkish ambassador—Turk.
being still an infidel country, but more powerfu) than
England—were to receive from Constantinople d
despatch requiring Lord Palmerston to abolish
female labor throughout the United Kingdom, or
the subjection of the wife to the husbanjº jºid
any practical benefit be conferred on English society
by the alien reformer! or would any British minis-
ter be patiently silent under such an impertinent
and impossible requisition? Yet neither' demand
would be so absolutely impracticable of complianca,
544
TUIRIXEY-AUSTRIA.
as that made to the Porte. Suppose even something
still more incumbent upon the country, still more in
accordance with its moral and religious principles,
were demanded, such as the abolishing of prostitu-
tion ; would not the Englishman chafe the more at
the coolness of the foreigner in driving him to con-
tess the national delinquency, and the incompetency
of the nation to enforce its own moral code 3
If we are to convert friendly states into enemies
by reproaching them with social vices, we had bet-
ter at once prepare for war with all the world,
since there is not a country that would not furnish
such a pretext—not excepting our own. Indeed, it
would be better to try such a policy at home first,
before venturing on it abroad; let ministers write
round to the local authorities, requiring them to
abolish female degradation, cheating in trade, or
any other of our objectionable social customs; and
let them test the expediency of that enterprise by
the result of the next general election. §. tl|]
experiment would be all the safer, because our own
country would not go to war with itself, nor would
it be driven by such an outrage into an alliance with
its own enemies.—Spectator, 14 Nov.
Turkey.—A correspondent of the Morning Her-
ald, writing at Constantinople on the 20th October,
reports the receipt of a strange sort of despatch from
Lord Palmerston—
“Lord Palmerston has sent a note to the Porte,
in which he demands the abolition of slavery
in the Ottoman empire. You will remember,
that when Lord Ponsonby was ambassador at
Constantinople, a similar measure was proposed by
the minister for foreign affairs; but his lordship's
despatch in answer induced Lord Palmerston to
abandon the project. In the present note, the ques-
tion is ably argued, but with more of sophistry than
sound reasoning, and with a sturdy disregard for
the feelings of those to whom it is addressed, which
we must certainly pronounce to be imprudent. It
is argued that there is nothing in Mahomedan law
which objects to such a proceeding ; in proof of
which, his º cites treaties which have been
made between the British government and the Mus-
sulman chiefs of Arab tribes for the suppression of
slavery. Who are these Mussulman chiefs, or
‘princes' as they are styled in the note! The lead-
ers of wandering marauders, who, for a few pieces
of gold, would cut the throat of the Sheik of Mecca
if they could do so with impunity. And as to the
arguments on the grounds of justice and humanity,
we think we can show that they are equally
futile. The entire domestic system in Turkey is
founded upon what we must call slavery, for want
of a better word. The sultan's mother was a slave,
and so was his wife. The Mahomedan law emphat-
ically forbids his majesty to marry any other than a
slave. * * * "So independent is the wife in
Turkey, that on the slightest complaint against her
husband, she can at onco obtain a separation. It is
on account of this law, and the general capricious-
ness of the sex in the east as well as in the west,
that the Turk prefers marrying a Georgian or Cir-
cassian slave, who looks up to him as her sole stay
and protector, to taking as a partner one of his own
countrywomen, encumbered with meddling rela-
tions and officious friends. It must also be remem-
bered, that the instant a slave marries she becomes
free. No one born of Mahomedan parents can be a
slave, or even act in the capacity of a servant. It
is in consequence of the latter regulation that ne-
#. slaves are imported from Tunis, Egypt, and
ripoli, who are employed to do the menial offices
of the household. No slave becomes literally the
property of his owner, nor can the latter beat or
ill-use him. On a slave complaining of ill-treat-
ment, the cadi of the district is bound to find him
another and a kinder master. No classin Turkey is
watched over with more paternal care by the law
than that of the slave. His owner is obliged to
clothe, lodge, feed, and pay him in a proper manner,
and after a seven-years' servitude he is entitled to
his freedom. This, then, is not slavery, but an ap-
prenticeship; a gentler and happier bondage than
that known in many a factory in Fngland. * * *
There are at this moment many instances of
negro slaves rising to some of the highest offi-
ces in the state. iii. Pacha, governor of the
Dardanelles, was a negro slave; and the present
Pacha of Varna was another. As far as white
male slaves are concerned, we shall only mention
the fact that Kosrew Pacha, the grand seraskier,
was slave to Hussein Pacha ; and that Halal Pacha,
the sultan's brother-in-law, who was lately lord
high admiral, and is now governor of Trebizond,
was slave to Kosrew.
“It is impossible to describe the sensation which
Lord Palmerston's note has produced, not only at the
Porte, but also, we are assured, in a higher quar:
ter. It is a proceeding which strikes at one of
the vital principles of the social system of the
Turks.”
Austria.-A well informed German correspon-
dent, whose letter is dated from Mainz on the 2d
Nov., mentions a remarkable sign of political move-
ment in Austria–
“Political reform seems to advance by a route
that mocks all previous calculations. That in Italy,
Rome should take the lead, never entered into the
head of the boldest speculator. As little would it
have been believed, some time back, that Austria
was likely to set an example of reform to Germany.
But many are the symptoms that such will be the
case. A short time back, the reported promotion
of Baron de Kübeck (in every sense a man of the
people) to the rank of a cabinet minister, was looke
upon as a mere prelude to the exclusion of this able
official from his present influential station. The
successor, now designated as minister of the
finances, Count Taafe, is known to have formerly
declined this portfeuille, on account of the subordi
nate position held by the chancellor of the excheque.
at Vienna, and the consequent impossibility of his
affecting a sound reform when opposed by the twº
or three cabinet, or, as they are called, “conference
ministers, who form the virtual cabinet. That Courº
Taafe now willingly takes the post of chancellor ºf
the exchequer, shows his reliance upon Baron Kuº
beck's support in the conference; and we may theº.
fore look forward to sound financial and consequently
to improved commercial legislation in the Austriº
empire. The Polish settlement forms the poin'
about which the conservative and the liberal op!"
ions are most at issue; and the difficulties it presen”
are only to be overcome by a sound commerc”
system.”
The Morning Post states, in a mysterious paº
graph, that Warner's “long range” has been pſ.
sately tested by a government officer, “on the eas.
ern extremity of the Essex coast,” with satisfactory
results.
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
545
CHAPTER W.
Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
SHAKSPEARE.
“It was not me, Mr. Downing, whom you ex-
pected here to-night,” said the stranger; the poor
clerk having sunk overpowered into a chair. “I
am sorry to have disappointed you. I am sorry to
have alarmed you.” . g
“Agitated me,” replied the clerk, laying an
apologetic stress upon the word. “I have met
with severe misfortunes, sir, and am easily agitated.
The body of one of my sons is lying yonder within
5 *
“And to-morrow will be lying low in the
dust,” interrupted the stranger. “I am aware
of it.” -
“Then why intrude to-night into my house !”
demanded Downing, feeling that, since aware of
the dispensation under which he was suffering, the
conduct of his visiter was inexcusable.
“Because there is that to be said between us,”
replied the stranger, placing himself unbidden in a
chair, “that will not abide the dawning of day.
We must confer together to-night, Mr. Down-
ing.”
#: Not to-night !—No 1 by the Almighty God,
who has smitten me so sorely, not to-night !” cried
Downing with growing indignation. “With the
son of my loins lying unburied, I will not be forced
into an angry discussion with one who has neither
call nor claim upon my consideration.”
“For your own sake, and the sake of the son
who, as yet, is not lying unburied, you will,” was
the cool rejoinder of the stranger. , “At some
future time, you will thank me for having forced
ou to be reasonable. I arrived in this neighbor-
ood, Mr Downing, three evenings ago, for the
sole purpose of seeking an interview with you.
I was in hopes of finding you more amenable
than on a former occasion, as I am myself enabled
to be more liberal. To obtain a deliberate survey
of the registers in your custody, is as much or
more an object to me than ever, I am come, there-
fore, I frankly tell you, provided with a hundred
pound note, to offer for the accommodation.
“If this be all you have to say, Sir Down-
ing was beginning. y
“It is not all 1–it is very far from all!” inter:
rupted the stranger. “Be not impatient; but as I
said before, for the sake of your only son, listen
patiently and complacently to the end.” . .
The poor clerk fell back º into the
chair from which he had half arisen. He saw it
was useless to contend with one so obdurate. . .
“I arrived at F. three nights since by the mail,”
said he, “as you this morning announced to Colonel
Garrett that you expected your son to arrive. . It
was too late to go to bed, too early to proceed to
business. Rather, therefore, than arrive here too
early, so as to inconvenience you by my visit, I pro-
ceeded leisurely, Mr. Downing, by the footway
from F.—the road by Warling-wood—the road by
the Hams.” * g .
A slight start from poor Downing evinced that
this announcement was not devoid of interest. But,
as if to disguise his unavowed emotion; the clerk
rose from his place and closed the cottage door, which
was still slightly ajar; a night wind having been
gradually rising, that swept across the chamber, and
caused the deathlights to flicker. 34*
#.
... It is a lovely scene, Mr. Downin , that green
Valley,” added the stranger, jº. ...; his
host had resumed his seat ºf. windings of the
stream, the impervious thickets of". wood, the
loneliness of the secluded glen, induced in: to
loiter there awaiting the coming day, which was
. enable me to make my appearance at Harting-
OIl.
At this intimation, poor Powning clasped hi
hands silently on his bosom, as th p is
º: y ough engaged in
“The weather was beautiful,”
guest; “doubly beautiful to a poor city-dwellin
wretch like myself, little accustomed to enjoy ;
sweetness of a country landscape, or the softness of
a summer morning. No wonder, therefore, that’ſ
found it pleasant to wander among the alder bus.s
on that short, green elastic herbage. Nothing could
be more soothing.—Alas! how painful is it to con-
nect such a landscape and such an hour, with deeds
of human violence '’
Again did Downing half start from his place
But it was not the cue of his visitor to notice his
distress. &
“So long, however, did I prolong my morning's
walk in order to avoid an untimely visit to Harting-
ton,” added the tormenting stranger, “that I be-
came overpowered with fatigue. Beside the stream,
the turf was too wet with morning dew to afford me
Not a stone, not a bank, nearer
than the slopes of Warling-wood; having entered
which by an entangled footpath, I made for a jut-
ting stump, half hidden by sprouting underwood, to
Serve me as a seat.”
“I do not see, sir, in what way all this concerns
me!” gasped old Downing, his face of a deadly
whiteness.
“You will see clearer shortly,” replied the stran-
ger, satisfied with the impression he was making.
“You will perhaps better understand me whenºi
tell you, that before I had taken refuge many min.
utes in the coppice, a young countryman came
trudging along the valley, on his way, like myself,
from F. to #artington; singing at the top of his
Yoice, in the mere exuberance of his spirits, for he
knew not that a human being was in sight. So at
least I had reason to infer from his proceedings.
For after stopping once or twice on the margin of
the stream, as if on the look-out for sport, he at
length stepped into the water; and by his move.
ºnents, while stooping to grope under the hollow
bank, I had reason to conclude that he had some
ºxperience as a poacher, and some knowledge of
the place. While hesitating whether I should
emerge from the resting-place, which had become a
hiding-place, and ascertain exactly what he was about
ere I proceeded to remonstrate, my purpose was fore.
stalled. On putting aside the bushes to make m
way down quietly to the brook-side, I saw that the
young poacher was engaged in a violent dispute
with a youth some years his junior, who must fia.
arrived from the Hartington turn of the valley, from
which my face was averted.”
“You are certain that he came from Hartington?”
demanded the º º hoarse voice. º
“As certain as that he threatened, if
man he addressed by the name of J ack, º: º
his breach of the law, to denounce him to the con-
stable. As distinctly as I now hear my own voice ;
as distinctly, Mr. Downing, as I hear the pulsion
of your heart—I heard the indignant youth declare
the poacher to be a disgrace to the homes name he
bore; and that if his father were aware of only
a place of rest.
resumed his
546
TEMPTATION AND, ATONEMENT.
$
half his misdoings, it would bring his gray
hairs in sorrow to the grave. The elder retorted,
loudly, roughly, with imprecations, with violence.”
“Yes, with violence —I am certain he was the
first to have recourse to violence P’ burst from the
lips of the agitated Downing. ſ
“When first I saw him trudging joyously along
the valley,” resumed the stranger, “he had a
reaping-hook in his hand, which he kept brandish-
ing in the air, as if keeping time to the tune he was
singing. Before he entered the water, he laid it on
the green margin of the stream. But no sooner
did his brother, (for his brother it was, Mr. Down-
ing,) pronounce the name of the constable, than he
seized the weapon.”
“He seized the weapon and threatened the
young man's life ſ” cried the clerk, unable longer
to keep silence; “whereupon Luke, in self-defence,
endeavored to wrest it from him ; and in the strug-
gle betwixt them, the deadly wound was uninten-
tionally given –Yes, unintentionally given l—
Don't say otherwise, or I won't answer for myself.
Don't say otherwise, unless you'd run the risk of
my ſelling you to the earth. Don't say otherwise,
sir, no—don't say otherwise. Reflect that they
were brothers—my sons—the sons of the poor
mother who died in torment in this very room, rec-
ommending them with her last breath to my care
and love. It was an evil chance that directed that
accursed weapon : nothing, nothing on earth but an
evil chance—a chance that might have happened
to you or I, sir. Had poor Jack ever stirred or
spoke again, he would have been the first to declare
that his brother was innocent.”
“And how happen you to know, Master Down-
ing, that he neither stirred nor spoke again!” de-
manded the stranger. “How comes it that you,
Awho gave evidence this morning before the coroner,
that your son Luke was in London, in attendance at
a public hospital, when the fatal event took place,
should be perfectly apprized of every circumstance
attending it !” -
Poor Downing remained despairingly silent. He
saw that he and his lay completely at the mercy of
the tempter.
“Perhaps,” resumed the man, whose eye was
beginning to exercise over him the fatal charm of the
basilisk, “perhaps, since the fratricide has con-
trived to acquaint you with so much that happened
on the Hams on Thursday morning, (so much that
the magistrates of this county are eager to discov-
cer, and that will shortly become an object of inquiry
to the criminal justice of the kingdom,) perhaps he
also confided to you how, when the dreadful deed
was done—done so effectually that the whole spot
was soon flooded with the blood of the victim, he
was forced to kneel down beside the stream, and
wash the stains from his hands, gazing wildly to the
right and left as he plunged them into the water,
lest stragglers from the villago, or from F. should
be astir "How was he to suspect that any one lay
in ambush, watching him from the skirts of the
wood, who saw all-nay, who flaw.him conceal
among the bushes, athere they still lie, Master Down:
ing, and where they may at any moment be pointed
out to the officers of justice, his jacket and hand-
kerchief saturated with blood " #
“Mercy, mercy!” cried poor Downing, strug-
gling in vain against the contending emotions which
º
all these horrible details called into existence. ||
.* Mercy, for my boy!—Mercy for me!—If you
were indeed a witness of all this, you know that
Luke was innocent—innocent of malice afore-
thought.”
“Who will believe it?” interrupted the stranger.
“His brother came to Hartington at his request, by
his especial appointment, (as I have since minutely
ascertained,) on pretence that, for surgical advice,
he was about to visit London and leave you
alone. How was it then, that, at the very
time he had given his victim to understands he
should have already started, he meets the poor fel-
low by the way! What jury, what judge, but
would see premeditation in the mere fact of his
presence at the Hams!”
A moan of horror issued from the lips of Down-
ing, whose face was bowed down almost to his
knees.
“The body of the murdered man is yet unbur-
ied,” pursued the stranger, “the proceedings of
the inquest might still be resumed.”
“No, no, no a verdict is a verdict ''' inter-
rupted Downing. “The coffin is closed—the coſfin
is screwed down.—Do not let them disturb the
quiet of the dead '''
“That quiet, my good friend, is beyond your
means of disturbance or mine. But the quiet of
the living will most likely be disturbed. Justice
must be done. A man with his hands imbrued in
the blood of a fellow-creature—of a brother—of an
only brother—must not be suffered to go at large.”
“If all who go at large were innocent as him!”
said the partial father, plucking up some spirit in
vindication of his beloved boy
“The world, you think, would be the better!
Perhaps so. I have no wish to take up the de-
fence of mankind. All I feel it necessary to do
on this lamentable occasion, for the sake of the
public weal, and in order to ward off suspicion
from innocent persons, is that in my interview to-
ºw with Colonel Garrett, previous to the funer-
al, * 5
“No you will not have the heart to do it!”
cried the clerk, forestalling his declaration : “you
could not—you must not ſ”
“I both can and will, Master Downing ; of that
be assured, unless 3 * *
“ Unless I prove dishonest to my trust and give
you up the registers!—Ay, to that I knew wo
were coming. Say it out, sir! I foresaw your
purpose ! I foresaw the web you were weaving
for my soul; me, a poor father, whose firstborn is
lying cold under his roof; and whose last living
child is skulking out of sight of the officers of jus-
tice —Persecute and trample upon me as you
choose, sir. There is no one to take my part.
There is no one to support me. There is no one
to say, “Resist him, }. Downing ; resist the
devil, and he will flee from thee. Who will be-
lieve his evidence? Sell not thy soul to purchase
the life of the boy '' There is no one, sir, to say
this ; no one to interfere between us.”
“You consent then to my proposal?”
“What proposal : I have heard no proposal
“Cannot your own mind suggest it? Does not
your parental affection whisper to you that you
must oblige me this night, in order that to-morrow
at the funeral I may refrain from pointing out by
whose hand this bloody deed was done l’”
“To-night !—you don’t suppose the registers
are kept in this house !”
“No, for I know them to be kept in the vestry,
of which you hold the key. One of two things,
therefore. Fetch hither the volume in question ;
1 * *
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
547
or supply me with the keys of the church and a
dark lantern, that I may myself make the best of
my way thither.” 2
“You?—you would venture into the church;
you, a stranger, in the dead of the night, and for a
bad purpose 1"
“Who told you my purpose was bad? Your
own evil thoughts I would venture there, as you
call it, at any hour, in order to examine the regis-
ters which contain an entry that involves the pros-
perity of my family.” º
“Then bide till to-morrow, sir, bide till to-mor-
row !” pleaded Downing, “It’s a hard thing on
a father to be troubled about other folk's matters,
at such a time as this '''
“T will be a harder thing for your son, my man,
if you shirk my business!” retorted the enemy.
**. Master Downing, will be too late
for me. To-morrow, the dead will be in the dust.
To-morrow, perhaps, the guilty will be out of
reach. Whereas, now that Luke is still skulking
in the neighborhood ” Downing started from
his chair—“and still, to the best of my belief,
hidden in the hollows of Warling-wood, and prob-
ably about to visit you in the darkness, to receive
food and advice—”
“Oh, sir,” cried Downing, “if you are a man,
have pity on us !”
“As you have pity on me, eh? though the stakes
betwixt us are so unequal. Just now, I heard a
foot creaking on the gravel. Another voice will
perhaps be soon added to our council. And as the
night is getting on,” continued the stranger, look-
ing at his watch, “for it is nearly two o'clock, and
at four we have daylight.”
At this suggestion, old Downing, having put off
his shoes, made a movement towards the inner
TOOſſl.
“Are you going to consult the murdered man
or is the miscreant hidden in the chamber with the
corpse!” demanded the stranger, instantly prepar-
ing to follow him, in the suspicion, perhaps, that
he kept fire-arms within. º
“Not a step—no not a step, further!” cried
the persecuted father, facing round, as he reached
the threshold of the lean-to, his brows and lips
compressed with unspeakable anguish. “My dead
son lies within. No one enters there, but me—
me, sir, who approach the corpse with the respect
we owe to them that is in judgment before God.”
And the somewhat startled guest, who stood
opposite the open door, ascertained, beyond a doubt,
by the watchlight, that the small, dismantled rººm
contained, indeed, no place of concealment: The
bed, upon which was placed the plain deal coffin
of poor Jack, had no hangings ; and it was from a
nail on the wall, from which hung also the huge
watch of the poor clerk, that he took down the
two well-remembered keys. It was their customary
place when Downing was within doors. .
“Take them,” said the old man, emerging with
the same deferential step as before from the cham-
ber of death, and stooping to reach from under the
settle the dark lantern he was in the habit of using
in winter time to visit the church. “Take them:
For whatever purpose, remember my words, that
it will never prosper –The honesty, of a gray-
headed man has been crushed within him to give
you possession of these keys. And some day or
other, when you remember at what a time you
came to seek 'em, and how cruelly you —”
“Enough said, old gentleman,” cried the stranger,
clutching at them the moment that, with a match-
3
box taken frºm his own pocket, he had lighted the
lantern. “You’ve wasted enough talk on the
business already, to wear out the patience of a
quieter soul than mine. Had I knºwn the keys
were so close at hand, and so easy to come by,
maybe I might have taken a shorter cut to their
possession.”
Another second, and he had disappeared from
the house. But even after he was gone, the clerk
paused not to reflect on the probability that ho
might have disappeared forever, in which caj (i.
deepest disgrace awaited the manifestation of his
breach of fidelity. His mind was on other thoughts
intent. While the stranger vanished through".
garden wicket, he stood upon his own door-sill."
peering out into the night, as though his eye.
would burst from their sockets.
And not in vain. A rustling of the bushes in
the corner of the garden nearest the Hams, an-
nounced that some living thing was concealed
there.
“Luke '’ whispered he, scarcely daring to trust
his voice, after the first bitter disappointment he
had undergone. “Luke '''
By way of answer, a cold, tremulous hand was
placed in his own. *
“I have been waiting this hour. I saw a per-
son enter the cottage with you,” answered the en-
feebled voice of his unhappy son. “I watched his
departure. Was it an officer of justice?”
“No matter—it was an enemy—a cruel enemy
He will soon return, my child. He must not find
you here, Luke. It was one who knows all, and
who would think no more of giving you up to
judgment
“Better if he did,” interrupted the despairing
young man. “There is no more peace for me,
father, in this world; and the Almighty, who
knows my innocence, would take me to himself!—
Better, perhaps, for us both if this man denounced
IIlê 3 *
“Your can't be thinking of your poor father,
when you say that,” ſaltered Downing, grasping
his cold hand. “Think of what it would be to
me, Luke, to see your young head at the gallows :
But I should not live to see it! I would not live to
See it ! You must be off this night, Luke. You
must n’t tempt this evil-thoughted man; you must
quit the country; you must quit the country sooner
than run further risks. Here's all the money,
Luke, I have in the house; and ten guineas more,
which I got advanced by the Savings Bank, with:
out the weekly notice for drawing out—on pretence
–of–to-morrow's expenses, Luke. When you
can let me know you're in safety over the water,
I’ll find means to send more. And now good-by:
I must not keep you : and if you was to stay ages
and ages—how ever could I get out what 's work-
ing in my heart!”. º
The haggard being who threw himself weeping
on the shoulder of the poor old clerk could find n.
answer to these torrents, of tenderness. But
when they had wept together, both were COIn-
forted.
“One thing, Luke,” sobbed the heartbroken old
man, “one thing you could do that would give me
ease in my mind—that you came and biº º
good-by, as well as your poor father. For you’ll
see neither of us again.” H
“I would have asked it of you, only I thought
you'd maybe consider that I, who brought him to
his untimely end, had lost a brother's rights!” an-
swered the drooping young man. And straight-
548
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
way he followed his father into the little room, and
kneeling down beside the bed on which was the open
coffin with the lid laid over it transversely, breathed
aloud a prayer for the eternal peace of him who
lay within.
While he yet prayed, the poor father stood
beside him, resting with one hand on his shoulder
and with the other concealing his streaming eyes.
But, on arising from his knees, Luke took that
withered hand within his own, and placed them
i. together upon the shrouded breast of the
ead.
“As I stand here, father,” said he, “in presence
of my Maker and of this corpse, I am guiltless of
any wrong, by word, or thought, or deed, against
my poor brother, on whom God have mercy!, I
say this again, as I said it to you before on that
dreadful morning, when I rushed in and told you
of the accident; because many hold that at the
touch of a murderer, the body of the victim bleeds
afresh.-And I have no fear.—To my poor brother
I appeal.—If any return from the land whither he
is gone before, it is not to bear false witness '''
Stooping towards the coſlin, he lifted the face-
cloth, and imprinted a last kiss upon the clamm
forehead; then turning, with the marrow .#
thrilling in his bones, he threw himself on his
knees before his father, to ask his blessing. Not
in words was it bestowed ; but in that innermost
fervor of heart which no human eye can reach, nor
ear can hear. God alone heard and accepted the
prayer of the heart-broken John Downing for the
preservation of his ill-fated child.
CHAPTER WI.
If they did hear, they would not pity me;
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones.
*Which, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort are better auditors,
:For that they do not interrupt my tale.
- SiiAItsPEARE
TNEven was there seen such a gathering in
Hartington, as on the day when the remains of
young Downing were consigned to the grave.
“The season being propitious, people thronged from
far and near, as if to take their part in the tragedy
which, for some days past, had occupied every
heart and soul under every thatched roof of the
district. * - is
The utmost vigilance of justice had been defeated.
No trace was yet discovered of the murderer.
Though several of the resorts of desperate charac-
ters in the neighborhood had been visited, in the
hope of detecting evidence of their having been
recently engaged in an affray; nothing was found
—no sign—no token.
It had been even judged necessary, on finding
that Luke Downing absented himself from the
funeral of his brother—the answers of the old clerk
concerning the motives of his absence, and the
period of his return, being strangely incoherent—
to verify the fact of his arrival in London, and
appearance at St. George's Hospital...And in this,
thanks to the prudent instructions of his father eon.
cerning the necessity of establishing an alibi, no
difficulty presented itself. Evidence was easily
obtained that the bearer of an out-patient's letter
from Sir Clement Colston, had been provided with
medicaments for an injury to his leg received in
cricketing, early in the afternoon of the day on
which the Hartington murder was committed; and
that the individual in question, one Luke Downing,
had represented himself as bound on a long journey
which would prevent his presenting himself again
at the hospital.
But the circumstance which most excited the
surmise of the loiterers under the lime-trees and the
Saturday club at the Black Lion, was a mysterious
report that, when neighbor Jukes arrived at Down-
ing's cottage at an early hour on the morning of
the funeral, to superintend the closing of the coffin,
he discovered his poor old friend lying insensible
across the threshold, and with some difficulty
restored him to himself; while at the rectory it
was also known, though cautiously whispered in
Mr. Wigswell's family, that, on the same eventful
morning, the porch, nay, even the vestry-door of
Hartington church, usually so carefully closed
by the parish clerk, had been found open by the
SeXtoſł.
In the lock of the inner door, however, the keys
were found hanging; and as nothing had been sub-
tracted from the church, nothing even disturbed in
the vestry, the most rational version of the aſſair
was, that old Downing, miscalculating his own
strength of mind and body, but in reality half dead
from fasting and grief, had proceeded to the church
to make preparations, secure from idle observation,
for the ceremony of the morrow ; and, on finding
faintness about to overpower him in that solitary
place, had hastened home, leaving the keys inad-
vertently behind, and reached his own premises
only in time to fall in a swoon upon the door-
Stone.
A few extreme terrorists, however, proceeded
still further; protesting that he had fled only be-
cause accosted in the darkness of night—some said
by the spectre of his son ;-others, by the breath-
ing form of the murderer.
e it as it might, the sensation caused in the
village by this new incident, was almost as great
as that producd by the announcement of the mur-
der. Old Downing was a man beloved and re-
spected in his generation; and of the thousands
who attended, uncovered and with saddened faces,
the interment of his unfortunate son, few but
marvelled how he would ever find courage still to
abide in that fatal cottage, the scene of such a
series of horrors and calamitics. For neighbor
Jukes could not always bear him company. And
yet John Downing would not listen to the benevo-
lent proposition of the rector, that, till the return
of poor }. he would accept a bed at the parson-
31QC.
*ind courage, however, he did. The moment
the sod was laid over the head of his son, he
returned thither; nor quitted the place again, even
for a second, except in discharge of the duties of
his calling; which, from that day forward, he dis-
charged with even greater zeal and diligence than
before. For week-day ceremonies, such as wed-
dings, christenings, or burials, he was sure to be in
attendance ten minutes before the appointed hour ;
and though never in the course of their common
ministry had Mr. Wigswell found occasion to re:
buke him for carelessness or omission, the good
rector could not but notice that so far from becom-
ing slovenly in his office under the pressure of his
troubles, church and chancel were never so trimly
kept as now ; nor was his surplice ever presente
to him so fresh and white. John Downing seemed
in dread, lest the ill-savor of ill-fortune might rest
upon him; and his master seize the first pretext
that presented itself for advising him to retire from
his clerkship. The nearer he approached the close
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
w 549
of his duties, the harder he appeared to cling to
their discharge.
“It does me good; occupation does me good!”
said he, in excuse, to his friend Jukes, who sug-
gested that, now one son only remained to him, his
deposits in the Savings' Bank ought to suffice for
the comfort of his declining years, without harass-
ing himself by further service. “I enjoy my
leisure the more, for my hours of work And
with more leisure, neighbor, black thoughts would
throng into my head, for which the best remedy is
having my hands busy.”
Who was to surmise that all this activity, all
this dread of being superseded, arose from appre-
hension lest the registers should fall into the
custody of a new clerk, and it might transpire that
a ſolio page was wanting : . Even with the head
of his first-born green in earth ; even with the head
of his younger in jeopardy, the terror of that dis-
covery hung heavy on the old man's mind. He
knew that he had sinned. He knew that, to serve
a purpose of his own, he had betrayed his trust;
and the man who had walked uprightly all the
days of his life, could not bear to be pointed at as a
defaulter.
God, who knew all, both the sin and the temp-
tation, God would be more merciful. But those
of this world, to whom he could not exonerate him-
self with safety to poor Luke, would wag their
heads in triumph over his backsliding. Even his
trusting old master could not but revile him as
faithless and ungrateful.
With unceasing and gratuitous labor, therefore,
did he toil to do that better which he had always
done well. But, alas ! at the close of all his
efforts, there was none of the self-gratulation with
which his more moderate endeavors had been
requited. His task was now pain and bitterness.
There was no longer peace for him in this world.
The summer plants ran up to seed in his little
garden. The weeds grew and grew, and choked
the seeds that had been sown for autumn produce.
The fruit, as it ripened, fell to the ground un-
gathered; and though neighbor Jukes' children
gazed wistfully over the wicket gate at the cherries
and raspberries that expanded in crimson clusters
only for the joy of the chaffinches, no one had
courage to say to the joyless man, in whº dim
eyes there was no longer the light of life-no
longer even tears—“Let us do a turn of work for
you in your garden; for lo! it is becoming a wil-
derness.” º
His sole remaining comfort was that ancient
book, which, once in his life, he had looked upon
with a listless eye. For even the letter without
signature, which brought him tidings of Luke's
safety, was scarcely a source of joy. It was as the
first pledge of a separation which he felt to be
eternal; the first milestone of a road that was to
lead thern further and further apart.
“The poor boy had not strength of mind to
return to this fated house. The poor boy, who
would have been forced to traverse the Hams, on
his way to Norcroft and elsewhere, could n’t have
borne it as I do,” was his explanation to those who
still hazarded an inquiry after his son.
And the neighbors, who were careful to avert
their faces while he was speaking, lest he should
espy their misgivings, tried to appear convinced
when he assured them that Luke was gone to Scot-
land, and had got work among his mother's rela-
tions at Glasgow; though not a few of them well
remembered how often poor Mrs. Downing had
mºniº.cd having outlived every soul of her Scot-
tish kith and kin. John Downing showed a letter,
indeed, addressed to him in Luke's hand-writing,
bearing the Glasgow post-mark, which he was
careful afterwards to destroy. It was unnecessary
that any besides himself should be apprized that, on
the morrow, the unhappy writer was to cross the
Atlantic, bidding adieu to his native country—
probably forever.
But if any of the Hartington neighbors went
near enough the truth in their guessings, to divine
the real motive of young Downing's estiang mºn,
from home, one and all too much respected his
father, and nearly all too dearly loved himself, i.
endeavor to remove the veil from that terrible mys.
tery. If the spirit of the kind-hearted Luke had
really been chaſed into the crime of manslaughter
they were convinced that the whole provocation
rested with his worthless brother.
Still, though things resumed by degrees their
usual aspect in the village; though people ceased
to flock to the Hams, to have the exact scene of
the murder pointed out; though the children
ventured at last to cross the churchyard again in
the twilight; and, by the time the daisies of the
following spring brightened the turf that covered
the grave of Jack Downing, plucked them with as
little compunction as from any other, spot; there
were moments when the old clerk felt his breath
choked, and the pulsation of his heart suspended,
by trifling circumstances which others let pass
unnoticed.
He was aware that the bloody clothes worn by
poor Luke at the fatal encounter, were still con-
cealed among the bushes in Warling-wood; and
though the autumn had rained and the winter
snowed upon them, the shelter in which the bundle
lay, might have preserved them unharmed. With
no instrument at his disposal, at the moment of the
dread event, but his own weak and trembling hands,
the agitated young man had been unable to dig a
hole for them in the earth; and at any time, the
Straying of a dog, or the scrutiny of Sir Clement's
keepers, might bring them to light.
ever, therefore, did poor Downing perceive a
group of two or three persons, or a single one in
haste, pass along his garden hedge up the lane
from the Hams, without the conviction that all was
discovered. Yet such was his repugnance to ap-
proach the scene of death, that nothing—not even
the peril of Luke—could inspire him with strength
of mind to make his way along the Hams, and pur-
sue his search in the wood, in the direction pointed
out by Luke on the day the deed was done, so as
to destroy those fatal objects.
At other times, his terrors arose from the throat.
ening countenances of his nephews the Harmans
when business brought them over to Hartington.
They had spoken out. On their first encounter
with poor old Downing after the interment of his
son, Maurice Harman had referred to a dead
quarrel between the two brothers, on occasion of
their second meeting at Norcroft.
“Of all the ill-wishers of Pºor Jack, which
warn’t a few,” said the boor, “his milksop of a
brother was the bitterest! And if ever biolº, was
struck by man, the one that sent that poor fellow
into his grave, was struck by Luke tº
Soon afterwards, it was mentioned to the old
man that his niece Esther was gone to service ; and
though aware that the affairs of his sisterº ºmily
Were far from prosperous, he could not ſorbear ex-
pressing to his nephews some surprise, that slie
550
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
had made up her mind to send her only daughter
from home.
“Mother send her Not she 'Twas Hetty
that didn't choose to stay !” replied the young
savage. “Hetty heard more things about her
bloodthirsty sweetheart, by the hearthside at Nor-
croft, than was pleasant to listen to. Neither I
nor Jim made any bones of telling her that Luke
had run away to Scotland, or Ameriky, or over
seas somewhere or another, only for fear of the
gallows.—So she found it more agreeable to go
and hire herself out where his name warn’t never
heard of; and where she might fret a'ter him to
her heart’s content.” - x.
That, on some unlucky occasion, either in
dudgeon or in drink, his brutal nephews would
come out before strangers with their frightful allu-
sions, John Downing could not doubt; and on
learning the increasing dissoluteness of the Har-
mans, and the recklessness of their lives, he
trembled to consider how easily might be destroyed
the good repute which his poor son was already
beginning to enjoy in another country. The money
transmitted to him by his father had prospered in
his hands, in a country where capital, ifidustry, and
intelligence united, never fail to prosper ; and he
was embarked in a small way in a thriving house
of business in New York.
But the worst trial of all ondured by poor old
Downing was when, as occurred on many occasions,
the apprehension of some rogue “unwhipped of
justice,” produced a report in the county, and even
a statement in the county paper, that “the prisoner
convicted of sheep-stealing was suspected, among
other crimes, of being implicated in the murder of
John Downing the younger, at a place called War-
ling-wood, the perpetrators of which had been hith-
erto undiscovered.” - *
Nay, more than once, attempts were made by
country Dogberries to intimidate some unfortunate
vagrant or other into a confession of the crime.
If innocent of the burglary or arson of which they
stood accused, they were possibly guilty of a homi-
cide which still remained undisposed of.
Then, indeed, the poor clerk trembled, lest, by
one of those oversights occasionally arising from
too strong a dependence on circumstantial evidence,
an innocent man should be put to death, or at least
to shame. Fixed was his determination, in case of
such an emergency, to come forward with a full
confession of the truth. But this was not to be
done without an uprooting of his very heart-strings,
and scarcely a winter passed over his whitened and
still whitening head, and the long nights gave
cover to those breaches of the law which lead to
the blunders of the magistrates, and jeremiads of
the newspapers, so as to produce, some allusion to
Eliza Grimwood and John Downing-never-failing
texts for November-like and bloody murder disser.
tations—but the rest of the unhappy father was
startled by new panics, while his meagre body
grew thinner and thinner, in proof that his heart
was wasted with his woe.
Life had long been a burden. The face he
yearned to look upon, he should never behold again.
Yet he dared not quit the parish. He must remain
at his post. He must remain within sight of the
church. He must remain the custodian of the reg-
isters! . He must eat, even unto the last, the
bread of bitterness, and drink of his chalice of
tears, under the roof where his poor wife had under-
gone her death of agony, and almost within view of
the spot where one of his sons had been slain by the
other.
“May God accept my sufferings in atonement!”
murmured he, as he lifted his eyes towards a
young sapling which he had planted in a sunny
corner of his garden, a few days after the birth of
Luke, and which had shed its leaves for the fourth
time since the fatal moment of his exile. “If I
have fallen into temptation, sore, sore to abide hath
been my punishment, even in this world.”
But, alas! a chastisement wholly beyond his
calculations awaited the meek-spirited clerk
CHAPTER VII
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
The unexpected death of some old lady
Orgentleman, of seventy years complete,
Who's made us youth wait too, too long already
t For an estate, or cash, or country seat.
By Ron.
TIir harmless little old lord of the manor of Hart-
ington, whose days, since the frightful event which
had occurred on his estate, had been pain and grief
to him, so that through fear he “died daily”—gave
up the ghost in good earnest; and those who were
about to exchange a master who did no harm among
them, for others who might become tyrants and
enemies by the mere force of doing good, began to
apprehend, the moment Sir Clement had breathed
his last, that their golden age was at an end.
They had, however; little to ſear. The baron-
etcy of Colston was extinct. Failing heirs-male,
the family estates devolved, conjointly, to the two
daughters of a cousin who had fallen bravely in the
last war; and the Miss Colstons and their wid-
owed mother having been on frequent visits at
Hartington Hall, (the only guests ever tolerated by
poor Sir Clement,) the tenants were already famil-
iar with their gracious manners and kindly disposi-
tions. No one could desire better than to serve
these amiable coheiresses.
The will left by the old baronet was as short and
dry as might have been expected of him. He be-
queathed a legacy of five thousand pounds to his
old friend Wigswell, five hundred to the poor of
the parish, a year's wages to his servants, and the
residue of his enormous personality, the produce of
the penurious life he had led from mere farrowness
of mind, to his next of kin. A sum of one hundred
and forty thousand pounds would consequently ac-
company the Hartington estates; enabling the two
sisters to carry out in favor of their tenants, a
thousand long-standing projects of improvement
and benevolence. w
It will be readily understood that a change of
administration so important, produced an unusual
gathering together of the notables under the old
lime trees on the green. The liberal donation
made to the parish by its late patrón, and his hand-
some bequest to his bosom friend, the old rector,
were pronounced to be out of proportion to the
enormous fortune he was leaving. But then came
the extenuating plea, that the will had been made
five-and-thirty years before, ere that enormous
fortune was accumulated ; and that the sums be-
queathed comprehended at that time the whole
amount of his savings. Even now, they could
scarcely permit themselves to impute blame to good
Sir Clement.
So soon, meanwhile, as the news of his death
reached London, the Miss Colstons and their
mother hastened down, not so much to take pos-
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT. "
h
session of their inheritance, as to pay due respect
to the dead; and preparations for the funeral were
already making on an extensive scale. Old Wigs-
well had issued orders in a suppressed voice to
John Downing, to be present at the opening of the
family vault by the workmen of the Lewes uphols:
terers, who were charged with the duty; and all
was in preparation for the melancholy ceremony,
appointed for the eighth day after the demise of
Sir Clement.
Sophia and Cecilia Colston were young women
of engaging manners, and sufficiently agreeable in
appearance to be called, “extremely pretty for
heiresses.” Though reared in retirement by their
sensible mother, since their attainment of woman-
hood they had lived in the world ; Sir Clement hav-
ing generously added an allowance of fifteen hun-
dred a year to the income of something less than a
thousand, (though including her pension as widgw
of a lieutenant-colonel,) enjoyed by Mrs. Colston ;
and with such prospects as theirs, even had their
cxterior been less prepossessing, it was not likely
but that, at two and three-and-twenty, both sisters
should have found pretenders to their hand.
Miss Colston and Cissy, however, were firm in
their determination to remain single till the death
of their uncle; in the first place, to obviate any
change in the circumstances of their mother, till
they were themselves enabled to secure her the
income she had so long enjoyed ; in the second,
because, in spite of the probabilities of the case,
they never chose to consider themselves more than
heiresses presumptive to the Hartington property.
A man of habits so cecentric as their nervous kins-
man, might in his latter days be dragooned into
matrimony. And who can be secure against the
heirs provided for an old gentleman in his dotage!
They had consequently not only dismissed the
train of admirers brought round them by watering-
place report of the extent (per annum) of their
charms, but Miss Colston still prolonged the proba-
tion of a man to whom she was sincerely attached,
Colonel Larpent, the widower of one of Mr. Wigs-
well's daughters; who, having two children by his
first marriage to provide for, could not aſſord to make
a disinterested match; nor was Cissy less firm in
}.}}| till her uncle's death, her union with Sir
Ienry Fletcher, a light-hearted, light-headed young
Irish baronet, who would have been content to
marry her without a shilling; but whom his affi-
anced wife did not consider in sufficiently independ-
ent circumstances to ruh the risk of making a castle
Rackrent of his family seat. . º
When, therefore, the opening of Sir Clement's
will apprized the two sisters that their generous
firmness had met with its deserts in an inheritance
almost doubling their expectations, so that they
were able at once to make a noble provision for
their mother, without encumbering the estate;
there was indeed reason to be thankful to Provi-
dence for such exceeding good fortune. The tenor
of the old gentleman's latter days was such as to
prevent his death from becoming a matter of per-
sonal sorrow; and the utmost they could do was to
testify their personal respect to the memory of so
near a kinsman, in addition to the solemn deference
due from all right-minded people to the presence of
death. g
The days that were to elapse previous to the
ſuneral, were devoted to exploring a succession of
cabinets and caskets, old family depositories of
papers, jewels, miniatures, and relics of every
description, many of which had evidently not been
Q
- 55]
ºpened since the death of Lady Margaret Colston,
for the chance of discovering some testamentary
paper containing the wishes of poor Sir Clement
relative to his place and mode of interment.
But amidst the variety of handwritings there col-
lected by the late baronet, not "...a..”.F.
* † º p or nis
own was visible ; except the memoranda ºf the Ill] [Il-
bers of the bank notes successively received by post
* - * y
from his London bankers, for the last º yº :
which he had never been at the pains to ãº
being far too supine of nature to dip ºpen in .
except for some occasion more urgent than often
befel his unincidental career.
Here and there, in some mildewed drawer or
box, they discovered hoards of old guineas, e.
dently made at intervals and forgotten by the pro-
prietor; and in more than one mouldy pocket-bºok
were bank notes of considerable value, laid asi.
with the book at the year's end, and never re.
opened. . Coins, medals, snuffboxes, trinkets of
inestimable value to the eye of the collector, and
still more as family memorials, came successively
into their hands; nor could Cecilia, the livelier of
the two sisters, cease from wondering why Sir
Clement, who was not only personally fond of
them, but, during their visits to the Hall, had so
often lamented his inability to afford them amuse-
ment, should have withheld these precious stores
from their inspection. To them the jewels, which
were to him valueless, would have been an impor-
tant acquisition. But he had preferred leaving the
fine family pearls to become yellow with damp, and
the settings of the diamonds to turn black as jet,
rather than be at the trouble of searching for his
keys to unlock the caskets that contained them.
Or, perhaps, he fancied that the evil spirits of fem-
inine coquetry and irritability laid at Hartington
with the ghost of Lady Margaret Colston, might
burst forth to torment and fidget him anew on the
opening of such a Pandora's box as a jewel-case;
or, more probably still, that the report of his having
such a mass of valuables in his possession might
afford a dangerous temptation to the same violent
and undetectable hands which had been laid upon
poor Jack Downing.
The attention of Mrs. Colston during the search
instituted by her daughters, was now however
engrossed either by old comfit-boxes set with
rubies, or snuff-boxes chased and encrusted; but
by the endless collection of family miniatures, some
in bracelet clasps, some in box-lids, some in
lockets, some in cases or frames; but each and all
recalling to her mind anecdotes of bypast Colstons
recounted to her by her husband in the early days
of their marriage.
The Sir Leonard who was grandfather to the
late Sir Clement Colston and her husband, was a
bon-vivant whose exploits had given rise to not a
few amusing traditions; and of his sons, besides
the respective fathers of the poor Colonel and Sir
Clement, were several whose faded portraits now.
stared her in the face; some in uniform, some in
colored suits befrogged and be-laced with silver .
gold—eccentric uncles, of each of whom the bow-
hood of Colonel Colston retained some salient recol-
lection.
Beside Sir John; the demure father of the late
baronet, there was Everard the three-bottle parson
who had brºken his leek in fox-hunting; hº
was the lieutenant, killed in Rodney's action with
De Grassei, and there was the next and favorite
brother of Sir John, Mark Colston; a man whose
high honors at the bar, and even the personal
552
TEMIPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
friendship of Lord North, had been unable to retain
in his proper sphere of society, so dissolute and dis-
graceful were his habits of life.
The female portraits were fewer in number;
for these numerous uncles had been blessed with
only a single sister and a couple of wives. Sir
John and the fox-hunting parson (the colonel's
father) were the only two who had married; and
Miss Sybella, their sister, whose prim likeness, in
a pouf and sacque, was preserved in one of the
most richly-mounted of the miniatures, had married
Inte in life an Irish Viscount, and died childless. A
huge C. and a Wiscountess' coronet in brilliants,
adorned the reverse of a portrait far from captivat-
ing; whereas there was another miniature, set
only in a rim of gold with a curl of rich auburn
hair on the obverse, which, though slightly mil-
dewed, and disfigured by a shabby discolored piece
of black ribbon, at once arrested the attention of
both mother and daughters.
“What a sweet face "exclaimed Cissy Colston,
after wiping the glass with her handkerchief.
“What an arch expression about the eyes '''
“I wonder who it can represent?” added her
mother, having . examined it. “It strikes
me as bearing no resemblance to any other member
of the Colston family.”
“Resemblance? No, indeed! If the truth
must be told, we are none of us beauties,” re-
joined Cissy, glancing at the collection of hard-
favored high-shouldered portraits; “and this young
creature, with her fly-cap and breast-knot, must
have been loveliness itself!”
“Let us take the magnifying glass out of the
gold Étui, Cissy,” said her mother, “and see
whether we can discover initials, or a date on the
setting.”
But even with the aid of a magnifying glass, not
an indication of any kind could be made out.
“Perhaps it may be a fancy picture?” observed
Miss Colton. * --
“No, the black ribbon bears evident marks of
having been worn. No one wears a fancy pic-
ture,” argued her sister. -
, New objects of interest, however, soon presented
themselves to divert their attention; a series of
beautiful medals struck at Vienna to commemorate
the fate of Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, and the
gentle Madame Elisabeth; besides a valuable col-
ſection of Mogul coins, formed by the sailor Col-
ston in the course of his roving life. But when at
length they proceeded to replace the miniatures in
the drawer of the old Japan cabinet from which
they had been taken, Miss Colston, in removing a
litter of dried rose leaves which lay at the bottom
of the drawer, and which might have been chips
of wood for any resemblance they retained, either
in scent or complexion of their original nature, dis-
covered a little strip of paper, inscribed in colored
ink, and an old-fashioned handwriting.
“Nelly Taken from the neck of my poor
brother, Mark, after his death, 1787. J. C.”
epend upon it, this memorandum was Wrapped
round that pretty miniature,” said she, And on
comparing them together, the foldings of the paper
exactly coincided with the form of the medallion.
“I wonder who Nelly can possibly have been?”
cried Cecilia, more and more interested in the like-
ness thus cherished till the death of the wearer,
º so long ago as the last century.
“Probably some person not worth inquiring
aſter,” replied her mother. “Mark Colston was
one of the cleverest men, but one of the greatest
roués of his time. After various attempts to
reclaim him, his father, old Sir Leonard, renounced
him altogether. By the initials, this memorandum
appears to have been written by his brother, Sir
John. Unless I am mistaken, Mark died within
the rules of the bench.”
“And was never married?”
“He certainly left no widow; nor did I. ever
hear of his marriage. The life he led was scarcely
compatible with a respectable connexion.”
“This lovely creature, then, was probably the
object of some unlawful attachment,” observed
Miss Colston, glancing more gravely at the picture.
“Perhaps some married woman, long since dead
and forgotten. Even for its beauty's sake, how-
ever, the miniature has a peculiar value.”
“When we find time to read over the desks’-full
of old letters, in different handwritings, which lie
in the cedar cabinet in poor Sir Clement's dressing-
room,” added Mrs. Colston, “we may perhaps
obtain some clue to the name of the original. I
observed many packets in the handwriting of old
Sir John; besides a quantity which, from the seal,
I conclude to be in the writing of Sir Leonard, your
great-grandfather.”
The object of their immediate anxiety, mean-
while—a paper written by the hand of Sir Clement
-continued to baffle their researches. Nothing of
the kind was to be found; and the preparations for
the funeral were accordingly suffered to proceed on
the scale originally suggested. The deceased
baronet was to be interred with the solemnity
becoming his birth and fortune; borne to the grave
by six of the beadsmen of the village, followed by
all the servants of his establishment and the chief
tenants on his estate; Mrs. Colston and her daugh-
ters attending in person, as chief mourners.
It was autumn, and it happened that, on the
morning but one preceding that appointed for the
funeral, as John Downing was about to turn the
key in the porch-door of Hartington church, he
was struck by the sound of a slight hammering
within. Nothing very surprising in the circum-
stance; seeing that, in the course of the day, the
whole edifice was to be hung with black cloth, for
the approaching ceremony. But the clerk, who
had come there according to his usual laudable cus-
tom of being ten minutes beforehand with every
appointment, to await the Lewes upholsterers, and
who knew the keys to be safe in his pocket, felt
not a little astonished, on opening the door, to find
; one of these sable personages had the start of
llIIl.
“I was sent forward by Mr. Briggs,” said the
man, “to take measure of the pulpit, which had
been overlooked.”
“But how ever did you get into the church?”
inquired John Downing, expecting to hear that he
had at least scaled one of the windows.
“I got in by turning the handle of the door,
which was unlocked,” replied the man. “But you
had better not close it again after me,” continued
he, as he reached the porch, “for the rest of our
people will be here in twenty minutes.” . -
Secretly reviling his own carelessness in having
left the porch door unlocked the preceding evening,
after the departure of the masons employed in
raising the stone of the Colstons' family vault,
ohn Downing attributed his inadvertence to the
bustle attending a moment of such universal excite-
ment in the village. But he instantly proceeded t()
satisfy himself that he had not been equally in fault
with regard to the vestry, and was thankful to find
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
553
the door of that more important department of his
trust as fast as usual.
As it was, at that early hour, before even the
villagers were astir to indulge their curiosity, no
great harm could have been done. He took care,
however, to avoid any particular conversation with
Briggs' foreman, on his arrival; lest peradventure
the story of his remissness should reach the ears
of his reverence, who, in deference to the memory
of Sir Clement, came in person to superintend the
preparations and confer with the undertaker.
Meanwhile, as Jukes the wheelwright, and others
of the elders of Hartington, were taking their after-
noon's refreshment in the parlor of the Black Lion,
which overlooked the road skirting the eastern side
of Hartington Green, a post-chaise and four gal-
loped past, at a rate which flung up spatterings of
mud upon the casement.
“A post-chaise to the Hall!” was the general
comment of all present, aware that the road in
question led only to the great house. “More law-
yers, may be, alighting like a flock of carrion crows
on the old estate.”
“Ay, no doubt there'll be a pretty penny to be
made out of two inexperienced young things, like
Miss Sophia and her sister,” added the landlady
of the Black Lion, with a sympathizing sigh.
“One on 'em, they say, is to marry Parson Wigs-
well's son-in-law, the handsome col'nel. And it's
a thousand pities but the * had been done
and over afore the old gentleman dropped ; that the
two poor, unprotected creatures might have had
some 'ne to take their concerns in hand out o' the
la’yers’ way.” #
Scarcely half an hour after this sapient observa;
tion, Jim, the letter-boy, was seen rattling at full
speed along the road from the Hall, spurring his
pony as if to a winning-post. But though as much
accustomed as the dragoon in the play, when doing
his errands in the village, to
Stop at the widow's to drink,
on the present occasion he would, hardly answer
the cager questions of the good landlady of the
Black Lion, who rushed to her doorway with
inquiries about the po’shay. He was in ºrch of
the constable. He was come to beg Mr. Wigswell
would lose not a moment in hastening to the Hall;
for the new comers were indeed lawyers-lawyers
intent upon a matter no less important than to take
possession of the Hartington property in behalf of
a new claimant!
According to their showing, the family, was
represented by Sir Mark Essenden Colston, Bart.,
the son of Mark Colston, Esq., of the Inner
Temple, son of Sir Leonard Colston, Bºrtº, the
grandfather of the late Sir Clement, and conse-
quently heir in tail. tº tº ºf
“An imposition as contemptible as it is auda-
cious!” exclaimed the man of business of the late
Sir Clement, who fortunately happened to be in the
house, receiving the instructions of Miss Colston,
respecting the probate of the will. “Were any
legitimate heirs of the late Mark Colston in exist-
ence, my client, Sir Clement, could not but have
been aware of it. The want of male heirs in suc-
cession to the baronetcy, was, on the contrary, a
source of considerable regret to the old gentleman;
and I have no hesitation in protesting against the
claim endeavored to be set up, as wholly ground-
less and untenable.”
“It is by the highest court of the law of the
realm, and not by a Lewes attorney, that its merit
CXXXVI. LIVING AGF. WOL. XI, 35
observed the individual (a hard-
featured man, between forty and fifty years of age)
by whom the mºvements of the London lawyers
appeared to be directed. “A regular notice has
been served, and I consider myself from this
moment in possession.”
£ 6 ir 32 # f *
º:
to be Sir Mark Colston of H.; claiming
There was something so contemptuous in the
question, and in its mode of utterance
voke an equally bitter reply. 3.
“If I am to judge from the representations of
my ancestors which I see around me,” said i.
stranger, glancing with a sarcastic smile at a f.
frightful family portraits adorning the walls of th:
library in which they were standing, “my personal
dignity is not likely to be put to a very severe tes:
by comparison with that of my predecessors. The
picture of Sir Mark may surely hang, at some
future time, without blushing, between those of his
grandfather, Sir Leonard, and his great-grandfather
Sir Richard.” y
Aldridge, the faithful man of business of the
poor baronet, whose remains were yet lying un-
buried in the house, looked as if he longed to retort
that the man claiming to be Sir Mark was perhaps
quite as worthy of hanging as his effigy; but he
prudently estrained his feelings of º till
the arrival of the gray-headed pastor of Hartington,
to back him in resisting the unauthorized assump-
tion of the impostor. º
A few... lines, despatched to the rectory had
must be judged,”
dS to pro-
apprized Mr. Wigswell, in a cursory manner, of
the claim set up; and, being still more intimately
cognizant than Aldridge of the branchings of the
family tree of the Colstons, he appeared, on his
arrival, not only far more indignant at, but far
more certain of, the nefarious nature of the preten-
sions of the impostor.
“I am to understand, then, sir,” said he, after
having the matter briefly explained to him b
Aldridge, in presence of the self-styled Sir Mark
and his legal advisers, “that you assert the uncle
of my late friend Sir Clement—Mark Colston, who
died within the rules of the Bench—to have been
legally married?”
“Legally married; and as having left legitimate
issue.”
“Legitimate issue 4.''
“By my mother, Elinor Mills, who died in his
lifetime,” added the unabashed Sir Mark.
“Nelly Mills?” cried Aldridge, shrugging his
shoulders with a scornful smile, “This is Garrying
the impudence of the thing almost too far.”
“Elinor Mills was a native of this parish, sir,”
added Mr. Wigswell, addressing the stranger with
more gravity—“a farmer's daughter, who ſell a
victim to the vices of one of the least worthy mem-
bers of the Colston family. The unfortunate con-
nexion to which you refer, occurred some fifteen or
twenty years, before I became rector here. But I
have frequently heard, Sir Clement recur to the ºn.
ecdotes current in his family, concerning the
sensation created, in London by the beauty and
lively talents of his uncle's rustic mistress.” If I
remember, she went on the stage—º"
“No matter, sir, her talents, or her beauty, or
her vocation Suffice it that her marriage with
Mark Colston renders me, as you will finj to the
cost of this facetious gentleman's fair clients, lawful
possessor of this house, and the property accumu-
lated by the late. Sir Clement.”
*
554
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
“I perfectly remember,” observed the rector,
“hearing from that gentleman, that the only son of
his uncle Mark, (the illegitimate child of Nelly
Mills, born and baptized in this parish, before her
public disgrace determined her to follow her sedu-
cºr to town,) was bred to the law, at the expense of
Sir John; but had turned out so ill, that he had
never chosen to see him. Sir Clement also men-
tioned that, in order to break off all connexion with
the family, he had given a sum of money, in re-
dºmption and discharge of the annuity originally
promised.”
“If baptized in this parish,” eagerly interrupted
Aldridge, “your registers would afford attestation
of the fact.”
“And so they do. . The child was expressly de-
scribed, by desire of Nelly's father, as the illegiti-
mate child of Mr. Mark Colston—probably as
affording some title to the bounties of the family.
Many years ago I remember referring to the entry,
at the time the donation was made by Sir Clement
to the individual in question.” -
“In that case, you can have no difficulty in refer-
ing to it again,” coolly observed the claimant, whose
countenance, during the foregoing conversation, liad
indicated a thousand contending emotions of indig-
nation and scorn. “To such an authority, I must
erforce submit. I am content to be judged by the
register.” -
“You will have no objection, then, to step down
with me to the church. Across the park, it is
scarcely a mile distant,” observed the rector.
“I thank you ; possession is nine points of the
law,” replied Mark Colston, puckering his shrewd
features into a knowing smile ; “and it is not my
intention to make myself acquainted, for the pres-
cnt, with the windy side of my own hall door. I
am installed here for good.”
The rector, who had noticed the baggage of the
new comer lying in the hall, knew that this was
spoken in earnest. But he did not swerve from his
duty. #
y I never suffer the registers to quit their place in
the yestry,” said he..., “If Mr. Aldridge and your
legal advisers, sir, will accompany me to Harting-
ton, while you remain here, I will satisfy their
minds in an instant.”
And on the general concurrence of the parties,
the old-fashioned chariot of Sir Clement was order.
cd out, for greater despatch; and on the soi-disant
Sir Mark Colston's undertaking not to intrude upon
the ladies, (whom he styled his “fair cousins,”)
during their absence, away they drove as fast
as the “fat and bean fed" horses could carry
them. -
The loungers on the green, who seemed to fancy
that everything at the Hall must have expired with
their little old landlord, actually shuddered when
they saw the well-known vehicle approaching the
village, at a rate of speed so unusual. Nay, when
it reached Church-lane, and stopped at the gate of
the churchyard, they stood transfixed, and wonder-
ing, as if they though it possible it might contain
the corpse.
CHAPTER VIII.
Bºht ran thy line, thou titled slave,
hrough many a iority sire ;
Soran, the far-famed Roman way,
To finish in a mire. BURNs,
Joirs, Downing, as lias been already stated, was
engaged in supervising the labors of the upholster-
º,
ers, who were fixing the sable hangings and
escutcheons in the old church, when the rector
and lawyer made their appearance. In a moment,
he was at Mr. Wigswell's side; and having opened
the door of the vestry at his command, and fur-
nished him with the keys of the register chest, he
again retired into the chancel, to abide further
orders. w
Having closed the vestry door after him, in order
to prevent the conversation of the strange, gentle-
man (whom he naturally concluded to have come
there on business connected with Sir Clement Cols-
ton's funeral) from being overheard by the work-
men, he had no means of guessing what was pass-
ing within; or with what curdling blood would he
have beheld the old register withdrawn from its
place, and examined page by page, and name by
name, by the venerable rector; at first with an air
of eagerness, soon with looks of vexation and
misapprehension, and at º almost with despair.
“It is very strange ; I fancied I could have
placed my finger on it at once l’’ cricd the old man.
“The entry was a peculiar one. The entry was
unique. In the early part of my ministry here, I
noticed it hundreds of times. I thought I could
point out the exact spot; and now, I find nothing
of the kind.” - -
“Your eyesight is not exactly what it used to be,
my dear sir,” rejoined Aldridge; and as the rector
had pushed up his tortoise-shell spectacles on his
forehead, during the conversation, there was no
disputing the fact. “Let me have a look at the
volume.”
“With all my heart. But I suspect my experi-
ence is more likely to see clearly, on such an occa-
sion, than your younger eyes,” replied Mr. Wigs-
well, gladly ceding to his request.
“Previous to the year 1775, it is useless to run
over the leaves,” said Aldridge, perceiving that the
rector had opened the book some thirty pages pre-
vious to the case in point. “Let me see. Ay;
here we arc in seventy-six.” And with eager eyes
and muttering lips, he continued to recite a series
of names about as interesting to those present as the
recital of the Doomsday Book. But to the illegiti-
mate child of Elinor Mills, no more allusion than
in that ancient muster-roll.
The man of business now began to look thor-
oughly discomfited. “This is a most unaccounta-
ble affair,” said he. “But though you appear to
be mistaken, my dear Mr. Wigswell, in fancying
the illegitimate bantling of Mr. Colston, by Nelly
Mills, to have been baptized at Hartington, the ab-
sence of any evidence to that effect goes very little
way towards proving the legality of the claim set
up upon the Hartington family. The person call-
ing himself Sir Mark Essenden Colston, will have
to prove his identity by a very different process.
He must, in the first instance, afford us evidence of
the marriage of his father and mother.”
“In that, my employer will find little difficulty,”
observed the legal adviser of the new claimant.
“Nay, I believe it can scarcely be more satisfacto-
rily proved than in this very spot. Mrs. Colston,
his late mother, was interred in the family vault.”
“Nelly Mills interred in the family vault!” reit-
erated the rector, as if aghast at the audacity of
such an assumption. g
“And when it is open to receive the remains of
the late Sir Clement,” added the strange lawyer,
“nothing will be easier than to institute a search
for the body. The inscription on the coſfin plate
would clear up our doubts.”
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
555
“In that case, let us proceed at once to the inves-
tigation,” cried Mr. Wigswell. “The vault has
been already opened. . The workmen now in the
church shall bring lights, and aſſord us the neces-
sary assistance in moving the coffins.”
And on the eager acquiescence of his coadjutors,
he threw open the vestry door, and desired John
Downing to provide them with a lantern. Still
conceiving this proposition to regard the selection of
the exact spot where the body of the deceased bar-
onet was to be laid among the departed of his race,
the clerk hastened to comply, by producing one of
the vestry candlesticks; and watched with little
surprise or interest the descent of the three stran-
gers and Mr. Wigswell down the damp and almost
perpendicular steps of the vault. The upholsterer's
foreman was bidden to lead the way with the light,
the worthy rector being desirous of sparing his in-
firm clerk.
One by one, the plates of the nearest coffins were
read over : “Sir John Colston,” “ Sir Leonard
Colston,” “Sir Richard Colston,” “Dame Mar-
garet Colston, wife of Sir Richard Colston, Bart.”
“Dame Cecilia Colston, wife of Sir Leonard Cols-
ton, Bart.”
“I have it,” cried one of the strange lawyers.
Taking a dirty brass candlestick from the hands of
the workman, he threw the light full upon a coffin
covered with a black cloth, but rendered shabby by
a coating of cobwebs and mildew. “Mrs. Elinor
Colston, wife of Mark Colston, Fsq., aged 28
years,” continued he, reading aloud from the plate.
and as if mistrusting his eyes or words, both Mr.
Wigswell and Aldridge pressed towards him, and
read aloud, over his shoulder, “Mrs. Elinor Cols-
ton, wife of Mark Colston, Esq. ob'. 3d Sep. 1780.
28 years.”
“And now, gentlemen, what have you to say to
it?” demanded the more consequential of the two
lawyers. “Have you any further doubts to
throw on the marriage, or on the legitimacy of
my client! or do you admit the validity of his
claim 1'.' º
The eloquence of poor Aldridge's reply consisted
in silence. But it spoke wonders. o man likes
to own himself defeated. Even after they had
emerged from the noisome, unwholesome vault into
the church, he uttered not a syllable; while Mr.
Wigswell contented himself with observing, in a
low voice, “ All I can say is, that, if Sir Mark is
able to substantiate his claim against that of his
cousins, poor Sir Clement was as much deceived as
myself. Sir Clement was fully persuaded of the
non-existence of any male heir.”. :
On their return to the hall a cabinet-council was
held, in which the interests of the young heiresses
were represented by Aldridge. and Wigswell. It
was agreed, on the part of Sir Mark, to place his
claim under the scrutiny of whatever council they
might suggest; the young ladies being at liberty to
bring forward the best evidence they could collect in
opposition. . But both the law and the church ad-
initted that it was useless to resist. The parochial
archives had been examined; the grave had been
forced to give up its secrets; and all the evidence
roduced was in favor of Sir Mark. If the late
§. Clement had so completely misapprehended the
facts of the case, it was because he was so little at
the trouble of trying to understand anybody's
affairs—even his own ; and filial piety towards the
memory of his father, Sir John, had probably
caused him to accept, unquestioning, all that had
been told him of the uncle Mark who had lived and
died on such bad terms with his family. Wounded
as was the pride of the Colstons, by the union of
their heir-presumptive with an ill-reputed farmer's
daughter, the nervous little baronet had doubtless
closed his eyes to the Possibility of successors in
such a quarter.
. Such, at least, was the moderate d
j."jºiº
--~~~~.. 4 as it would be to fore-
go such an inheritance—an inheritance ºn
they had been reared—an inheritance whij v.
afford them the means of gratifying so man
wishes, and effecting so many good action: ".
did not allow themselves to be blindly led away b
their conviction of their rights. On the cºm.
the miniature ſound that morning by Miss Cois.
—the beautiful miniature of “ Nélly,” appeared
so strong a confirmation of the truth of the ‘stra.
ger's declarations, that they considered it necessary
to apprize him of its existence, and place it in his
hands.
“My mother!” cried he, the moment he caught
sight of the little medallion; and in a tone of sich
heartfelt aſſection that he must have been either the
man he called himself, or a man so artful, that, in
deciding upon his identity, Solomon himself might
have been deceived.
“One thing is clear,” said Mr. Wigswell, at the
close of the conference; “the merit of the two
claims can only be decided by litigation; and for
all your sakes, an amicable suit would be a better
thing than a tedious contest in Chancery, advan-
tageous only to the pockets of the lawyers. Should
the right of this gentleman to the Colston title and
estates be fairly made out, Sir Clement's bequest
of his accumulations to his heirs-at-law, though
arising out of a misconception, cannot but be con-
firmed by the court, as indicating a desire on the
part of the testator that his personalty should be
applied to the improvement of his estates. I should
therefore advise you, my dear Miss Colston, to in-
cur no further responsibility here. The new claim-
ant will either approve or countermand the prepar-
ations for the funeral, as he thinks proper; and
you, I trust, will return with me to the parsonage,
from whence, when the ceremony takes place, you
will be able to pay that respect to the memory of
your cousin which his solicitude for your interests,
however unfortunately frustrated, entitles him tº
receive at your hands.” tº . . ;
But the moment all opposition was withdrawn,
it became the cue of Mr. Colston to assume a con.
ciliatory tone. Disclaiming all intention of dis-
courteous dealing towards those who, whatever
might be their view of his pretensions, he could
not regard otherwise than as his nearest surviving
relations, he begged them to make his house their
own, in a tone of exaggerated obsequiousness which
caused all the blood in the frame of the proud
Sophia to rise to her cheek.
So far from wishing to interfere with the arrange-
ments of the funeral, he assured them that every-
thing should proceed in the manner originally
intended, and with the utmost deference jºi.
wishes. He was prepared to sanction everything
to facilitate cverything. Nay, conscious that.".
present, he must be an object of mistrust ...,’ his
future tenants, and compelled to no demonstrations
of personal affection towards the deceased baronet,
by whom he had been “so wantonly set aside,” he
proposed of his own accord to abscºt himself from
the ceremon t r
“God ºil.” he said, “that he should be the
nd equitable
556
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
means of promoting feelings of hostility, or the
smallest breach of decorum, on an occasion so
sacred '''
All this sounded marvellous well; and poor Mr.
Wigswell, whose faculties were no longer of the
clearest, was beginning to melt a little towards the
stranger. He even fancied he could discern about
his mouth traits of expression bearing considerable
resemblance to his lamented friend, Sir Clement.
But Mrs. Colston, who, better versed in the fam-
ily history, persisted in regarding Mr. Mark Essen-
den Colston, or, as he called himself, Sir Mark
Colston, as a specious impostor, continued to main-
tain towards him the utmost dignity of reserve ;
and gladly accepted the invitation of Mr. Wigswell,
with whom, through a common interest in her
future son-in-law, she had long been on cordial
teriil S. - º
She conceded, however, to the desire expressed
by Sir Mark, and seconded by that of the rector,
who, as a man of peace, was anxious only for the
general welfare of his parishioners—that nothing
should transpire of the extraordinary circumstances
in which the family was placed, till after the funeral.
So beloved were the young ladies at Hartington,
that it would have been difficult to answer for the
consequences, had any notion got wind of wrongs
meditated against their interests. r
All, therefore, proceeded as before ; and when
the solemn bell announced that the funeral pro-
cession of the late Sir Clement had reached Hart-
ington Green, and was winding slowly down
Church-lane, Mrs. Colston and her daughters
issued on foot from the Rectory Garden, and joined
it in the churchyard.
But, even amid the general hush produced in
that misty, breathless autumnal day, by the solem-
nity of the occasion, the bringing forth of one who
had mouldered away his days in obscurity, to be
deposited in the clernal obscurity of the tomb,
whispers became riſe throughout the throng, that
all was not well at the Hall. Some great event
had occurred in the Colston family, in which they
were not permitted to participate. -
The service, though read in the most affecting
manner by the poor old rector, over his day-by-day
companion of half a century, was listened to with
comparative indifference. The living, and not the
dead, engrossed the thoughts of the people.
But even after the stone had been rolled to the
door of the sepulchre; even on the morrow, when
all had returned to its accustomed form; even
when the carriage, bearing away the young ladies
they regarded as their own, bowled past them, to
regain the London road; the mystery became all
the more perplexing for the explanation vouchsafed
them. -
They were forced, however, to accept, matters
as they found them. Sir Mark Colston had already
taken up his abode at the Hall; no matter whether
he came there by virtue of inheritance, or of the
will of the late Sir Clement. Like the young
ladies, it appeared that he was “cousin” to the
ºl, and, in virtue of his sex, the heir-at-
dW. . . g
If the Miss Colstons had anything to say against
it, there was the lord-chancellor to decide between
tliem. º - t --
Meanwhile, the new baronet neglected no oppor-
tunity of acquiring popularity. To the old ser-
vants it was announced that the liberal bequest of
themselves at the Hall.
faced the pulpit.
their late master would be doubled by his successor;
and those who had petitions to prefer, from all
corners of the estate, and those who had grievances
to complain of nearer home, had only to present
Impossible for a new
reign to commence under happier auspices:
Not a change was made in the establishment.
At present, Sir Mark appeared to think he had no
right to be better served than his venerable kins-
man. He had already disclaimed all future pres-
ervation of game ; he had already abandoned the
far-famed trout stream to the recreations of his
tenants. The only symptom of change apparent
on the property was the employment of upwards
of a hundred workmen, for the reparation of the
roads, which, under the sceptre of the late stay-
at-home proprietor, had indeed been shamefully
neglected. - .
Those hitherto so contented began accordingly
to congratulate themselves on having attained
“better times.” Sir Mark was clearly a man who
chose to be up and doing. He was giving work
to the poor and sport to the rich. Sir Mark would
be an easy master and cheerful neighbor.
One man in the parish, however, took little
share in these exultations. Not that he was in the
slightest degree aware of the manner in which the
heirship of Sir Mark had been brought about. IIe
had no misgivings concerning the share his untrust-
worthiness had exercised in the mutilation of the
register, and the affording an impression in wax
for a false key to the church, by which the Colston
vault was placed at the mercy of a swindler. But
on beholding one of his two aged contemporaries
laid in the grave, John Downing felt that he had
reached the beginning of the end, and that his own
term of judgment was at hand. *.
He could not bear to look forward. He could
not bear to be compelled to look forward. He could
have wished all things at Hartington to remain at
a stand-still. Change was as alarming as it was
painful.
When, therefore, the first Sunday came, which
was to bring the parishioners and their new land-
lord face to face, under the roof of the house of
God, he was the only individual present who expe-
rienced no curiosity to look upon his face ; the
only one who had not joined the groups under the
lime trees, the preceding day, to say, “To-morrow
Sir Mark will be at morning service ; to-ſhorrow
we shall see Sir Mark 1" What signified Sir
Mark to him f. -
He heard the Hall carriage come grating down
the lane; he heard the bustle caused by the
entrance of the new comer, and his admittance
into the family-pew of the Colstons, which exactly
But he did not so much as raise
his eyes from the book, in which he was marking
out the psalms and collect of the day.
In another moment the service began.
“When the wicked man turneth away from the
wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that
which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul
alive!” recited the tremulous voice of the old rec-
tor; and lo! as John Downing uplified his eyes,
preparing to listen to the exhortation, they fell
upon a face only too well remembered.
In Sir Mark Colston, in the new baronet of the
Hall, he beheld the hateful stranger of Warling-
Wood | s -
GREECE IN 1843–4. 557
From the Quarterly Review.
Lands, Classical and Sacred. By Lord NUGENT.
2 vols. London, 1845.
“JE fus, tout le chemin, occupé d'un rêve assez
singulier. Je me figurais qu'on m'avait donné
l'Attique en souveraineté. * * * * J'ouvrais
des chemins, je bátissais des auberges, je préparais
toutes sortes de commodités pour les voyageurs;
j'achetais un port sur le golfe de Lépante, afin de
rendre la traversée d'Otrante à Athènes plus courte
et plus facile. On sent bien que je ne négligeais
pas les monumens: tous les chefs-d'oeuvre de la
citadelle étaient relevés sur leurs plans et d'après
leurs ruines. * * * * Je fondais une univer-
sité ou les enfans de toute l'Europe venaient ap-
rendre le Grec littéral et le Grec vulgaire. * * *
. 'encourageais l'agriculture; une foule de Suisses
et d’Allemands se mélaient à mes Albanais; chaque
jour on faisait de nouvelles découvertes, et Athènes
sortait du tombeau.”
Such was the dream into which Chateaubriand
says that he fell, when, in 1806, he was travelling,
with his bridle on his horse's neck and his servant
Joseph on foot before him, from Athens to Cape
Colonna. The author of the “Itinéraire” could
hardly have conceived that in forty years his dream
would have been so literally fulfilled. The travel-
lers who visited Athens at the close of 1843, or
the beginning of 1844, would have found in these
words an exact description of what they saw in
Greece. In that winter, ſor the first time, an Aus-
trian steamer had begun to ply from Trieste and
Ancona to Lutraki on the gulf of Lepanto ; and pas-
sengers were sent across the isthmus to Kalamaki,
and reached the Piraeus without the necessity of
sailing round the Morea. The Temple of the Un-
winged Victory was just rising to its restored per-
fection, on the site where it had stood before its
stones had been worked up into the Turkish fortifi-
cation. The lecture-room and library of the new
University of Athens were completed; agricultural
improvements were at least talked of; and car-
riage-roads had begun to be opened. And that
multitude of Germans, who, since the time of Count
Armansperg, had swarmed in Greece, were hardly
et disentangled from the native population. ... We
ń. know a more singular fulfilment of the
wórds of an unconscious prophecy. . . .
We speak of a visit to Athens in the winter. It
would be difficult to say which is the more delight-
ful—a winter spent in Athens-or a winter spent
in Rome. The attractions of Rome are so power-
ful, that two or three thousand English are seen
there every year; and it is a common saying, that
if a man has lived three winters there, he can
never bear to live anywhere else. Who, indeed,
that has resided in Rome, can ever forget his even-
ing walks on the Monte Pincio, when the sun was
setting towards Ostia—or the purple rangé of the
Sabine Hills which he has gazed at with insatiable
eyes from the Villa Albani—or the wide unculti-
wated Campagna, where the sunshine has power to
make perpetual desolation perpetually beautiful!
And there is this peculiarity in Rome, that it seems
to provide satisfaction for the cravings of every
class of travellers. To the sickly and consumptive
no place can offer so pleasant and soft a climate.
How many families have been comforted in Rome
How many “wan and faded cheeks” have there
“kindled into health !” And if Rome is more than
a second Cheltenham for invalids, it is so for the
lover of pleasure and dissipation. Rome has its
* -its balls, its dinners, its card-tables: and
for the last two or three winters we have heard of
British hounds meeting at the Tomb of Cecilia Me-
tella, for the chase of Latin foxes. To speak of
Pictures and statues would be absurd. Art and
"...wº. Every one
Rome: P. too º . * *sculptor must go to
* . ~~, “” “. y one who aspires to the
criticism of connoisseurship. There is more to be
learnt in the galleries and studios of Rome than
in almost all the rest of Europe. Nor are ºt.
ures less rich which the same city presents . the
eager grasp of the antiquarian. , And while he has
his Palatine and Coliseum, and ruined baths .
temples, the student of ecclesiastical history has his
old mosaics and mystic catacombs, eloquent of the
earliest ages of Christianity, and (if a digression
can be forgiven at the beginning of an article) elo.
quent of the earliest ages only ; for a great and sin-
gular gap exists in the monumental records of
Rome, . While the traveller finds much to remind
him of Augustus and Trajan, of the early martyrs,
and of Gregory I., much also of Leo X. and Urban
VIII. and Pius VII., he must go elsewhere for me-
morials of the great men of the intermediate times
—Hildebrand, or Innocent III., or Boniface VIII.
Rome might be defined as the city of the ancient
Caesars, the city of modern art, and the metropolis
of the monastic bodies. And we think that this
last particular furnishes one of the characteristics
fixed most strongly in the memory. Some of the
most vivid pictures which the mind retains of this
most impressive city, are the recollections of rough
brown-hooded Franciscans loitering about the steps
of the capitol—or of young Cistertians, in white
and black, looking over the Ponte de' quatro Capi
into the yellow Tiber—portly Dominicans in the
library of the Minerva—carriages of red cardinals
drawn up in front of the many-tongued Propaganda
—and trains of long-robed ecclesiastical students
filing over the slopes of the Viminal and Quirinal
Hills. r
Here we come in contact with subjects in which
the Englishman cannot sympathize. . There is so
much of evil in the Roman system of religion, that
we find ourselves called upon to control and arrest
our feelings of affection for Rome, at the very point
when, with all devoted adherents of the papal see,
they begin to mount and kindle into enthusiasm.
Here then we stay for a moment to remark, that
the one unsatisfactory feeling, which makes Rome
less pleasant than it otherwise would be, is absent
from the mind of the sojourner at Athens. It is
not that he will not see much to grieve him in the
helplessness and miserable degradation, the abject
superstition, the ignorance, and poverty, , of the
eastern church; but he will not have before his
eyes an organized body informed with a hostile and
aggressive principle-a system into which evil has
been riveted, and where error and truth have been
crystallized together. -
There are some contrasts between an Athenian
and a Roman winter, which many would be j
inclined to dwell upon. There are in Athens
long marble halls, peopled with statues; no stately
galleries, hung, with unrivalled pictures; there is
no incessant influx of English strangers; the equi-
pages which the traveller sees are few anime.
and he would inquire in vain for the bailofaſ Eng.
lish duchess, or the pack of an English earl. But
warmieceptiºns are not wanting—(as many would
be willing to testify)—nor tokens of hearty kind.
ness—at the hands of residents who speak ourna-
*.
558
GREECE IN 1843–4.
tive language—English, Scotch, and American.
Nor are the Greeks thought unworthy of affection
or regard, by those who know them best. And
what place is there in the world that can compare
with Athens, for the beauty and impressiveness of
its surrounding scenery, or for the silent eloquence
of its ancient buildings? Who shall describe the
beauty of an Athenian sunset, when violet-lights
of all various tints descend from heaven upon the
mountains—red-violet on Hymettus, and blue-vio-
let on Parnes—when a soft yellow light is spread
along the plain and rests on the front of the Acrop-
olis, and kindles into a blaze on the peak of Lyca-
bettus—the sun meanwhile sinking slowly behind
Troezen and Epidaurus—and the bright surface of
the Saronic gulf “gleaming like a golden shield?”
Who shall describe the Parthenon, that noblest of
ruins, which rises above the city like a crown of
glory—or the wide river of grey-green olives,
which flows round the bed of the Cephisus and
down as far as the Piraeus—or the fifteen Olym.
pian columns which stand in magnificent disorder
near the thirsty bed of the Ilissus ; Rome has a
modern history as well as an ancient. As the
traveller ranges over the seven hills, now so deso-
late—and the Campus Martius, now so densely
peopled—his mind wanders as much to Alaric and
Rienzi, to the Gregorys and the Medici, as to
Romulus, or the Gracchi, or Augustus. And, as
the different periods of the history of Rome are su-
perposed one upon another, so also are its historic
buildings. True it is, that the site of the ancient
city is, upon the whole, visibly aloof from that of the
present one; but still the existing remains are very
inconveniently mixed up with modern buildings, or
turned to modern uses. The Pantheon is a church ;
the Baths of Diocletian, once so noisy with the
game of the pila and the recitations of poets, are
turned into silent walks for Carthusian monks; the
slopes of three of the hills are now so covered with
buildings, that it requires careful scrutiny before
their contour can be discovered; churches are built
round about the Palatine, and on the pavement of
Via Sacra, and side by side with ruined temples
and triumphal arches. But in Athens the case is
widely different.—The first thing the traveller sees
on approaching Rome is the dome of St. Peter's :
the first thing he sees of Athens is the ancient
Acropolis. (We wish we were not obliged to say
that the second is the palace of King Otho.) And
as it is at the outset, so it is throughout. While
at Rome, the acquisition of a clear idea of the situ-
ation of the ground is, more or less, the result of
study and labor—in Athens, the idea flashes on the
mind at once, clear as the air of Attica itself, and
sudden as the thoughts of the Athenians of old.
From first to last—from the first sight of the pro-
jecting shore of the Piraeus with its three illustri-
ous indentations, to the base of Lycabettus-and
from the sides of the many-delled Hymettus to the
grove of the Academy—everything is eloquent of
ancient Athens. To every well-informed traveller,
everything is simply what he expected to find it.
Any one, who has read the works of Dr. Words-
worth or Colonel Leake, will recognize instantane-
ously each feature of the ground and each building
that survives; and, after a rapid walk of a few
hours, may carry away within his mind a picture
of the city of Pericles and Plato, which will neve
leave him till the day of his death. f
What is true of Athens, as contrasted with
"Rome, is equally true of the whole of Greece com-
spared with Italy; for Greece has had no modern
history of zuch a character as to interfere with the
distinctiveness of its classical features. A modern
history it does indeed possess, various and eventful,
and on which much remains yet to be written;"
but it has been of a destructive, not a constructive
character—it has been, if we may use the expres-
sion, self-destructive. It has left nothing behind it
which can spoil the bare beauty of those hills and
plains where the battles of the ancient world were
fought—no modern ornaments or modern deformi-
ties, which can hide those memorials to all ages of
the greatness of Hellenic genius.
The distinctiveness with which Greeco tells its
ancient history is perfectly wonderful. In what-
ever part of it the stranger may be wandering—
whether cruising in shade and sunshine among the
scattered Cyclades, or tracing his diſficult way
among the rocks and along the watercourses of the
Peloponnesus, or looking up to where the Ache-
lous comes down from the mountains of Acarnania,
or riding across the Baeotian plain, with Parnassus
behind him and Citharon before him—he feels that
he is reading over again all the old stories of his
school and college days—all the old stories, but
with new and most brilliant illuminations. He
feels in the atmosphere, and sees in the coasts, and
in the plains and the mountains, the character of
the ancient Greeks, and the national contrasts of
their various tribes. Attica is still what it ever
was—a country where the rock is always laboring
to protrude itself from under the thin and scanty
Soil, like the bones under the skin of an old and
emaciated man. No one can cross over from
“hollow Lacedaemon” to the sunny climate and
rich plain of Messenia, without sympathizing with
the §ºs who fought so long for so rich a
prize. No one can ride along the beach at Sala-
mis, while the wind which threw the Persian
ships into confusion is dashing the spray about his
horse's feet, without having before his eyes the
image of that sea-fight where so great a struggle
was condensed into the narrow straits between the
island and the shore, with Aristides and Themisto-
cles fighting for the liberties of Greece, and Xerxes
looking on from his golden throne. No one can
look down from the peak of Pentelicus upon the
cresdent of pale level ground which is the field of
Marathon, without feeling that it is the very sanc-
tuary where that battle ought to have been fought
which decided that Greece was never to be a Per-
sian satrapy.
If this is true of the history, it is still more true
of the mythology of Greece. Who that wakes in
the morning (though it be on the deck of an Aus.
* The History of Greece under the Romans has been
ably written by Mr. Finlay-one of our now large class
of learned and tasteſul merchants—son of the late well-
known member ſor Glasgow. . The history of the Cru-
saders in Greece is a desideratum in our literature.
Materials have been collected by M. Buchon, in his
Recherches et Matériaur pour servir d l’Histoire de la
Domination Française en Orient, (2 vols., Paris, 1840,
which contain an outline of the mediaeval history o
Greece—and his Chroniques Etrangères relatires attir
Expéditions Francaises’ Etrangères, (1841,) in which
the Greek “Chronicle of the Morea” is F.;
interesting. Ho has, we believe, not confined himself to
the editing of ancient records; and we understand that
he might have been met, a few years agº, travelling
industriously in Greece, and refusing tº bº.interested in
anything which had not reference º Middle Ages;
A travelcrin Hellas, thinking only of Villehardouin and
Guillaume de Champlitte, and the feudal principalities
of the Morea, is an unusual phenomenon. But such are
the writers from whom we are to expect the best elucida-
tion of a dark and neglected subject.
GREECE IN. 1843–4. \
559
trian steamer) to find himself in the bay of Napoli,
and sees on the left the marsh where Hercules
burnt off the hydra's heads, and Tiryns on the
right, where he strangled the serpents in his cradle,
and looks onward to the gorge in the hills where
lies Mycenae, the city of Agamemnon, and notices
how all the mountains enclose the scene with a
dark and awful barrier, but feels instinctively and
in a moment that he is among the heroes of the
Iliad and Oresteia! Who can pause in front of the
sublime precipice of the two-peaked Parnassus—
the poetic and historic, not the physical and natural
Parnassus"—without understanding what the Gauls
felt when the spirit of Apollo fell upon them, and
they were filled with terror and amazement! Who
can clamber up the low cliffs which overhang the
sanctuary of Neptune at the Isthmus, and look
alternately to the two seas which are spread on
either hand, without feeling how singularly appro-
priate are the sacred places of Greece to the ideas
with which they are associated? -
The effect of this impressive association is not
spoilt by the mixture of anything that is post-Hel-
lenic. Occasionally, indeed, the traveller stumbles
upon some brick ruins, such as he has seen in Italy,
and his attendant hurries him on with the impatient
exclamation, “Non e antico, signore; e Romano.”
Turkish cannon-balls are found here and there
among the fragments of broken columns; and in
Some of the towns in the Morea the lion of St.
Mark is still seen sculptured on the walls. The
Romans, the Crusaders, the Venetians, and the
Turks, have each left enough behind them to show
that 'they were once in Greece; but that is all.
When we look up to the Apennines from Florence,
it is quite as likely that we may think of Gregory
VII. or Frederick Barbarossa, as of Catiline, fresh
from the reproaches of Cicero, hastening to join the
camp of Manlius. When we approach the bay of
Naples, the thought of Conradin is as natural as
that of Horace; and the campaigns of Hannibal
are almost everywhere swallowed up by the more
recent memory of Napoleon. But not, so in
Greece. We forget Villehardouin and Dandolo,
and see only the country of Pericles and Leonidas.
One other general remark, we hope, may be
pardoned—namely, that hardly any traveller has
adequately called attention to the hilliness, of
Greece. Dr. Wordsworth has called it somewhere
“an endless vicissitude of hill and valley,” and the
description is a very true one. This characteristic
peculiarity is fixed indelibly in the memory by a
ride across the Diacria, where peasants, just like
the Thracian boors in Aristophanes, are ploughing
here and there on the sides of the hills -or by an
excursion through Arcadia, where flocks are heard
from the valleys below, bleating through the mist;
—or by a cruise along any of the coasts, where a
change of wind may be looked for at the passing of
every new head-land. . It is hardly possible to over-
rate the importance of this peculiarity, whether we
are thinking of the resources and prospects of the
resent population, or the character and manner of
#. of the ancient Greeks, or the singular type
of the scenery. We see here an explanation of
* See a valuable essay on Greek ºy in the first
number of the “Classical Museum,” by the Rev. A. P.
Stanley. He remarks that the Parnassus of the poets is
the rock as seen from below the fountain of Castalia, not
the great mountain as seen from the Boeotian plain and
the Čorinthian gulf. He has pointed out too, in a very
striking manner, how the field of Marathon may be com.
pared to what we have called it above—a sanctuary.
.”
the imaginative worship associated with local sanc-
tuaries—of the isolatéd growth of neighboring
i. Pºian and Ionian antipathies; and we
º same cause must have tended
prº !... ºborºwed intellectual develop-
ment” for which the Greeks stand conspicuous
among the nations of antiquity. Though general
propºsitions respecting the working of climate and
physical agencies upon character are tre.
yet we may venture to note certain improving
influences, at a time when they had no jº.
study, and no more advanced prejudices to imit.
To borrow the terse words of Mr. Grote :- º
“Their position made them at once mountaineers
and mariners, thus supplying , them with gr.
variety of objects, sensations, and adventures. Each
petty community, nestled apart amidst its own
rocks, was sufficiently severed from the rest to pos-
sess an individual life and attributes of its own, yet
not so far as to subtract it from the sympathies of
the remainder. So that an observant Greek, com-
mercing with a great diversity of half-countrymen,
whose language he understood, and whose idiosyn.
crasies he could appreciate, had access to a larger
mass of social and political experience than any
other man in sounadvanced an age could personally
obtain.” -
How far this alternation of hill and valley, rock
and plain, is forced upon our notice as a mere ex-
ternal characteristic of Greece, and as that which
makes our recollections of it so vivid, will be
acknowledged by all who have been there, even by
those who care the least for historical associations.
Our readers will forgive us if we quote here some
of Dr. Clarke's words in his “valedictory retro-
spect” of 1816. Looking from Thessalonica upon
the superb scenery of the mountain-chain of Olym-
pus, he writes thus:– >
“With the vivid impressions which remained
after leaving the country, memory easily recalled
into one mental picture the whole of Greece; be-
cause it is portioned out by nature into parts of
such magnitude, possessing, at the same time, so
many striking features, that after they have ceased
to appear before the sight, they remain present to
the imagination. Every reader may not duly com-
prehend what is meant by this; but every traveller.
who has beheld the scenes to which allusion has
been made, will readily admit its truth : he will be
aware that whenever he closed his eyes, with his
thoughts directed towards that country, the whole
of it became spread before his contemplation, as if
he were actually indulged with a view of it. In
such an imaginary flight, he enters, for example,
the Defile of Tempe from Pieria; and as the gorge
opens towards the south, he sees all the Larrissarºn
Plain : this conducts him to the Plain of Pharsalia
whence he ascends the mountains south of Phar.
salus; then, crossing the bleak and still more ele-
vated region extending from those mountains
towards Lamia, he views Mount Pindus far before
him, and, descending into the plain of the Sperchiº,
passes the Straits of Thermopylae. * * *".
Ascending the top of Parnassus, he looks down
upon, all the ºther, mountains, and plains, and
islands, and gulfs of Greece. * * * ** "The .
roaming into the depths and over all the heights of
Euba’a and ºf Peloponnesus, he has their inmost
recesses again submitted to his contemplation.
Next resting upon Hymettus, he examines, evenin.
the minutest detail, the whole of Attica, to the
Sunian Promontory; for he sees it all, and all the
shores of Argos, of Sicyon, of Corinth, of Megara,
560
GREECE IN 1843–4.
of Eleusis, and of Athens. Thus, although not in
all the freshness of its living colors, yet in all its
grandeur, doth Grecce actually present itself to the
mind's eye; and may the impression never be
removed On the eve of bidding it farewell for-
ever, as the hope of visiting this delightful country
constituted the earliest and the warmest wish of his
youth, the author found it to be some alleviation
of the regret excited by a consciousness of never
returning, that he could thus summon to his recol-
lection the scenes over which he had passed.”
Such is Greece at all times—such it was in the
winter of 1843–1844; but there were certain circum-
stances at that time which gave a peculiar interest
to this remarkable country. Athens was in a state
of extraordinary and continued excitement. It was
the time of the session of the national assembly,
which was called together in consequence of the
revolution of September 3, 1843, to form that sys-
tem of government which has since been adopted
as the constitution of the country.
“By processe and by lengthe of certain yeres'
All stenten is the mourning and the teres
Of Grekës, by on general assent. "
Than semeth me ther was a parlement
At Athenes, upon certain points and cas:
Amonges the which points yspoken was
To have with certain contrees alliance,
And have of Thebanes fully obeisance.”
That assembly, to which these lines from the
“Knighte's Tale” seem to suit themselves so
naturally, was remarkable as a political event, and
not less so as a spectacle and a show, and a curious
study of human character. We are not aware that
any º of this singular meeting has been
printed in English, and we are glad to be able to
present our readers with some account of it from a
private journal, which has been placed at our com-
mand.
The circumstances of the revolution itself are
sufficiently known-the nightly rising, the gather-
ing round the palace, the long hesitation of the
king, the stoic firmness of Kallergi, and finally the
dispersion of the satisfied multitude. We will
borrow by and "#. page on that strange day from
Lord Nugent. . But first, we must say something
of the general contents of his lordship's work,
especially of the chapters on “Classical Lands.”
We do not find in these volumes any passages
that rival the brilliant painting or the caustic wit
of Eöthen. They have more in common with the
reverend and serious spirit which is among the
greatest and most lasting charms of the “Crescent
and the Cross:” but they do not, like that re-
markable book, abound in personal incident. Lord
Nugent, however, has been all his life a student;
and his style of writing is greatly improved since
we first reviewed him. His travels contain not a
few specimens of vigorous description—of Alexan-
dria, for instance, that most melancholy city, “its
beauty gone,” “its commerce passing through it
without enriching its inhabitants,” “ having the
look of a town lately visited by some great
calamity”—of the Nile, and its waterfowl and
kites, and herds of cattle swimming across with
their Arab drivers, its palm-trees, and creaking
water-wheels, and cupolas of Moslem tombs—and
of Cairo, with its flies and donkeys, restless streets,
and terrible ophthalmia. From Egypt his lordship
travels across the desert to the Holy Land. Here
we find the appearance of the towns well con-
trasted with that of the country he had left.
Speaking of Bethlehem, (vol. ii., p. 13,) he says—
“The houses, even the meanest, are all roofed;
and those small cupolas abound which give to the
towns and to the houses of the Holy Land an air
of comfort, and even of importance, in strong con-
trast with the dreariness of the uniform flat roofs,
or oftener roofless mud-walls, of Egypt.”
Passing by the four chapters on the city and
vicinity of Jerusalem, we find (chap. viii.) a good
description of the woodland scenery between Naza-
reth and the river Kishon ; and again (chap. ix.)
of the rough but magnificent journey from Beyrout
to Baalbec :—
“The scenery became wilder and more grand āt
every mile as we advanced; the mountains rising
in front in all their towering pride—pine-woods
beneath them, and everlasting snow from half way
upwards to the summit—each summit overlooked
by three or four behind it, loftier than itself, and
trenched to their foundations by precipitous valleys,
through which foam “the rushing water-floods,
even the floods from Lebanon and from the tops
thereof.” ”*
Many subjects of interest occur in the course of
these journeys. At Cairo he had an opportunity
of seeing Ibrahim Pasha, which he did not wish to
repeat ; and a more satisfactory interview with
Mahomet Ali, whose keen eye, and courtesy of
manner, and shrewd sententiousness made a great
impression on him, as they do upon most travellers.
“You are a young man from an old country—you
find me an old man in a young country,” is one of
* In the eighth chapter there is .#. of Acre.
Here Lord Nugent quotes from a Book of Travels by M.
de Salle, (ancien Premier Interprète de l'Armée d'Af:
rique)—a shameful misrepresentation of one of Sir Syd-
ney Smith's noble actions. The book was published in
Paris soon after Sir Sydney's own death in the same
metropolis. This note suggested to our memory some
passages in the French Erpédition de la Morée, a work
which it is natural for us to notice on the present occa-
sidm, as containing much valuable information, not only
on the antiquities of Greece, but also on its general con-
dition since the war of independence. The expedition
was conducted in three sections, with the view of pur-
suing different branches of inquiry, physical and anti-
quarian. They sailed from Toulon in 1829, and returned
to Marseilles in 1830. In consequence of a fever which
attacked them, when encamped at Argos, they were com-
elled to leave that neighborhood; and to this misfortune
|it is due, that the volumes containing the results of the
expedition embrace some portion of Attica and the
Archipelago, as well as the Morea. These volumes were
ublished at various intervals between 1830 and 1838.
hey are º illustrated, and, above all, are accom-
#. an excellent map of the Åforea, which was the
rst good map of any portion of Greece, and must be the
base of all subsequent ones. We think it strange that,
in such a work, approved by the French government,
occasion should have been found for any slanderous attack
upon the English. It is hardly worth while to pause on
such a sentence as the following, which is suggested by
the sight of Capri and the memory of Tiberius —“Le
souvenir du scélérat couronné, qui, fatigué de puissance
et de voluptés, terminasahonteuse carrière oil Sir Hudson
Lowe a commencé la sienne, ne me revint dans l'esprit
que lorsque Caprée et ses remparts eurent disparu a mes
yeux.” But what are we to say of such a º dS
that which occurs in a description of the Greek clergy,
who are called, rather cleverly, les parias du sacerdoce?
The writer says that there is this advantage in their low
position, that they can be content to educate their chil-
dren in a homely manner, without the necessity of main-
taining, as elsewhere, a certain decorum :-and then he
continues—"Aussi et Angleterre, par exemple, voit on
les filles publiques se récriter principalement entre les
demoisellès du clergé.” Is there any French public that
Cºlin §§ this? The writer's name, nevertheless, is Bory
de S. Vincent |
GREECE IN 1843-4.
561
his characteristic remarks. There is a satisfactory
explanation of the Egyptian magic, derived from
Mr. Lane, and published with his consent, which
we recommend to the notice of our readers: it
would divert us from our purpose if we were to
enter upon it here. Nor are we able to follow his
lordship's inquiries into the topography of Jerusa-
lem. #. seem to be conducted in that very
proper spirit which is midway between credulity
and scepticism. We are not sorry that he demurs
to Professor Robinson's topographical canon, that
the traditions of the monks are not to be listened
to, but those of the native Arabs to be adopted in
their stead. Still less sorry are we that he finds
great fault with those contrary writers who yield a
constrained and fanatical obedience to all the old
ccclesiastical notions on the localities of sacred
scenes. We consider the chapters which relate
both to ancient and modern Jerusalem as about the
best to which our readers could be referred.
Our business, however, is not now with Egypt
or Palestine, but with Grecce. Lord Nugent left
Corfu for Patras on the 20th of December, 1843.
In the winter of that year a system of Austrian
steamers had been (as we before stated) for the
first time organized between Trieste and the Piraeus,
without the necessity of circumnavigating the
Morea, passengers and goods being transported
across the Isthmus of Corinth. He defers the de-
Scription of Corfu to the conclusion of his second
volume ; he says something of Lutraki and Kala-
maki, the two small harbors on the isthmus, the
former of which is remarkable for a hot spring of
“a temperature of near 100°. Fahrenheit;” the
latter he identifies by mistake with the Cenchreat of
St. Paul ;* and then he-gives a detailed account
of all that he saw and heard at Athens. He speaks
of the restoration of the Temple of the Unwinged
Victory—examines and describes the remains of
the upper and lower city—enters heartily into the
cause of the Greeks, their Revolution and National
Assembly. This visit is ended on the 28th of Jan-
uary, when he leaves the Piræus, in a French
steamer, which gives him occasion to lament over
the small number of British packets seen in the
Levant. “For one British ensign,” he says, “in
a Mediterranean packet, there are at least a dºzen
French and Austrian.” Syra is the place where
these lines of steamers intersect. The Greeks
have now, in their passion for classic names, called
it Hermopolis, in allusion to its mercantile impor-
tance. From hence Lord Nugent proceeds to Alex:
andria. He returns from the East in May, and
pays another short visit to Athens, during which
an antiquarian excursion is made to Bari. , The
deliberations of the assembly have now been closed,
and the final result is the subject of further com-
*This is not the only topographical mistake which we
find in these volumes. For example, in É. 57, it is asserted
that tº the Pass of Daphni leads down between Cithaeron
and Corydellus,” whereas Cithaeron is altogether a sep-
arate induntain, and this pass nowhere approaches it. . In
p. 14 we read of “Parnes and Deceleia,” as if Deceleia
were not a fortress on Mount Parnes. The Theatre of
Herodes Atticus is called “the º: of Herodes Alti-
cus, (p. 26,) and it is said, (; 18,) that." after you have
# thé' Temple of the Unwinged Victory and the
ropylaea, then it is that the Erecthaeum, Minerva Polias,
Pañārossium, and Parthenon, are in turn presented”—as
if the Erecthatum and Pandrossium were not parts of one
edifice, and Minerva Polias the goddess worshipped
there.' We might also point out not a few czamples of
false etymology and blundered nomenclature ; but perhaps
IIlost y these things may have been set to rights in his
second edition.
mentary. . The work closes with some notice of
Qorfu, and with an appendix on a visit which Lord
Nugent paid to Delphi some years before, when
governor of the Ionian Islands. Two excursions
are mentioned in the first visit to Attica, which
ought not to be passed over, from the valuable
notices they contain of the battles of Marathon and
Salamis. The probable position of the creºs
and Persians in the former of these battles, a.
ing to the views of Mr. Finlay, in whose company
the excursion was made, is stated with clearness
and precision; and from the observations of Sir
James Stirling, an accomplished officer, at that
time in command of the Indus, an account of the
engagement at Salamis has been derived, more in
harmony with the narrative of Herodotus, and more
consistent with the peculiarities of the coast, than
any which we have seen elsewhere. In the first
of these excursions there is, further, an interesting
notice of the ancient town of Aphidna, under the
Acropolis of which Mr. Finlay's farm is situated;
in the second, something is said of the curious
group of ruins in the pass of Daphni, where, by a
fountain and a modern inn, are seen the remains of
a Turkish fort and a Byzantine church. “Here,”
says Lord Nugent, “as in all the other churches
which have not been restored from Turkish desecra-
tion, the eyes of all the saints are bored through
deep into the white plaster of the wall behind. . It
is a superstition of the Moslems, that these paint-
ings themselves are evil genii, whose powers are
destroyed when the eyes are put out.” º
But we turn from the consideration of all an-
tiquities, classical or media:val, to the Revolution
and the Assembly. We said that we would take
a description of the 3rd of September from the
pages of Lord Nugent: we do not know where
we could find one on the whole more faithful :—
“At two o'clock on the morning large bodies of
men were seen moving from all quarters of Athens
towards the open space in front of the royal pal-
ace. Two regiments of the line, with field-pieces
and a few horse, were ordered from their barracks
by the king to repair to the scene of this numerous
meeting. They obeyed—they marched; but the
soldiers had engaged themselves to each other, and
to their leader, Colonel Kalergi, the commandant
of the garrison, not to act against their fellow-citi-
zens assembled in that cause, but to protect them
from any violence which might be meditated against
them, and at the same time repress any which
might threaten the person of the king. The infan-
try and guns took up a position on each flank of the
ground ; the dragoon: assembled near the centre,
ready to carry intelligence or orders to distant
places, if necessary; the picket on duty within the
palace remained in their guard-room. The numbers
of the people were every moment increased by de-
tachments arriving from the country round : in two
hours full twenty thousand were assembled. Re-
membrances the most likely to excite an assembly
like this, to outrage-remembrances of national
pride insulted, of national rights assailed, of national
resources squandered by foreigners, and remem.
brances of personal grievances, for almost every
man had been a sufferer ()—remembrances of in.
justice and confiscation, of inquest by torture, and
punishment without trial—all these were the provo-
cations fresh and rankling in the hearts without the
palace. Within was the king, surrounded by some
of the principal authors and agents of these crimes.
* * * * * It was fortunate for the character
and result of that night's and next day's proceed-
562
GREECE IN 1843–4.
ings, that, by the king's own act, the dangerous
counsel which it was afterwards avowed that
ave him was checked, and its execution prevented.
n that crisis of doubt and peril, the advice given
was to order the palace-guard to fire upon Colonel
Kalergi, who was then on horseback under the ||
palace windows, exerting with success the whole
influence of his great and well-deserved popularity
to preserve order, and quell any expression that
could lead to tumult, or do violence even to the
feelings of the king.”—vol. i., pp. 87–90.
It would take up too much of our own space
and of our reader's time, if we were to go through
the narrative of all that happened during that day
—of the long delay of hour after hour—of the reit-
erated demand of the people for a National Assem-
bly or the abdication of the king—of Otho's tardy
assent after twelve hours had elapsed—and, finally,
of his appearance at the balcony, accompanied by
Sir Edmund Lyons, along with the French, Aus-
trian, Russian, and Prussian ministers.
“Thus ended that memorable day. The people
dispersed tranquilly and joyfully, leaving the palace
square, in which twenty thousand persons had
stood for twelve hours, without trace of a mob having
been there ; not one of even those small and almost
harmless evidences of excess, which mark mob-
rule even in its happiest and best-satisfied humor.
Not a window of the palace, or of the surrounding
buildings, was broken ; not a word of disrespect
had been spoken against the king's person; the
Bavarian officers living in the town had been sub-
jected neither to molestation nor insult; and of the
reed fence—for there was nothing more to separate
the palace-gardens from the place where twenty
thousand persons, for so many hours, had awaited
a crisis, in which no retreat was left, save in the
full attainment of their demand or the dethrone-
ment of the king—of that frail fence not a reed
was displaced.”—vol. i., p. 96.
... It is impossible not to wonder at the moderation
of a meeting, called together so irregularly under
circumstances so exciting, or to withhold our agree-
ment from the terms of Lord Aberdeen's despatch
of October 25th :-
“ It cannot be denied that great credit is due to
the Greek nation for the manner in which they
appear to have universally conducted themselves on
this important occasion, so different from the exam-
ple afforded by countries more advanced in civiliza-
tion.”*
To enter into the causes of this revolution would
be to go far back in a very troubled history. We
would rather treat it as a fait accompli, and pass on
at once to the National Assembly, which was its
first result. This Assembly met on the 30th of
November, and when Lord Nugent returned in
May, the constitution had received the royal assent,
and the writs were issued for the election of mem-
bers for the first parliament of the Hellenic king-
dom. 4 #
Our account of this assembly consists of some
desultory extracts from the MS. journal to which
we have alluded. The traveller, whose materials
we borrow, seems to have arrived in Greece at a
fortunate time—about the middle of December—
when the public business was fairly begun and
already, in active progress.
“(Thursday, Dec. 14th.)—We find immediately
that the National Assembly is the one subject
* Earl of Aberdeen, to Sir E. Lyons, October 25, 1843;
Papers laid before the House of Commons, March 14,
1844.
which is exciting all the little Athenian world.
About the little cafés and scanty billiard-rooms in
the long street, which extends from the bazaar at
the foot of the Acropolis to the open country in the
direction of the Academy, there is an unusual con:
course of Greek gentlemen—gayly-dressed and
narrow-waisted figures—with white kilts and fierce
moustachios, who lounge to and fro, and linger to
dispute with eager gesticulations. Everybody is
talking of the Assembly, indoors and out of doors.
Some things we learn before visiting the meeting
itself. It is clear that Sir E. Lyons is exercising
a great influence in all the proceedings. Among
the Greeks Mavrocordato seems at present to be the
most conspicuous. The deputies are 230 in num-
ber. Hitherto they have been occupied, first, in
fixing the rules of the house; secondly, in electing
a president, secretaries, and other officers; and,
thirdly, in appointing committees on the address,
the constitution, &c. As regards the constitution,
the great difficulty is expected to be found in the
question of the “Upper House.” The address is to
be considered on Saturday, which people, say will
be a stormy day. The soldiers, who took part in
the revolution, are anxious to have some clause in-
troduced, securing to them an indemnity from any
future displeasure of the king : and the radicals
would be glad to take advantage of this desire, for
the purpose of introducing a pointed mention of the
3d of September, which all moderate men would
consider a gratuitous attack on his majesty's feel-
1ngs. -
“(Saturday, 16th.)—If I had seen only one meet-
ing of this remarkable Assembly, that sight, with
my first day on the Acropolis, would have been
worth a journey from England. The room of
meeting is the king's ball-room, and it is exactly
large enough for the members. It is arranged in
the French manner, where the deputies are seated
in a semicircle, and the president in the centre:
with his secretaries on each side of him, and a bell
near his right hand to keep order in the house.
Round the outer circumference are the more impor-
tant spectators, the corps diplomatique, and a few
ladies, some of whom wear the Greek head-dress,
which is simply a red cap placed .."; on the
side of the head. One of them is Catherine Botzaris,
maid of honor to the queen, and beautiful as her
father was illustrious. An open gallery, on one
side of the hall, contains a number of more ordinary
visitors, among whom I observe several priests,
whose black head-dresses and long beards harmor
nize well with their grave and earnest faces. The
hall is hung with red curtains, and at each end are
the names, conspicuously written, of the heroes
that fell in the war of independence. I could not
help feeling some emotion, as my eye, ran ove.
the names of Colocotroni and Mavromichali, and
Botzaris and Odysseus, and rested on an engraying
which was suspended in front of the president,
representing the first raising of the standard at
Kalabryta by an archimandrite of Megaspelion;
The acting president is Mavrocordato-the real
president, who sits by him, being too old for the
active duties of his office. He is more than 199
years of age—some say 103, others 1977 and hº
has been president of every National Congress
since the commencement of the earliest revolution:
Corinth is his native town. . He is now thin and
emaciated, but, we arc told, in the full possession
of his faculties; and we looked with no ordinary
interest on one who has seen and survived so much.
To turn now from the office-bearers to the deputies
GREECE IN 1843–4.
563
themselves, never was there a parliament so calcu-
lated to engross a stranger's attention. Two
thirds of the deputies wear the national costume; and
the Greek costume, in both its varieties—the white
kilt or Albanian ſustanella, and the broad blue
Hydriot trowsers—is perhaps the handsomest in
the world. I must wait for another day to learn
the names of the most conspicuous. A young man
near me caught my º attention, from the
unusual splendor of his dress and the long tresses
which streamed down his back. This is the Greek
fashion. The modern Greeks are “long haired,’
like their Homeric ancestors. The last speaker
before we entered was a hard, rough-looking Mace-
donian, not long ago a notorious robber. The
adjournment was moved almost immediately ; but I
had time to discover that my car could not follow
the pronunciation of the speakers, except when the
printed Greek was before me—as when the secre:
tary read the address, which had just been presented
by the committee. In coming in and going out, I
could not help observing of how great importance
tobacco seemed to be, as a help to the debate. The
ante-room (the lobby) was saturated with the smell
of it, and on the tables were copious supplies of the
weed for the use of the members who were strolling
in and out. Another Eastern custom, too, was
observable here, as elsewhere in Greece, viz., the
use of a string of beads, like that which is so often
seen dangling in the hands of the Moors on the
Barbary coast. It is not a rosary, but simply a
plaything—a help, perhaps, to meditation, but
nothing more. We came, however, in contact
with one religious observance, which was likely to
'have put a slight impediment in the way of the
business of the assembly. At the moving of the ad-
journment there was a little hubbub among the mem-
bers, which caused a smile among the bystanders.
Monday happened to be the feast of St. Nicholas,
and there was some unwillingness to meet on such
a day for the discharge of public business. The
Greeks are remarkable for the number of their festi-
vals and for the conscientiousness with which, on
these occasions, they observe the ceremony of idle-
IlêSS, *
“ (Monday, 18th.)—Festival of St. Nicholas-
There is the same custom here, which prevails in
some other continental countries. Everyone whose
name is Nicholas is called on to-day by his acquaint:
ances, to whom he presents sweetmeatsafter the usual
fashion of Greek hospitality. I was told that some
good music was to be heard at the Russian church
in honor of the emperor, but I could not stay tº
hear it without absenting myself from the National
Assembly. I had a good seat near the Austrian
and British consuls. Near me was the dark, thin
face of the Austrian minister, and the French admi-
ral's round, good-humored countenance, and the
white hat and large features of M. Piscatory, who
is far more like an Englishman than a Frenchman.
On the same bench was Sir Edmund Lyons, our own
minister, and Sir James Stirling, the commander
of her Majesty's ship the Indus. But my attention
was drawn more to the deputies than the spectators
That dark man with aquiline nose and small mous-
tache, just under Sir Edmund Lyons, is General
Church, whose life and feelings have been identi-
fied with Greece. The black, round-featured man
near him is Bodouris, the member for Hydra.
These are both in the Frank dress. #
one beyond them, who looks as though he disdained
what is not national. His Greek coat is bordered
with fur; his tall red cap is placed firmly on his
But there is
head; and his massive COuntenance never Imoves
thrºugh all the changes of the debate. This is
Coletti, the leader of what is called the French
Fºy, as Mavrocord to is of the English: but
Mºrocordato wears the Frank dress, j does
Metara, the head of the Russian party who spoke
at great length, He is a tall man, with projectin
moustache, and his clothes hang loosely about ;
as if he were a scarecrow sent by the emperor.
He speaks calmly and persuasively, not with.
appearance of that cunning for which his enemi.
give him abundant credit. Londos, a member ºf
the ministry, is a little, round-headed man, who is
seen moving about in the middle of the assembly;
and there, too, is Kallergi, the hero of the 3rd ºf
September. A small military cap is on his head
and he is not in any way to be distinguished in
appearance from the commonest of the common
soldiers. The swearing in of a new member took
place to-day. It was an interesting sight, and
certainly the most solemn oath I eversaw. Allrose
and took off their hats; the head of the priest alone
was covered. He stood in front of the president—
a bearded man, with long dark robes, grave and
humble in his attitude and the expression of his
countenance, having a New Testament, marked
with the cross resting upon his left arm. The words
of the oath were repeated after dictation, and then
the book was reverently kissed, and the member
took his seat. &.
“(Wednesday, 21st.)—This again was an inter-
esting day at the Assembly. Affairs had ended
yesterday in rather a critical, position, and high
words had been used in the course of the debate.
One man had said to another repeatedly—‘This is
not a camp, this is not a camp º' The other said
- You ought to be ashamed to speak so; were
it not for the camp, there would have been no
National Assembly for you to speak it in.” This
was Griezotis, a member from Negropont, a man of
determined aspect, who sits in front of the presi-
dent, I am told that he can neither read nor write,
but that he is possessed of a strong and masculiné
understanding. Near him is Grivas, with the most
showy dress and the narrowest waist in the Assem-
bly. He often speaks with great liveliness, though
his talent is not remarkable. He comes from the
north-western frontier, and, like Griezotis, is a
powerful chief in his own locality. I saw him the
other day, in one of the streets, walking with a tail
of kilted followers behind him, to whom he turned
round now and then with a toss of the head and a
curl of the mustachio which were infinitely amu-
sing. Both these men are said to have been for-
merly appointed capitani to keep the peace under
the #. So, too, was Macriani, who is con-
spicuous in his woollen jacket, and whom I heard
speaking with so much vehemence on Monday.
To-day I observed a beautiful boy come into the
Assembly, and was told that he is a son of the
Colocotroni who is now in exile. . A brother of the
same Colocotroni is one of the deputies. He is a
mean-looking man, and wears the Frankish dress.
The business of the day began with the reading of
the transactions of yesterday: then a dozen ºn.
bers were chosen to compliment the queen on her
birth-day to-morrow ; and then came the great
question—in what method the address was . he
debated, whether º by paragraph (naqd-
yeapow neº; radaycapo") or otherwise; and an im-
mense hubbub arose, chiefly, I think, because these
unsophisticated legislators were troubled and per-
plexed by technicalities. The votes were taken,
564
GREECE IN 1843-4.
not by a division, but by calling over names; and
we retired while this was going on. We after-
wards heard that the result was such as to leave
the Radicals in a considerable minority. These
Radicals are, for the most part, laywers and editors
of newspapers—and, as in most countries, include
among themselves many of the best speakers. One
general remark, which struck me not a little, was
made concerning the speeches in this assembly.
Those speakers who addressed themselves to the
feelings and passions were listened to with far less
attention than those who spoke to the reason and
judgment. This génie de bon sens seems to be a
national peculiarity of the modern Greeks; and ||
such a peculiarity in a half-civilized people gives
the best prospect of their future improvement.”
It would be tedious to enter into a detailed
account of the debates in this assembly. We
would rather take up two or three of the main
topics which were discussed that winter with so
much earnestness, both in and out of Greece.
The first of all these was, whether Greece ought
to have a constitution at all—whether, now that the
Greeks were part and parcel of Christendom, they
ought to be governed, like a free people, on the
representative principle. There are some who
would answer this question very promptly—who
have such a horror of the stagnation of a despotism,
and such a profound belief in the purifying power
of parliamentary storms, that they could not hesi-
tate to give an answer in the affirmative.
not of that number. But there were circumstances
in the condition of Greece at the close of 1843
which convince us that a constitution was called
for. . In the first place, the only other alternatives
(so far as we can see) were, a native democracy
of wild, half-civilized Greeks, or an oppressive des-
potism exercised by a foreign power. The exist-
ing Bavarocracy (the Greeks, who are as fond of
puris as ever, used to call it barbarocracy) had
become impossible. . Unless a free government,
based on the constitutional systems of Western
Europe, were adopted, nothing remained for Greece
but (on the one hand) disorganized assemblies and
unruly palikars, turbulent debates and bloody quar-
rels, or (on the other) a military occupation by
Russian, or Austrian, or Trench troops. In the
second place, if Greece, so lately, transferred from
Islam to Christendom, were to be cordially wel-
comed into the family of European nations, this
could hardly be done effectually except by incor-
porating into its government some of the ideas of
modern Europe. We live, whether for good or
evil, in what may be called a constitutional period.
England and France had battered to pieces the
Turkish and Egyptian ships at Navarino; and it is
to England and France that Greece will naturally
look for sympathy and education, and for the ideas
which are to regulate her legislative and adminis-
trative proceedings. But beyond and besides all
this, there was one marked characteristic in the
Greek population which made a representative
government peculiarly suitable to it—we allude to
the municipalitics, which had existed all through
the middle ages, and had firmly maintained their
position in the midst of all the battles and fluctua-
tions of the Byzantine, Frankish, and Mahomedan
dynastics. Through a history more strangely
marked by strong and violent contrast than that
erhaps of any country in the world, the Greek
villages have been governed, like the ayuntamientos
of Spain, by their own alcaldes, with their own
laws. It is not to our purpose to trace the history
We are
r
or to describe the details of these institutions, but
it was through them, in the main, that the Greeks
Were ej to raise themselves, under a hostile
government, to anything like a political position :
above all, to this is due the preservation of their
character and the continuity of their religion, and
that moral fitness for self-government which is the
peculiar circumstance to which we wish to direct
attention. This was strongly pointed out by Mr.
Urquhart in 1833. He says, in reference to the
first rising of the Greek population to throw off the
Turkish yoke—
“But a very few days subsequent to the eleva-
tion of the white cross of Constantine as a recovered
national emblem, an assembly was held of free
Greeks. Throughout the revolution an intelligent
attachment has ever manifested itself for a represen-
tative form of government. To what can this
national conviction, or rather feeling, be referred,
save to the remote influences of the municipal sys-
tem?”—Turkey and its Resources, ch. iv., p. 75.
And he goes on to speak of the wonderful elas-
ticity with which the people returned to the habits of
peaceable industry after many years of war and
bloodshed, as attested by a despatch written by
Count Bulgari to Count Nesselrode, under the dic-
tation of Capo d'Istrias. This also he refers to the
Same cause—the system of local administration.
To the same effect we might quote Mr. Finlay's
pamphlet, written three years later :—
“It may appear surprising,” he says, “that so
simple a circumstance as the existence of popular
village magistrates should have exercised so exten-
sive an influence on the moral condition of the
Greek nation. But let Englishmen reflect that the
foundations of their own liberty were laid in the
Tythings and Hundreds of Saxon times rather than
in the Wittenagemotes; for while the Normans
overthrew all traces of the latter, the spirit of
the Saxon communal administration preserved that
moral strength which, with the amelioration of
society, ripened the Norman despotism into the
i. constitution. We fear not to say that
Greece has found her national spirit as well pre:
served by her Demogerontias as England had
hers by her Hundreds.”—The Hellenic Kingdom,
. 42.
p A nineteenth century constitution, however, can-
not exist without an “upper house;” and this,
in the winter of which we are speaking, was a far
more serious subject of discussion. The constituent
assembly took the representative principle for grant-
ed; but the other question was to be debated, both
in its foundation and its details. The debate occur
pied an enormous length of time; and not only
was the assembly engrossed by the subject, but over
the whole country it was incessantly talked of
“Ought there to be an upper house at all? If the
members of it are to be hereditary, like the Eng-
lish peers, where are we to find a suitable aristoº
racy? If elective, are they to be members for liſ;
as in France, or for a term of years as in Belgium?
These were the questions which were agitated
from one end of Greece to the other. We do not
know that we could give a better illustratiºn of the
state of things than by anotner extract from tho
journal of which we have already availed our
sclves. It is not always easy to detach those pas-
sages which relate purely to polities; but frag.
ments of the context will not spoil them for our
use :-
“(Jan. 1, 1844.
cursion with the liew year.
f
Athens.)—We begin our ex-
The great topic we
GREECE IN 1843–4.
565
leave behind us is “the upper house' (; āvu (?ovii)
* * * * This morning I was walking through
the town when I met Sir E. Lyons, who gave us
charge to talk to all the people in the provinces
about this apper chamber, persuadin dº. that
experience has shown that such a chamber is neces-
sary. “And tell them that, if possible, the
members must be chosen by the king : indeed
otherwise he will not sign the constitution.’
Thus, said he, “you may do good service to the
state.” tº
“ (Kephalari, Jan. 4.)—I am likely to remember
this spot as long as any which I have seen in my
journey. The stream, which is supposed to come
from the Lake of Stymphalus, bursts out into the
exuberant life of a full-grown river from the base
of a rock, like the Aire in Yorkshire from under
Malhan Cove, and runs off without delay freshly
and clearly towards the sea, turning the wheels of
some mills on its way. In the face of this rock is
a large cavern, where, and in an enclosed area in
front, a flock of beautiful sheep were resting. It
was just such a cave as that of Polyphemus, nor
could any description have been so appropriate as
some passages from the Odyssey or Æneid. To
make the scene perfect, the moon was at the full,
and shed the loveliest of gentle lights on the water
and the sheep, while the cavern lay in deep and
silent shadow. * * * * The scene was not
uninteresting in the khan, where the khanjee and all
his family were seated round the fire. Some politi-
cal conversation came on, when he spoke in strong
terms against the upper house, saying that some
members of assembly would be murdered if they
voted for it. As for himself, he cared little about
it, if only the system of taxation could be altered.
He complained bitterly, and said that he had ſound
it necessary to cut down all his olive trees. There
is a tax on fruit-trees in Greece, and this is some-
times a temptation to the destruction of orchards.
“(Tripolizza, Jan, 6.)—Here we had a pleasant
insight into the interior of a true and unsophisticat-
ed Greek family. Our host had been a merchant,
in the times when Greek merchants were prosper-
ous, and had travelled much ; but he lost two ships
in the Black Sea, and then turned warriº, at the
siege of Tripolizza. Of the children,9tho and
Chariclea sat at table, with Sophia the eldest—and
Penelope and Plato waited on us. The lady of the
house wore a red cap on the side of her head, and
sat by the hearth, where the dinner was cooked
and whence it was taken as We wanted it, dish by
dish. Dinner being over, we retired to the adjoin-
ing room, where our host took his long Pºpe of
thorn-stick, and coffee was served in the urkish
way, in very small cups and very sweet. # * * *
As to politics, our friend's notion was, that the
upper house should consist of seven members, three
of them chosen by the king ; and that they should
hold their office for six years, at the end of which
period the constitution should be revised. As to
the king's not signing, he had signed what he had
been told to sign on the 3d of September, and
what the assembly gave him to sign he must
sign. * - I - ~ *
“(Sparta, Jan. 10. The bishop's house.). One
of our visitors, Kyrios Jatrako, was taken prisoner
at Navarino, along with young Mavromichali, in an
engagement when almost all the other Greeks were
killed. He is a fine-looking man, with a face deeply
furrowed, and an eye like that of a hawk—one of
the most beautiful of eyes, and a common one
among the Greeks. He is a great boaster. To
us he is full of the most eager complaisance, saying
that we ought indeed to be cordially received here,
seeing that we belong to the lump (to xóng) of
the three powers, who have doné so much" for
Greece. Even ordinary men (uixgot &vsgartos) from
England should be welcome, but especially such as
we. * * * * A report (a false and prema-
ture one) was spread here the day before yesterda
that the constitution was finally ; with :
upper house consisting of twenty-four member.
elected by the king. Jatrako says that the natio.
is quite opposed to the idea of an upper chamber:
but, for himself, he leaves the matter in the hands
of the three powers, to whom Greece owes every-
thing. *
Two of the three powers, acting through their
representatives, Sir Edmund Lyons and M. Pisca-
tory, did actually contribute much towards the set-
tlement of this question. The ultimate decision
was, that the upper house (yºgovºia) should consist
of sixty members—half the number of the deputies
in the Boviº, or lower house. They are chosen by
the king, and retain their seats for life. So much
for the Greek house of lords.
The next great question was whether the Greeks
should have a hereditary king. There are some
who would rather have seen Greece made into a
republic, after the fashion of South America; and
thoughtful men have looked forward to a time
when the Christian inhabitants of European Tur-
key (Hellenic, Sclavonic, and Albanian) should be
united in a confederacy like that of the cantons of
Switzerland, and at once an aggressive movement
against Mahomedanism, constituting a breakwater
against the aggressions of Russia. As to the pro-
priety of Greece being made a republic, it is evi-
dent that the same arguments which vindicate the
propriety of a constitution, prove the necessity of a
hereditary king. If Greece is to have its institu-
tions framed upon the ideas of 1830, it must have
a king. Still more so, if it is to be taken into the
European system, and recognized as a nation, not
only by England and France, but by Austria and
Prussia. These two governments might be very
well disposed to hate the representative part of the
constitution, but they could never be persuaded to
consent to the loss of the monarchial element.
They would readily acquiesce in absolutism, but
never could they have tolerated democracy—more
especially as the king already placed on the throne
by the three powers is a German. *
Otho the First has been so long the laughing-
stock of the newspapers, that it is a hazardous task
to attempt to defend him. What everybody says,
everybody believes. For years past it has been the
fashion with journalists and travellers torcécho “A
wretched Bavarian importation,” “A putty-faced
puppet !”—“Poor Otho' Who can answer a
sneer 1 as Paley said of Gibbon. There is no
doubt that the position of this young Bavarian
prince in the newly-formed kingdom of Greece has
always been a very helpless one; but the circum-
stances in which he is placed ought rather to ex-
cuse him than to make him ridiculous. We do not
imagine that he is a selfish man, or indifferrent to the
welfare of Greece; but we think that he has been
too much surrounded by selfish advisers, and that a
number of Germans, who affected to treat the
Greeks with the utmost contempt, were long most
unwisely placed in the lucrative offices, both civil
and military. When national talent was pertina-
ciously-thrust out from participation in the counsels
of the government—when exotic employés were
566
GREECE IN 1843-4.
pocketing the money of a nation which was per-
petually drawing closer and closer to the verge of
bankruptcy—when an eminent professor (he is not
now living) could amuse himself in vexing the
Greeks by depreciating the literature of their ances-
tors, and saying that with all men of taste Cicero
was preferred to Demosthenes—who can wonder if
the whole nation should rise as one man, with a
feeling of indignation like that, of the Saxons
against the Normans in the times which succeeded
the conquest: “These Bavarians treated Greece
as if it were their kitchen-garden ;” so said in our
hearing a Greek ecclesiastic. “They have been
1earning to shave on our heads,” is another of their
significant phrases, quoted by Mr. Finlay. The
real wonder is, that they had not long ago forced
the king to abdicate, and sent him and his German
colonels, surgeons, and professors back to Munich,
with all that low rabble of adventurers who might
be seen, at the beginning of Lent in 1844, on the
deck of the Trieste steamer, returning as poor as
they came. When we consider, too, the bitter
hatred of races—the rabies ethnica—which must
have aggravated so much the feelings between the
Grecks and the Germans, and the busy intrigues of
Russia, who would have wished nothing so much
as the expulsion of the king, we can hardly fail to
see a strong proof of the discriminative judgment
of the Greeks, and a strong testimony to his majes-
ty's unselfish character. They received him with
enthusiasm when first he came in 1833; that en-
thusiasm was redoubled when he brought his queen
in 1837; and now, in 1843 and 1844, their feelings
of loyalty and attachment survived the shock of a
national revolution.
We have a good hope that the course of ſuture
events in Greece will . that King Otho's char-
acter has been much depreciated. And already we
sce symptoms of a more kindly and liberal tone in
the opinions expressed of his acts. In Lord Nu-
gent's book we do not remember any contemptuous
expressions concerning him. Our own notion of
him, gathered from the conversation of various per-
sons in Athens, (and we have heard him extrava-
gantly praised, and mercilessly laughed at,) is that
he is not without a certain Bavarian blunder-head-
edness, which, often hinders him from seeing the
main point of a question, and that this blunder-
headedness is coupled with no inconsiderable
amount of obstinacy; but that he is thoughtful,
earnest-minded, and pains-taking. We are far
from supposing that he is a man of much ability.
The Greeks themselves do not think him clever.
“No brains !”—(viš utiało)—said a Greek bishop
to us one day, tapping his own head merrily.
There were two other complaints in reference to
King Otho, made by the same ecclesiastic, so ex-
pressive of the two great wants of Greece, that we
cannot avoid quoting them. “We ought to have
had a rich king,” he said—“Prince Leopold, or
the Duc de Nemours; and then there would have
been no difficulties about the loan; now the three
powers will never see a Lepta.” The words came
from his very heart. No one who has had the op-
portunity of talking with the Greeks can have
failed to perceive their deep poverty, and the deep
feeling with which they think of it. The subject
of the other complaint is a cause of still greater
dissatisfaction. “He has no children,” said the
bishop; and he said it with a most grave counte-
Ilan C6.
The birth of a young prince, to be the heir of
the constitutional throne, and to be baptized and
educated as a member of the Greek church, (and
to this the king has pledged himself by solemn as-
surances,) would cause a burst of universal joy
from one end of the Hellenic kingdom to the other.
There would be no fear of a Duke of Leuchtenberg
hovering on the coast of the Hadriatic—no anxiety
about Russia subsidizing the Greek clergy—no
dread of Philorthodox plots or Nappist confedera:
cies. It would be the happiest event that could
happen to Greece,—possibly a happy one for all
Europe; for no one can compute the extent of
mischief which may hereafter result from a dis-
º succession to the throne of this little king-
0IIl. -
One weighty topic still remains, but Lord Nu-
gent has said little upon it. Among the strongest
feelings of the Greeks—those at least who have
not been sophisticated by French infidelity or Ger:
man rationalism—is a passionate and determined
attachment to the discipline and ritual of the “Or-
thodox Church of the East.” The importance
attached to this subject is shown by the length of
time which it occupied in the debates;–and points
were raised wonderfully like those that have been
of late years so much agitated nearer home.
What are to be the relations of church and state
in Greece? What in theory, and what in practice!
Ought the church to be independent, on the princi-
ple that has rent asunder the Presbyterianism of
Scotland! or ought it rather to be a department of
state-administration, as the IEvangelical church of
Prussia! Or in what precise position is it to bo
found, between the limits of Erastianism on the
one hand, and Independency on the other? Prac-
tically, no doubt, it is dependent on, and subser-
vient to, the state—but theoretically not so.
The two first of the 107 articles of the new con-
stitution relate to religion: and the second is in
these words:— w
“The orthodox church of Greece, holding our
Lord Jesus Christ as its head, is indissolubly united
in doctrine (doyuartzes) with the great church in
Constantinople, and every other Christian church
of like doctrines, keeping unalterably, as they, the
holy apostolical and synodical canons, and the holy
traditions; but is ...' (avroxigaxos,) man-
aging its own absolute rights independently of any
other church—and is administered by the Holy
Synod of Bishops.”
The last clauses of this article suggest another
question. What are the relations of the Hellenic
church with the other branches of the “Orthodox
Church of the East !”—not with the Armenian
church, or the Nestorians of Chaldaea; or the Mo-
nophysites of Egypt;-with these it has had no
connexion for ages;–but with the other branches
of the Greek church, properly so called—that an:
cient communion, which cmbraces the whole 0
Russia, and a large portion of the subjects of the
Turkish empire, and still boasts its patriarchs 0
Antioch, Alexandria, Jerusalem and Constantino”
ple. The Russian church has long been indepen-
dent of the see of Constantinople. The first step in
its independence was the consecration of a Patriº
arch of Moscow. Subsequently, this patriarchate
was abolished, and since the time of Peter the
Great it has been governed by 3,90 mission of
bishops, called “the Holy Synod.'. Such, too, is
now the position of the church of Modern Greece.
The phrase of the constitution is, as we have seen,
“dogmatically, not canonically, united"—i. e.,
while it adheres to the decrecs of the same coun-
cils as the church of Constantinople, and holds the
*
GREECE IN 1843–4.
567
same formularies as to matters of doctrine, it admin-
isters its own discipline in perſect independence of
that see, and in harmony with the government of
the country to which it belongs. This indepen-
dence was the subject of much debate. There was
a large party who would have wished to keep up
the old supremacy of the see of Constantinople—
not so much because they hold this supremacy
necessary, or viewed the Patriarch at all as Roman
Catholics do the Pope—but from a feeling of vene-
ration, and because the connexion was an ancient
one, and in many respects convenient. The main-
tenance of the connexion would, ſo obvious rea-
sons, have been agreeable to the Emperor of Rus-
sia, and to the Patriarch himself; but the advocates
of ecclesiastical nationality prevailed. In illustra-
tion of the views of this latter party we will trans-
late a few sentences from a pamphlet published at
the time in Athens:*—
“The title of Patriarch denotes not any superior
grade of priesthood, but only a position of adminis:
trative superiority, defined by an ocumenical synod
of bishops, and sanctioned by the supreme political
power:—whereby also it is oftentimes abolished
for the advantage of the state or the church; as by
Peter the Great, Emperor of Russia, the dignity
of Patriarch of Russia was done away with, and a
synod set up to administer the affairs of the church
under the supreme supervision of the political
power. * * * * * The eastern church has
never loved absolute ecclesiastical monarchy, look-
ing upon it as dogmatically opposed to the com-
mand of the Ilord, who charged His disciples that
they should call no one on the earth lord and mas-
ter, for One is master, and teacher, and Lord of
all, even Christ—and head of His body, which is
the Church.” -
Here we pause for the present; leaving of ne-
cessity untouched the course of events since the
time of the Constituent Assembly. We confess
that we have experienced considerable discomfort
from the intelligence which has appeared in the
newspapers; and we are not sorry to escape from
the duty of inquiring into the merits of the contro-
verted elections—or of following after the assassins
and banditti, who have been again infesting a
country which in the winter of 1843 and 1844 was so
quiet that it might be traversed in all directions with
perfect impunity—or of forming an opinion upºn the
quarrel of Grivas and Kallergi, those two military
worthies who have so much power to serve their
country, if they could abstain from quarrelling-or
of interpreting the disputes and misunderstandings
of Coletti, Mavrocordato, and Metaxa, that dis-
jointed triumvirate, the members of which repre-
sent respectively what are called the French, Eng-
lish, and Russian parties—or of explaining how it
is that the entente cordiale between M. Piscatory
and Sir Edmund Lyons has been so entirely dis-
solved.
we are sure that the struggles of modern Greece
ought to command the sympathies of thoughtful
minds—iſ not for her own sake, yet on account of
the effects which may be expected to result from
them in the world of the east. The Greeks them-
selves are far from confining their aspirations to
the improvement of the little state which owns
Otho for king. When they think of the future,
* The pamphlet (1843) is entitled “4targłón &vroa-
złówo; tºol rig &Qxis xai rºs *šovata; tºy IIorgia.0-
Žov, xa, asqi rj čxsata; ris izzłnºtatºriºs agric
ºngo; rºw Troitrix}v is ovoiav. It was attributed to Pro-
fessor Misãel, a distinguished member of the University.
We will still watch and still hope ; and
the vision of Constantinople and St. Sophia floats
before, their eyes;. Their feelings are well ex-
pressed in some lines of Mr. Milnes’ “Greek at
Constantinople,” where he alludes to the old By-
zantine symbol of the cross above the crescent, one
part of which the Mahomedans borrowed and ap-
propriated to themselves:—
“And if to his old Asian seat * * ,
I'rom this usurped unnatural throne * .
The Turk is driven, 'tis surely meet -
That we again should hold our own.
Be but Byzantium's native sign
Of cross on crescent once unfurled !
And Greece shall guard, by right divine,
y
The portals of the eastern world.”
We de not aspire to prophesy of the future fate
of Constantinople. But when we think of all those
Turkish subjects who speak the Greek language
and profess the Greek religion;–when we think
of the link which the same religion has made be-
tween them and the Sclavonic tribes below and be-
yond the Danube;—we cannot but look upon the
recovery of the Christian nationality of Greece as
one of the most important of modern events—or
watch the development of this young kingdom
without feelings of the most anxious expectation.
We cannot believe that the Mahomedan tide, which
was arrested at Lepanto, will ebb back no farther
than Navarino; and, if the emancipated nation ad-
vances in prosperity and virtue, we are confident
that Chateaubriand’s dream will be fulfilled in
other places besides the banks of the Ilissus and
Eurotas.
Providence.—Marvellous is God's goodness in pre-
Serving the young ostriches. For the old one leaveth
her eggs in the earth, and warmeth them in the dust,
forgetting that the foot may crush them, or that the
wild beast may break them. But Divine Providence
so disposeth it, that the bare nest hatcheth the eggs,
and the warmth of the sandy ground discloseth them.
Many parents, which otherwise would have been
loving pelicans, are by these unnatural wars forced
to be ostriches to their own children, leaving them
to the narrow mercy of the wide world. ... I am con-
ſident that these orphans (so may I call them whilst
their parents are alive) shall be comfortably pro-
vided for, when worthy master Samuel Hern, famous
for his living, preaching, and writing, lay on his
deathbed, (rich only in goodness and children,) his
wife made much womanish lamentation, what should
hereafter become of her little ones: Peace, sweet
heart, said he, that God who feedeth the ravens will
not starve the Herns. A speech censured as light
by some, observed by others as prophetical, as indeed
it came to pass, that they were well disposed of.
Despair not, therefore, O thou parent, of God’s bless-
ing, for having many of his blessings, a numerous
offspring. But depend on his providence for their
maintenance: find thou but faith to believe it, he
will find means to effect it.—Fuller.
The Mongkei...—I find, the natural philosopher
making a character of the lion's disposition, amongst
other his qualities reporteth, that first the lion feedeth
on men, and afterwards, if forced with extremity of
hunger, on women. , *
Satan is a rºaring lion, seeking whom he may
devour. Only he inverts the method, and in his bill
of fare takes the second course first. Ever since he
over-tempted our grandmother Eve, encouraged with
success, he hath preyed first on the weaker sex. It
seems he hath all the vices, not the virtues, of that
king of beasts, a wolf-lion; having his cruelty with-
out his generosity.—Fuller.
568 THE CATHEDRAL
OF COLOGNE.
From the Quarterly Review.
1. Kölner Domblatt. Amtliche Mittheilungen des
Central Dombau-Vereins. Mitgeschichtlichen,
artistischen und literarischen Beiträgen; her-
ausgegeben vom Worstande.
2. Die Heiligen Drei Könige. Nach ciner alten
Handschrift: herausgegeben von R. Simroch.
I'rankfurt am Main. 1842.
It is a painful reflection, and one that conjures
up a multitude of others, that a great .. C3111
never again be built in thiis country. It is perhaps
as painful to reflect on the utter disproportion of
scale to use, in those which still remain to us, but
to this habit has familiarized us. We are accus-
tomed to hear the echoes of their glorious nave and
aisles awakened at best to the footsteps of a small
congregation—for the most part only to those of the
solitary verger. We are accustomed to see their
grand quadrangular cloisters treated merely as cover-
ed passages to prebendal back-doors; their beautiful
chapels, those greatest imaginable luxuries of former
wealthy piety, used only, if used at all, as waste
places for mouldering rubbish. We are habituated,
in short, to view a cathedral, except for purposes
which any ordinary parish church could as well ful-
fil, as a mere sumpter edifice, enclosing a space no
one congregation can fill, or no one man’s voice
penetrate, and only preserved and kept up from a
feeling, akin perhaps to love, but which would be
cqually bestowed on any building, whether Chris-
tian or not, with antiquity and beauty in its favor.
Yet, who is there among those who love to breathe
the atmosphere of these ancient piles, who will not
acknowledge that however altered in estimation, or
limited in use, there is still a voice in them we can-
not silence, and a spell we cannot break We
have forbidden the pilgrimage—levelled the altar
—smashed the image, and extinguished the candle.
We have left in them nothing to catch the fancy or
to trammel the reason—but our ancient cathedrals
are still faithful to the nobler aims of their found-
ers. They still call to unity, rebuke presumption,
command prostration, and raise to prayer.
Such being our feelings with respect to what re-
mains for us at home, it is impossible that we should
look without deep interest upon the great work now
in progress on the banks of the Rhine. The cathe-
dral of Cologne, after the lapse of six centuries
since the first stone was laid, and nearly three and
a half since the last was left, is now, as is generally
known, once more advancing according to its orig-
inal intention. Royal patronage has been extended
—public enthusiasm excited—the original plans for
portions of the building discovered-forests of scaf.
folding have arisen, and for four years the silver
sound of the trowel has resounded from morning
till night around the old walls. Nor does it seem
too visionary to expect that the present generation
will live to see the completion of . One of the
finest religious edifices which the world possesses.
It is singularly happy that the building thus be-
queathed for modern completion, should be, as the
most perfect example of the most perfect period of
hristian architecture, the best fitted for the study
and imitation of the present day. If ever we are
to obtain an insight either into the body or soul of
mediaval art, it must be on an occasion like this,
when, by a combination of events, themselves already
long interwoven in the history of the world, it is
left, as it were, still on the loom—its wondrous
threads still uncut. The cathedral of Cologne is a
specimen of the art exactly at that point of perfec-
tion at which nothing on earth is permitted to stop
—after the bud, and before the rankness—the flower
just blown.
Without attempting to trace the history of Gothic
architecture, or insisting either on the principle of
practical utility, or the spirit of religious symbolism
for its real origin, we must yet remind the reader
that, in the countries to which it distinctively belongs,
its highest development was attained under three
contemporary sovereigns of eminent talents, worth,
and piety. Cologne cathedral was founded in 1248
—at the time that Frederick II. was Emperor of
Germany, IIenry III. King of England, and St.
Louis King of France. *
Cologne is one of those remarkable cities which
have witnessed every fashion of human life, and
every form of worldy power. Founded by ancient
Rome and nursed by modern Rome—owing its first
existence to the mother of Nero, and its first Chris-
tianity to the mother of Constantine—it has been
the seat of Pagan institutions—the arena of Chris-
tian martyrs—the stronghold of religious dominion
—the pattern of municipal independence—the
storehouse of useful commerce, and the birthplace
of elegant arts. It contains within its walls pro-
gressive specimens of every style of architecture,
from the stern old church built with the stones of
the ancient capitol, to the trumpery façade of the
Rathhaus, calling itself modern Greek. It has seen
the deeds of the hero of the Niebelungen—it has
been the home of Albertus Magnus, the magician
—the abode of Thomas of Aquinas, the saint—the
tomb of Duns Scotus, and the resort of Petrarch.
It has waged its own war, coined its own mark,
and fixed its own measure. It has reverenced the
most absolute sovereigns, and asserted the most re-
publican rights. It has stood highest as an Archie-
piscopal diocese, and foremost in the Hanseatic
league. Its prelates have sent embassies to Eng-
land, and its merchants have had a guild of their
own in London. IKings from the far west have
come to worship within its walls at the shrine of the
kings from the far east. It has attracted students
from Iceland on the fame of its learning, and sup-
plied Poland with abbots on the ſame of its piety.
“Qui non vidit Coloniam, non widit Germaniam,”
was a current saying ; and “as rich as a Cologne
weaver,” a universal proverb. It developed a
school of architects, whose recommendation, tho
world over, was that they came from Cologne; and
a school of artists, of whom all that is known is
that they belonged to Cologne. It had a native
atois of its own, and a distinctive physiognomy o
its own, and has them both still ; while past and
present occasionally meet in curious juxta-position ;
the quaint Byzantine windows of an upper story
keep their place over the staring plate-glass of a
café in the lower; and the Roman toga, till within
the last forty years, was worn on all occasions by
magisterial venders of Eau de Cologne.
To one thing Cologne has been resolutely and
uninterruptedly true—her attachment to the Roman
church. She may well be called the Rome of tho
North. She has known almost as many archbish-
ops as Rome has popes, and seen as many of them
canonized. A hundred and thirty-seven churches
and remains of churches still crowd her precincts,
and tradition reports them to have been once as
many as there are days in the year. Her ancient
devotion deserves that she should have the noblest
Gothic cathedral in the world—and we think it
probable that the completion of the edifice will be
due in the main to the spirit in which its first stone
THE CATHEDRAL OF cologne.
569
was laid. A variety of denominations—believers
and non-believers—lovers of art and followers of
fashion, appear to be indiscriminately busy in pro:
moting this undertaking; and the Germans uphold
it with true German pride, as one in which all dif-
ferences of belief are to be buried—such a conglom-
eration being their only idea of what is national;
but the church, in whose service they are all thus
obligingly working, is the mainspring of the whole
machine. It is true, she takes equally no prominent
part and pursues no secret measures—she has offer;
ed no inducements in the way of indulgences and
remissions, as in the times which founded the build-
ing—and has only simply called upon her members;
and openly taxed her sacraments; yet it is the old
zeal that was the first, and, we predict, will be the
last impulse of the movement. , ſº
This famous Dom is the third metropolitan
church which Cologne has known. Tradition re-
ports the first to have been built by St. Maternus,
a local saint, in the first century, and assigns the
place on which it stood, but nothing more. This,
though now inclosed within the walls of the city;
was extra muros in the Roman time, as was usual
with the early Christian churches. . Of the second
there is more to be said. It was founded in 784,
by Hildebold, 19th Bishop, and, it is believed, 1st
Archbishop, of whom the Cologne Chronicle gives
the following curious history:-
“On the death of Bishop Riccolphus, there arose
a great dispute among the chapter, as to the choice
of a new bishop; so much so, that it reached the
ears of the Kaiser Karl (Charlemagne) at Aix-la-
Chapelle. He, therefore, took horse, and rode
towards Cologne in order to settle their differences;
In a wood near the city he heard a bell, and entered
a small chapel,” where mass was going on. The
kaiser was attired like a hunter, with a horn, and
clasped knife at his side. After he had heard mass,
he laid a gulden on the altar, upon which the priest,
by name iiildebold, took it up, and not knowing
the kaiser, said to him, ‘Friend, take back thy
gulden; we don't offer gold herº '—and thought
that he meant to mock him—for he was a simple,
pious man. Then the kaiser said: ‘ Sir keep the
money; I give it you with a willing heart. But
Hildebold would not, and continued, ‘I see that
you are a hunter; do me this service, therefore,
and send me the hide of the first doe that you kill,
for a covering to my books. But take back Your
gulden.” As the kaiser perceived the ºpen, hon-
est speech of the priest, he asked of the bystanders
as to his life and 'conversation, and heard that he
was a very upright man. Then the kaiser rode on
into Cologne, and inquired into the cause of the dis-
pute, and finding the chapter could not agº; he
declared to them he would himself ºh9930 their
bishop; whereupon he called Priest Hildebold to
Cologne, and presented him to the chapter:
The edifice founded by this holy man seems not
to have been finished in less than ninety years
—it was, we read, consecrated by the prelate third
in succession from him, in 873, on occasion of a
grand provincial synod, when no less than eleven
bishops were present. According to the local his-
torians, who have borrowed from older sources,
the cathedral was a stately Byzantine building, with
* According to Cologne antiquarians, the chapel of St.
Marcellus, of which there are remains 19 be seen in an old
house "in" the "street named from it, the Marcellan
Strasse. º
t Winheim, Sacrarum Agrippinae, 1607.
Historia Trium Regum, 1651.
CXXXVI, LIVING AGE,
Crombach,
WOL., XI, 36
double choirs and crypts, and three towers. And
on the coins which occur from the ninth to the clev-
enth century, many of which bear rude representa-
tions of churches, among which those of St. Gereon
and the Apostles are still recognizable, there appears
a church, superior to either, answering the descrip-
tion of these writers, and bearing great resemblance
to the magnificent, but later church on the Crater.
lake at Laach. The interior is reported to have
been richly adorned; and here was stored up
among other valuables, a wonderful library of mº
uscripts, which the book-loving Hildebold had gath-
ered together. In 1089 the cathedral took fire, and
destruction seemed inevitable, when the bones of
St. Cunibert were hastily brought and the flames as
hastily subsided. . But in 1248, as certified by a
papal bull of the day, it again took fire, on occasion
of some civil tumult, when, no saint interfering, the
flames made the most of their opportunity and burnt
it to the ground.
There was now great need for a new cathedral,
not only to replace the old one, but to receive a
treasure which, more than any other cause, has
contributed to the glory of Cologne. This con-
sisted in the bones of the three Wise Men of the
East, captured at the siege of Milan by Frederic
Barbarossa, and considered one of the greatest tri-
umphs he had achieved; and which being pre:
sented by him to the city of Cologne, demanded
the costliest edifice that man could raise. At the
same time, as if to favor the occasion, the wealth
of the city and chapter had so accumulated as to
gain for this period the appellation of the Golden
Age of Cologne; while a new era of architecture,
just budded in the land, waited apparently but this
opportunity to expand here into maturity.
t seems, however, that the plan of erecting a
new cathedral on a grander scale had been long
previously contemplated. Archbishop Engelbert,
Count of Altona and Berg, murdered in 1225, so
openly entertained the idea as by some to have been
considered the author of the original design; while
under his successor, Conrad of Hochsteden, it so
far ripened, that all preliminaries were ready for
the foundation of the new building only a few
months after the destruction of the old one. At
this time Germany was agitated by the dissensions
between Frederic II. and Pope Innocent IV.,
which ended in the excommunication and deposi-
tion of the emperor. Thereupon there started up
three candidates for the empire—Henry, Count
of Thuringen; William, Count of Holland; and
Richard, Earl of Cornwall. But this, far from
hindering the cause of the cathedral, proved a
direct means of furthering it—each candidate in
turn pleading his pretensions to the archbishop
with arguments calculated most materially to assist
its progress. Conrad first gave his favor to Henry
of Thuringen, who, however, lived only a year.
Then William of Holland, whose youth was coun-
terbalanced by his relationship to the prelate, was
elected; when, being refused admittance to the
city of Aix (still faithful to Frederic) for the core-
mony of coronation, the prince laid immediate
siege to it and took it in six months. It was dur.
ing this siege, on the 14th of August, 1248, that
Archbishop Conrad laid the first stone of the pres.
ent cathedral, at a depth, as Boisserée has ascer-
tained, of above forty-four feet below the surface.
There were present on the occasion, the papal
legate, many bishops, dukes, and counts, with
William of Holland, and the flower of his army
from the siege, and the chief burghers of the
570
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
besieged town; a truce of three days having been
granted for this purpose by mutual consent. The
stone having been laid with all ecclesiastical form,
munifigent offerings were collected, and Conrad
read aloud a letter from the Pope, granting indul-
gence from church discipline of a year and forty
days to all penitents contributing to the work.
Doubtless the great and gifted man whose spirit
conceived the plan in all its harmonious wholeness,
and whdse mental vision saw it completed in all its
elaborate detail, took an important part in that
day's pageantry. That particular combination of
letters and syllables, however, by which he was
known in his own generation, and which was as
familiar to all those present as the name of the
archbishop himself, was to be buried in the secret
depths of that stupendous monument, which, while
it has proclaimed his genius far and wide, has, it
seems, forever entombed the man. He has be-
queathed his beautiful ideas in ciphers which all
may read, but left not a letter to tell his name.
Since that day six centuries have rolled a veil over
it, which it seems hopeless now to liſt. Assiduous
researches have been made by the first antiquarians
in Germany for the last fifty years, and the Dom-
Ölatt especially has been the arena of indefatigable
controversy as to whom the honor of the pile is
due. It has been given alternately to Archbishops
Engelbert and Conrad, to Albertus Magnus, to one
Meister Gerard, who was the first Dom Meister,
and others;–the arguments for each being equally
conclusive, and all therefore terminating precisely
as they began.
And we cannot help thinking, fortunately so—
the long continued mystery is now become more
interesting than any discovery that could replace
it. Our generation is too far removed in time,
knowledge, and spirit, to comprehend how the mere
elder brother of the same likeness of a man, who
now designs a something to order, builds it by con-
tract, calls it a church, and himself an architect,
could have composed such a structure as THE Doxf.
At most, the architects of those times are mere
ideas to us, and such let him of Cologne remain
The name of Erwin of Steinbach has incorporated
itself with the cathedral of Strasburg; it is too
late for a new name to do that with Cologue.
Overbeck has therefore settled the matter wisely"
in his great picture at Frankfort, “Religion glori-
fied by the Arts,” where he presents the Great
Unknown of Cologne as the Genius of Architec-
ture, under a figure of solemn and abstract beauty.
Such may he, therefore, ever appear to those who
have volunteered to complete what he began ;
reminding them that—
“They dreamt not of a perishable home,
Who thus could build.”
But to return to the means by which the work
was carried on. William of IIolland dying in
1257, Richard of Cornwall, brother to our #n.
III., again came forward, and by his munificent
gifts to the archbishop became a valuable patron to
the rising building. Richard, according to Hume,
was the wealthiest subject in the English domin-
ions, and his ambition to wear the imperial crown
made him scatter his money in such profusion that
the amount of it has been exaggerated into some-
thing fabulous, the ancient historians affirming that
he came over to Germany with thirty tons' weight
* Wiser than the King of Bavaria, who, to stop further
* has admitted Meister Gérard' into the Wal-
d.
of gold. Archbishop Conrad, who still filled the
see, crowned him King of the Romans at Aix-la-
Chapelle, in the same year, but he never wielded
the sceptre of Charlemagne. He visited Cologne
several times, and offered largely at the tomb of
“the Three Kings.” It was owing probably to
his personal interest that German cmissaries, in
the name of the Pope, were allowed to collect con-
tributions at that time throughout England. So
that English money helped in the first stage of the
work; though, excepting our queen's donation last
year, we are not aware that any has been supplied
for the second.
But the chief funds for the building proceeded
from the precious relics for whose sake chiefly it
was undertaken. It was the shrine of the Three
Kings those walls were destined to enclose, which
rincipally raised them from the ground. The
#. Kings were especially the patron saints of
travel—that is, of what was almost the only travel
of those days, of pilgrimage.f. Their fame was at
its zenith at the time of the Crusades. All pil-
grims trusted to a star that should conduct them to
the place of the Nativity, and the shrine being
placed temporarily in the church of St. Cecilia,
Cologne was visited by crowds, who considered a
prayer and an offering at this shrine as the first
step on their journey to Palestine. These crowds
comprised the highest in the land ; and from the
time of Barbarossa there was hardly emperor, king,
or count who did not, hold courts, celebrate festivi-
ties, or pass through Cologne, on expeditions of
love, war, or pilgrimage: first sanctifying his
object by prayer and offering at the shrine of the
Three #. *
Nevertheless, the building made but slow pro-
gress. Archbishop Conrad was a bad-hearted, con-
tentious man, who quarrelled with all the neigh-
boring states, and cruelly oppressed the citizens;
and though as founder of the cathedral his memory
is held in honor, yet in truth the immense power
which he derived from the wealth of the shrine, and
the long reign during which he wielded it, served
far more to impoverish his people than to cnrich his
cathedral. His violence to his neighbors brought
him into positions from which the citizens had to
ransom him; and his unjust dealings towards them
compelled them to resistance, for which he placed
them under ban. His successor walked in the
same steps; and it was not till the time of Arch
bishop Wichbold, fifty years after the day of foun-
dation, that the city began to recover, and the
cathedral to rise. This prelate stimulated the
work by example as well as exhortation. . In his
time it first became the custom to bequeath legacies
to the cathedral, and in the statutes of the church
the priests are ordered to enjoin the dying penitent:
after due payment of his debts and restitution of a
ill-gotten wealth, to remember the holy work now
going on for the mother-church of the city and diºr
|cese. At first lands or goods were bequeathed;
but afterwards a certain sum in money; and til
within the last century it was the regular form in
Cologne for all wills to commence with a bequest
to the Dom Fabrik. * :
Meanwhile the influence of the shrine had been
applied in another way. Encouraged by the indul.
gences held out in the papal letter, a society was
formed, called the Brotherhood of St. Peter, (the
patron saint of the cathedral,) for the purpose o
t To this day in many parts of Çarinthia and Fran:
conia the door of an inn has carved over it the initials
C. M. B.-Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. --
THE CATHEDRAL OF coloGNE.
57.1
collecting contributions for the building. The
qualification for membership consisted simply in
having made a pilgrimage to the shrine, and it was.
open equally to both sexes, who were regularly
divided into bodies, and enrolled under the surveil-
lance of various religious orders. . This society was
of great service, for with their zeal the pope
increased their privileges, the most important of
which consisted in exemption from all the local
interdicts, which bishops hurled and people feared
in those days; so that an individual collecting so
much in a year, (the smallest contribution being
fixed at a bushel of wheat,) if not personally
excommunicated, or a notorious bad liver, could
henr mass and receive the sacraments, himself and
all his family, even in such places as were under
papal ban.
Jnder these circumstances, the brotherhood of
St. Peter grew into high fame and influence : and
while the members dispersed themselves eagerly,
not only throughout the diocese, but throughout
Europe, the beautiful choir rose gradually, and on
the 27th of September, 1322, in the reign of Arch-
bishop Henry II., Count of Birnenburg, stood
ready for consecration—this being the same day on
which the old cathedral of Charlemagne had re-
ceived the same rite 450 years before.
This was a great occasion, and Cologne over-
flowed with spiritual and worldly dignitaries. After
the usual ceremonies without the building, the
archbishop, attended by his suffragans—the prince-
bishops of Osnaburg, Munster and Liege, and the
bishops of Minden and Utrecht—entered the choir,
where, ashes having been strewn upon the pave-
ment, the archbishop, in sign of that doctrine of
which Christ is the alpha and the omega, wrote in
them with his sceptre all the letters of the alphabet.
From the south-east to the north-west he wrote
• Greek letters: from the north-east to the south-
west he wrote Latin letters; thus forming tº cross
saltier, X. Then the bones of the Three Kings
were brought in with great pomp, and, in imitation
of the early Christians, who usually erected their
churches over the tomb of a saint or martyr, the
archbishop laid the first stone of the shrine that
was to contain them ; above which in due time a
gilt star was placed at the tip end of the choir, a
type of that which conducted the wise men.
Our readers, we suppose, will not object to our
pausing here for a moment to give a short account
of these mysterious personages, as preserved in the
traditions of the Roman Church. We take it from
: curious old Volksbuch, written originally in Latin
by Johannes von Hildesheim, who died in 1375, for
the especial edification of the city of Cologne;
done into German 1389, for Dame Elsbeth of
Katzenellenbogen, Lady of Erlach ; , copied at
Baslo 1420 ; printed at Strasburg in 1480; and
now republished at Frankfort, 1842, for the benefit
of the cathedral of Cologne. Here follows, there-
fore, an epitome of this ancient Tract for the Times.
The prophecy that a star should rise in Jacob
having proceeded from a heathen prophet, the
heathens themselves became interested in its fulfil-
ment; and watch was kept from a tower on a high
hill in India, where twelve astrologers observed the
heavens night and day. When the time was come,
a brilliant star was seen to rise in the east, which
shed a light all over the land, and was as bright as
the sun. And the star bore within it the figure of
a little child, and the sign of the cross, and a voice
came from it, saying, “To-day is there born a king
in Judaea.” And this star was seen over all India,
and the People rejoiced, and no one doubted that it
was the same of which Balaam had prophesied.
India included three regions; each separated from
the other by high mountains. One ºf his was
Arabia, the soil of which is quite red with h.
quantity ºf gold it contains, and here Melchi. WąS
king. The second was Godolia, of which part is
called Saba, where frankincense is so abundant that
it flows, out of the trees—and Balthazar"ri.
there. And the third India contained the kingdom
of Tharsis, where myrrh hangs so plentifully on
the bushes, that as you walk along it sticks to your
clothes; and here Caspar reigned. But as the
were best known by the gifts they brought, the
Scriptures only mention them as the kings of Thar-
sis, Arabia, and Saba.
Now each of the kings saw the star, and deter-
mined to follow it, but no one of the three knew
anything of his neighbor's intentions. So each
set off with a numerous retinue, and the whole
way, though beset with mountains and rivers, was
equally dry and level to them; and they neither
ate nor drank, nor rested, nor slept, neither, they
nor their servants, nor their horses, nor their cattle,
but followed the star without ceasing. In this
manner the whole journey only occupied them thir-
teen days, though it took them two years to return.
“And whoever doubts this, let them read,” says
the little book, “in the prophet Daniel, where
Habbakuk was taken by the hair of his head, and
transported from Jerusalem to Babylon in one
hour.”*
But when they were come within two miles of
Jerusalem, the star disappeared, and a heavy fog
arose, and each party halted ; Melchior, as it feii
out, taking his stand on Mount Calvary, Balthazar
on the Mount of Olives, and Caspar just between
them. . And when the fog cleared away, each was
astonished to see two other great companies besides
his own, and then the kings first discovered that all
had come upon the same errand, and they embraced
with great joy, and rode together into Jerusalem.
There the crowd of their united trains was so
great, that they looked like an army come to be-
siege the city, and Herod and all Jerusalem were
troubled. And the strangers inquired for Him
that was born king of the Jews, whose star they
had seen in the east, and were directed, as the
Scriptures relate, to Bethlehem. And the star
again went before them, and stood over a Iniserable
hut. In this hut lay the infant Jesus, now thirteen
days old, with his mother Mary, who was stout in
figure and brown in face, and had on an old blue
robe. But the kings were splendidly attired, and
had brought great treasures with them; for it must
be known that all that Alexander the Great left at
his death, and all that the queen of Sheba gave to
king Solomon, and all that Solomon collected for
the temple had descended to the Three Kings from
their ancestors, who had pillaged the temple of
Jerusalem; and all this they had now brought
with them. But when they entered this miserable
hut, it was filled with such an exceeding light, that
for fear and amazement, they knew not what they did.
And they each offered quickly the first thing that
came to their hands, and forgot all their other gifts.
Melchior offered thirty, golden pennies, Balthazar
gave frankincense, and Caspar inyrrh ; but what
the virgin said to them they quite forgot, and only
remembered that they bowed before the child, and
said, “Thanks be to God.” y
* Bel and the Dragon, ver, 36.
572
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
Each of the gifts, however had a significant his-
tory, especially the thirty pennies, which appear
to have assisted at all the money transactions men-
tioned in the Scriptures. Having been originally
struck by Abraham's father, they were paid by
Abraham for the cave of Machpelah; and by
Potiphar for Joseph to his brethren: and by Joseph's
brethren to Joseph for corn in Egypt; and by
Joseph to One &le; of Sheba for ointment to
anoint the body of his father Jacob ; and by a later
queen of Sheba to Solomon ; whence, as we have
seen, they came into the hands of Melchior, who
now offered them at Bethlehem. Nor does their
history end here ; for as the holy family fled into
Egypt, the Virgin tied up the money with the
frankincense and myrrh together in a cloth, and
dropped it by the way; and a shepherd tending his
flock found the cloth, and kept it safe till the time
when Jesus was performing his miracles in Judaea.
Then, being afflicted with a disease, he came to
Jerusalem, and Jesus cured him ; and the shepherd
offered him the cloth, but Jesus knew what was in
it, and desired him to offer it upon the altar. There
the Levite who ministered burnt the frankincense ;
and of part of the myrrh a bitter drink was made,
which they gave the Saviour on the cross, and the
remainder Nijº. presented for his burial ; but
the thirty pennies were made over to Judas for
betraying Christ, and he threw them down in re-
morse at the feet of the high-priest, whereupon
fifteen went to pay the soldiers who watched by
the tomb, and the other fifteen bought a field to
bº poor pilgrims.
'o return to the kings; after they had made
their offerings they ate and drank, and lay down
to rest; but, being warned against Herod in a
dream, they returned to their own country by the
regular way, and with all expedition did not reach
it for two years. There they told all the people
what they had seen, and the wonders God had
wrought, and everywhere upon their temples the
people erected the image of a star with the child
and cross in it. And it came to pass that St.
Thomas the Apostle was sent to preach the Word
in India, and when he saw the star on their tem-
Ples he was astonished, and asked what it meant.
Then the heathen priests told him about the Three
Kings, and how they had journeyed to Bethlehem,
and seen the young child ; at which St. Thomas
rejoiced exceedingly, for he had heard of the Magi,
as they were called, from the circumstance of the
twelve astrologers, and he performed so many mir-
acles that his fame filled the three Indias.
Now the Three Kings were very old and infirm,
but hearing of St. Thomas they each determined to
see him; and again, as it so happened, they set
out on the same day, and without knowing each
other's movements, reached St. Thomas at the
same time. And first, St. Thomas baptized them,
and then he ordained them priests; for, the little
book adds, that they were not married men, and
never had been. And they built a city, and lived
together in great jº. love for two years, preach-
ing the Gospel. Then Melchior died; and was
buried in a costly grave; and shortly after Baltha-
zar died also, and was laid in the same place; and
at length Caspar gave up the ghost, and when his
bºdy was brought to be buried near his companions,
Melchior and Balthazar, who lay side by side,
moved asunder, and made room for him between
them. And many were the wonders and miracles
performed at the tomb, but for all that the people
forsook the right way, and fell into great heresies,
and at length each of the three Indias insisted on
taking the body of their king back to his own
country.
Now came the happy times of the good emperor
Constantine, and his mother Helena, who, after
finding the true cross, and the four nails, and the
cloth in which the child had lain, and the old blue
robe of the Virgin, determined on finding the bodies
of the Three Kings as well. For this she travelled
expressly to India, where, after much difficulty,
especially on behalf of Caspar, who had got among
a sad set of heretics, she succeeded in obtaining
all three, and when they were at length deposited
again in one receptacle, there arose such an un-
speakably delightful smell, as convinced all the
faithful not only of the identity of the bodies, but
of their exceeding satisfaction at being together
On CC Iſlore.
By Helena they were taken to Constantinople,
where they lay for some time in great honor, at the
Church of St. Sophia; fell into discredit in the
times of Julian the apostate ; rose again into favor
with his successor, and were ultimately presented
to Eustorgius, Bishop of Milan, a Greek by birth,
who had done great service to the Greek Church:
From Milan Barbarossa, as we have seen, carried
them off, and gave witness both of his devotion to
the church and his favor for Cologne, by present-
ing them to that city, “where they first lay in the
old cathedral of Bishop Hildebold, and now ie in
the new one, founded by Conrad of Hochsteden,
where with God's blessing they will remain till the
day of Judgment.” “Therefore,” the little book
concludes, “Rejoice, oh! Cologne ! city rich in
honors' and thank God that He has chosen thee
before every other city in the world to be the happy
shrine of the Three holy Kings!”
So ends the legend. We considered the history
of the Kings of Cologne, which was the name they
bore #. centuries, too much a part of that of the
cathédral to be passed over ; and far be it from us
to desire to turn it into ridicule. Making due
allowance for the change of taste, and the discovery
of printing, we appeal to the reader whether there
be more folly or less wisdom in this little old book
than in many a little new one. At all events, the
generation that read this, and believed it, could also
build the Cathedral of Cologne. : :
We must now revert to the choir, which stood
with its seven chapels clustered round it, uniqº
then as now. This stupendous structure, itself 20°
feet high, rises, as many of our readers have seeſ';
out of a forest of piers and pinnacles, each attachº
to the building alternately by a double and fourfold
row of gigantic flying buttresses, which break the
bristling chevaux de frise of perpendicular lines, aſ
relieve, though they amaze, the eye. Yet nº
placed there for any eye-service, but for the striº.
est use : the buttresses resisting the pressure.9
that enormous weight of roof, the piers weighting
the ends of the buttresses, and increasing their
strength; each pier a miniature church in itself.”
shape that of a cross, rising in four corner Spirº
with one centre steeple or pinnacle; each spire.”
pinnacle edged at each angle by a row of crººghº
terminating in a finial—cach crotchet, the Maſiſ.
Blume, or ſlower of Mary, what we call the Lady
slipper—each finial arose, the emblem of mystery-
whence the saying sub rosó; while from roof º
wall, and pier protrude innumerable grotesque pip”.
heads—demons, dragons, monkeys, monstrosiº.
in the opinion of some, the fantastic creations of tº
architect’s own imagination; according to Boº
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
573
serée, imitations of the goblins and wood-demons
in which the times believed; but according to the
symbolist, representations of the bad spirits which
the church holds without her walls, and yet com-
pels to do her service.
It strikes a stranger's eye at first sight, that
while the south side of the choir seems to blossom
with exuberance, the north side, as with Freiburg
and Amiens, is comparatively plain : no lady's
slippers on the pinnacles, no corner spires, round
the miniature steeple. A Cologne laquais de place
will tell you, with the usual sapience of these
people, that the want of decoration was owing to
want of funds, and that it is intended, when the
cathedral is completed, to put on the failing orna-
ments. You refer to a little cathedral guide-book,
purchased at Dumont Schauberg's, the great book-
seller of Cologne, and that informs you that the
original architects left this side plain, because, on
account of some abutting building, it was not so
much seen—a reason which, considering that the
original architects finished every dark corner and
lofty point as carefully as the most prominent and
visible parts, is fit to succeed that of the lackey.
We turn then to Boisserée, and even his solution
fails to convince. He tells us that the north side
being that most exposed to the weather, all un-
necessary ornament was purposely avoided. Now
it is not true that the north side is always that
most tried by the weather; in many English
edifices it is the eastern aspect which suffers soon-
est; and in Cologne the bitterest blast comes from
the west. The symbolist, therefore, claims the
next hearing, in the person of Professor Kreuser-
a profound antiquarian, an ardent Roman Catholic,
a constant adorer of the Cathedral, and in all these
capacities a most valuable contributor to the Dom-
blatt. - * , -
“The north side,” he says, “has had, since the
first period of Christianity, its particular meaning-
the south the same. º, north side was that of
the Evangelists, who gave the truth in plainness
and simplicity—the south was that of the prophets,
who disguised it in Oriental figure and imagery.
Also the women, who were especially commanded
to cover themselves, and abstain from ornament,
stood on the north side, hence called the muliebris;
while the men, to whom no such prohibition ex-
tended, stood on the south. Hence it is that the
south side of the choir is richly decorated—that
towards the north markedly, simplified.”—Dom-
blatt, No. 92.
Admitting this, for argument's sake, to be true,
another congenial reason may be urged as assisting
to keep the northern side of Cologne Cathedral
plain—mamely, that to which the old habit of not
interring the dead on the north side of a church is
attributable : not because of its dampness or gen-
eral gloom—for beyond the shadow cast by the
building this no longer exists—but because, under
an old tradition, the north side was supposed to be
especially under the influence of the Prince of the
Powers of the Air, and therefore expressly avoided
as a place of burial. ſº
Possessed, therefore, with these various argu-
ments, the traveller mounts to the highest external
gallery of the cathedral, and there from behind that
massive parapet—which from below, to use a
lady's term, appears but the delicate footing to
which the whole embroidery of the building 1S
appended—he sees at once marks of a decision of
purpose, for which neither economy, nor obscurity,
nor inclemency would account: for standing ex-
actly at the centre of the choir-end, at the spot
which the gilt star once occupied, looking east-
ward, he sees all below him decoration on is right
hand, and all simplicity on his left.
This vital portion of the edifice being completed,
the offices of the church were regularly performed
and the decorations of the interior became a further
field for the piety of individual contributors. Arch-
bishop Genney, especially, who held the See from
1357, appears as a munificent patron. He pre-
sented the black marble altar of the Three Kings
still existing—also the high altar itself with an
elaborate Ciborium, now exchanged for one utterly
unsuitable ; fourteen statues of silver gilt, of the
Apostles, the Saviour, and the Virgin—the two
latter two ells high—which were placed round the
altar on all solemn ‘occasions; and, lastly, the
tabernacle, or receptacle for the Sacrament, an
exquisite structure 62.feet high, whose tragic fate
we shall record farthºr on. To this archbishop are
also usually attributed the fourteen statues, with
rich canopies and brackets, on the pillars round the
altar ; and the canopies and brackets the good
archbishop is welcome to the credit of, both being
singularly beautiful; but the statues show a man-
nerism and affectation (now increased tenfold by
the hideous painting they have undergone) which
we must assign to a much later period. lso the
chronicles mention four brazen angels, seven feet
high, of great beauty, placed at each corner of the
altar, and a wonderful clock wound up once a year,
representing the course of the sun and moon and
the adoration of the three kings.
Meanwhile the brethren of St. Peter continued
their rounds, and increased so much in number that,
in 1336, on occasion of a great meeting in Cologne,
the choir and rising aisles were found insufficient
to contain them, and the priests were obliged to
bring the relics out, and bear them round the
cathedral. The end of all this may be easily
anticipated; the fraternity was become too good a
speculation, both in a worldly and spiritual light,
not to be abused. Notorious bad livers contributed
in their last moments sufficient to enrol them in the
brotherhood, and thus fraudulently obtained the
offices of the church ; others deducted considerably
from their collections before making them over to
the cathedral fund ; while some of still more inde-
pendent views, among whom we are assured ladies
were not wanting, never made them over to the
fund at all. This state of things attracted the
attention of Archbishop Genney, who forthwith
curtailed the immunities, and pursued the offenders
so effectually that he seems to have put an end not
only to the abuses, but to the society itself. Its
statutes were renewed towards the end of the fif-
teenth century, when the old popularity had so
fallen away that the collectors had to be allowed
one fourth of their gatherings; and in the six-
º century no further mention is made of the
ody.
# was well for the cathedral that there was no
failing as yet among the other sources of her sup-
port—the tide of royalty and nobility still set in
powerfully towards the shrine, and many a pic-
turesque procession demanded entrance’ at the
guarded gates, and wound through the narrow and
intricate streets of the .# 9m its way to the cathe.
dral. In 1337, our own Edward III., on his way
up the Rhine to meet Lewis of Bavaria, visited the
shrine, and left rich offerings. In 1347, the French
king, Charles IV., also paid his devotions, and his
tribute; later in the century, Peter, king of
574
THE CATHEDRAE, OF COLOGNE.
Cyprus, and the Emperor Wenceslaus. But the
most remarkable pageant took place on the depo-
sition of this latter, when the Elector Palatine
Rupert (known to all the lovers of Heidelberg
Castle, by the grand old Ruprecht's Bau) was
elected emperor in his stead. In his person the
case of William of Holland was repeated, for Aix-
la-Chapelle remained true to Wenceslaus and re-
fused Rupert admittance. He, therefore, entered
Cologne with his wife, four sons, and three
daughters, and a brilliant cortége of dukes and
counts, and on the 6th of January, the Feast of the
Three Kings—our Epiphany—was crowned in the
cathedral. On this occasion a curious custom was
observed. The archbishop performed the mass,
and Rupert himself, to whom as emperor belonged
the dignity of a canon of the diocese, chanted the
Gospel.” tº *
In 1402, also, Rupert's eldest son, the Elector
Lewis—who in the matter of wives was a kind of
German Henry VIII.-celebrated at Cologne his
marriage with Blanche, daughter of our Henry IV.,
leaving jewels upon the shrine which a modern
bride would decidedly have grudged from herself.
This is the second instance of an English princess
being given in marriage in this city—the first being
that of Isabella, daughter of King John, whose
marriage with the Emperor Frederic II. took place
there in 1235. -
Still the cathedral by no means profited in due
proportion. Its fate depended mainly on the tastes
of the reigning archbishop : if peaceable, the build-
ing advanced ; if pugnacious, it halted. Unfor-
tunately this latter was the more frequent dispo-
sition of the two ; and the Archbishop Theodoric
von Moers, who reigned from 1414, and fought his
neighbors' battles as well as his own, is accused,
not only of Inortgaging the church property, but of
helping himself to the jewels from the shrine,
whenever his necessities pressed him. Consider-
ing, therefore, how the building lagged in progress,
it is the greater wonder that its harmony should
have been preserved. And no stronger evidence is
needed to prove that the original design extended
to the whole edifice. For it was not till 1437,
almost two hundred years after the date of founda-
tion, that the southern tower was completed as far
as we now see it.
In that year the bells were taken from an old
wooden tower formerly used as a belfry to the
Cathedral of Charlemagne, which, consistent with
its antiquity, had none, and raised into the new
tower. The great old crane, whose horn-like form
butting from the forehead of the tower is as familiar
a feature as any in the mighty fragment, doubtless
assisted at this transfer. But this seems to have
been its last work; for a picture by John van Eyck
of St. Barbara, dated 1437, has for its background
an unfinished tower, with a crane at top, obviously
intended for that at Cologne.
And now other causes than those of war and pil-
lage intervened to obstruct the work. Times had
altered since that first stone was buried forty-four
feet deep in the earth, and men's minds had been.
preparing for changes of more kinds than one.
he invention of printing aroused the pride as well
as the intellect of men—the capture of Constantino-
ple drove a host of depraved Grecian architects into
*The emperors of Germany held three canonries in
their own right, one at St. Peter's at Rome, one at the
minster of our lady at Aix-la-Chapelle, and the third at
Cologne.
western Europe—in art as in doctrine the world
was ready to follow new guidance—the glories of
the German empire and of German architecture
declined together—the city of Cologne drooped—
and the cathedral stood still. For above fifty years
the workmen dawdled over the north side, and for-
tunately accomplished nothing more than now
stands. We say fortunately, since even in anti-
Lutheran Cologne it was not to be expected that
the sixteenth century should know how to finish
what the thirteenth had begun. For though the
cathedral is externally free to a remarkable extent
from any glaring evidences of deterioration, and in
general form the builders of the north side appear
to have been modest and cautious, yet there are
signs here of that shallowness and slovenliness of
execution which must make their German Pugin
thankful that they did no more.
After 1509, it is questionable whether another
stone was added, or designed to be added:—the
painted windows on the north side bear that date,
and they would hardly have been inserted if any
chance of continuing the masonry had been contem-
plated. The buildings also that grew round the
cathedral, not mere ephemeral structures, but,
among others, the church of Sta. Maria in Pasculo,
and an old institution, known as the School of Arts,
occupying even the space allotted to the transepts,
testify pretty conclusively that no further growth of
the great torso was now anticipated. Some even
presumed to press so close on the fallen lion as to
hew themselves cellars out of the stupendous quarry
of its foundations. In short, as Professor Kreuser
pithily says, “the time was come when cathedrals
were not built up, but pulled down.” . The Refor-
mation was now begun; and though Cologie stood
firm against the storm,” yet it altered other things
in the estimation of men besides the dogmas of the
Roman Church ; and with a new set of interests to
occupy the world, cast a deadness alike upon all
the old ones.
And here it may be as well to recall the precise
state of incompletion in which (as some not distant
generation may find it difficult to believe) the
cathedral for so many centuries was left. The
original intention comprehended choir and double
transepts, a stately nave, with double aisles, a
centre tower where nave and choir join, and two
towers at the west end. The internal height of
choir and nave alike, namely, 150 feet—that of the
aisles and transepts, 64 feet—the whole length of
the building 500 feet, its width 150 feet, and the
height of the towers 536 feet, which would have
made them the highest in Christendom. Of this,
the choir, as we have snid, was finished with a por-
tion of the east wall of each transept. The north
aisles had attained their destined height, the four
great windows complete, with colored glass in
them, and seven compartments of the roof groined
over. The south aisles had stopped midway, their
interior piers having only reached the height of 49
feet, and the windows being arrested at the spring
of the arch. The southern tower had grown up in
two stories to the elevation of 170 feet; the north-
ern tower stood like a tooth just piercing the gum
—one pier partly through to the height of 22 feet,
the rest still below the surface. Part of the façado
of the northern transept was visible about six feet;
and of such portions of both transepts, west front
* Two archbishops, however, were exceptions. One
yielded to the arguments of Bucer, the other to love for
Agnes Mansfeldt. -
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
575
and northern tower, as were not yet above the
earth, the foundations were supposed to be perfect
within. Thus there was a gap between choir and
aisles, another between north and south tower, and
a vacant space in the nave. In other words, the
head was perfect, the shoulders just begun, the
legs with one foot partly grown—but the whole
body still wanting. For present use, therefore,
temporary roofs had been thrown over the southern
aisles and such compartments of the northern as
had not been groined with stone. The gap between
choir and south aisles was ſilled up by a temporary
wall; that between choir and northern aisles sup-
plied by the intrusive church of Sta. Maria already
mentioned, and a wooden screen ran up between
the two towers. * *.
Thus stood, therefore, the incomplete form of an
all-complete idea, from which, as from a text-book,
almost every religious edifice erected contempora-
neously had drawn instruction—which had contrib-
uted to build Strasburg near, and to finish Burgos
afar off, and which shows its helping influence in
Freiburg, Ratisbonn, Prague, Utrecht, Amiens,
Beauvais, Chalons, and numerous other foreign
churches that might be mentioned, besides supply-
ing an architect to our own York. There stood
the imperfect specimen of the most perfect period
of ecclesiastical Gothic—so full of thought that
every detail has a meaning—so practical in adapta-
tion that every detail has a use—so true in structure
that were the walls knocked away it would still
stand firm on its piers like a tent; and with all
these causes combined, so perfect in national
beauty, that Boisserée has christened it “the
Canon of German architectural law.” And centu-
ries passed away without knowing it to be such.
Nay, far from appreciating the tenth wonder of the
world that stood among them, men looked upon it
with ill-will, as a monstrous mistake which the
barbarity of their forefathers had entailed upon
them, an eye-sore to their city, and a drain to their
pockets, and to be kept standing only to avoid the
greater cost of pulling it down. º
Meanwhile the succession of wars, direct and
indirect offsprings of the Reformation, which raged
in central Europe, sufficiently deranged, as is well
known, all the springs of art and literature through-
out Germany, and in more than one instance poured
their fury within the diocese of Cologne. But
what had hitherto been the bane of the cathedral
had now become its safeguard. These sources of
desolation interfered with no plans of progress; and
prevented no system of repair—they only tied the
hands of those who waited but for peace to be-
come more dangerous enemies than any the cathe-
dral had known before. Considering, therefore,
the state of the 16th and 17th centuries, the build-
ing appears to have received from them the best
usage those centuries could bestow, namely, to
have becn let alone. Nevertheless one voice was
raised even then, Boisserée like, by a Jesuit of the
name of Crombach:—whose “Historia Trium
Regum” (1654) displays, an enthusiasm in the
cause of the cathedral, and a discrimination of its
beauties, quite marvellous for the times, and
expresses the pious wish that it might please the
mighty German princes, and º the then
reigning archbishop Maximilian Henry, to carry on
the splendid building to the honor of the holy
Catholic church and glory of the German name.
Farther on he mentions, as if by permission, that
but for the war with Holland, in which the primate
had been induced to assist Louis XIV., his archi-
episcopal highness had fully contemplated continu-
ing the building. How 'his highness was so
induced is no longer a mystery, now that the list
9f the Grand Monarque's gifts and d.º.º. not
forgetting diamond crosses, has been made public.
Not that the world has anything to regret in this
transaction, as far as regards the cathedral, sic.
probably saved its ancient limbs from being made a
mere stock on which to graft the designs of some
French architect of the ń. school. Even the
sympathizing historian we should 'hardly have
trusted to touch a stone of the building, though his
admiration for it led him to make investigations a.
drawings which have proved of much service ...,
later laborers. |
Worse days, however, were to pass over before
brighter could dawn. With the last fires of the
Seven years' war expired the cathedral's last
chance of protection. Peace ensued—philosophy
and renaissance were in the ascendancy, and the
natural enemy of every Rhenish cathedral during
the eighteenth century—its own chapter—grew
rich and rampant. The exterior was too irretriev-
ably bad in their eyes for even them to improve, but
the interior presented a tempting field. The con-
sequence was, that almost every movable object
cočval with the best times of the building gradually
disappeared or underwent some sad change. The
old altar, with its graceful Ciborium, of which
Crombach’s work has preserved a rough woodcut,
made way for the Grecian kind of summer-house
which now stands in its place, and for which per-
haps the fourteen silver statues went to pay, for
how they were disposed of does not appear. The
brazen angels at the corners of the altar were
molten into the four rococo candlesticks now used;
the beautiful carved stone sedilia were superseded
by three heavy arm-chairs; the open stone screen
surrounding the choir was demolished, and the
present iron grating substituted; and then the choir
was thought too dark to show off all these novel-
ties, and the rich mosaic glass of the triforium win-
dows was replaced by plain. But the worst deed
Was the destruction of the old tabernacle. To this
the chapter had long looked forward as a sort of
bonne bouche, their appetites being further whetted
by the opposition of a recently elected Dom-Herr,
Von Hildesheim by name—be it honored —who
Violently resisted the measure. As long as he was
by nothing could be done, but the good gentlemen
bided their time—they waited till von Hildesheim
had departed on a journey, and then one night they
Went like thieves in the dark, smashed it in pieces,
and threw it into the Rhine. I'or the common
people were attached to the old relic, and there was
above 62 feet of it in length to be got rid of. The
Domblatt tells us that old Professor Wallraff, whose
well-known museum at Cologne is supposed to con-
tain a few fragments of the murdered tabernacle,
could never speak of that night without tears in
his eyes. Besides these fragments, Crombach's
description is all that remains. He reports it to
have been in the form of a cross, mounting story
over story, and terminating in a Spiro, with scripture
groups beneath rich fretwork canopies, and single
figures on pillars. “Such a work,” he adds
“with its statues, groups, pyramids, pinnacles, and
other ornaments, would have been marvellous ev.
in wax, or any other yielding material. And no.
would believe, unless they had seen it with their
own eyes, how the hard stone could have been
fashioned into a variety of the most intricate forms,
such as even a painter would find it difficult
576 *
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
*
to imitate in color.” The sculptor's name is
unknown, but he is compared to Lorenzo Ghiberti,
whom he must have preceded by almost a century.
But the chapter's turn for suffering came next.
Times altered again—the French revolution broke
out-French troops occupied Cologne in 1794–
the last prince-archbishop and seventy-sixth bishop
of Cologne, the Archduke Maximilian Francis,
brother to Marie Antoinette, was obliged to retire
from the diocese—the chapter, which consisted of
forty-six members, all, except eight, being dukes,
princes, or at least counts of the empire, and required
of course to show their sixteen quarterings—with an
establishment of twenty-five vicars, and due com-
plement of chaplains, clerks, and quire—were dis-
persed. Soldiers bivouacked in one part of the
cathedral, hay was stored in another, and the whole
given over to desecration and violence.
Nevertheless, comparatively speaking, Cologne
cathedral fared better than many that had suffered
before it, or than another, a fair sister of the
Rhine, that was suffering near it. The windows
were shot through, the ornaments broken, and the
monuments plundered by the soldiers, but the whole
time of their occupation did not leave anything like
the traces of that devastation which a troop of
Cromwell's soldiery would have committed in a
single day. Nor was it reduced to such a strait as,
like Strasburg, to be saved from destruction only
by the clever turn which hung out the red cap of
liberty from its spire, and proclaimed it a member
of the Jacobin Club. The treasures of the sacristy
had been removed in safety, and though the Shrine
of the Three Kings is generally said to have lost its
glories then, yet there are voices in Cologne which
aver that the system of exchanging precious stones
for false had commenced far earlier. Perhaps the
most serious loss was the destruction of the cathe-
dral archives, which are remembered to have been
carted away in six loads from the cellars of the
cathedral—including, no doubt, many of the books
of Bishop Hildebold—and dispersed as old rubbish.
Probably the only chance of tracing the original
architect was lost on this occasion.
Meanwhile the scattered members of the chapter
had gathered together at Arensberg in Westpha-
lia, and there, clinging to the ancient exercise of
their power, they, on the death of their archbishop,
which occurred in 1801, proceeded to elect his sue-
cessor, in the person of another archduke of Aus-
tria. This was only mocking themselves with idle
state—they might elect, but they could no longer
invest. The peace of Luneville had already an-
nexed the left bank of the Rhine to the republic of
France, and instead of the splendor of an archiepis-
copal establishment, and the dignity of a St. Pe-
ter's of the north, the cathedral of Cologne was
cut down to the rank of parish church of the dis-
trict, with one pastor and two sub-pastors.
Now was the goodly building fallen indeed —
the hand of time and the hand of man both alike
hard upon her—without, her walls decaying—
within, her pleasant places laid waste ;-the cloven
tongue of the mitre no longer resting upon her—
her pompous retinue cut off—her heritage given to
the stranger—her friends standing aloof-and her
enemies mocking at her desolation. For Bertho-
let, the new French bishop appointed by-and-by
to Aix-la-Chapelle by the modern Charlemagne,
congratulated the people of Cologne on the fine
Gothic ruin within their walls, and advised them to
plant poplars around to increase the effect. tº
In this state, without the means for undertaking
the most partial repairs, and nothing less than the
most complete being required, the burghers of Co-
logne applied to Napoleon, to save what they now
began to suspect had been for many an age the
greatest attraction of their city. Forty thousand
francs, or about £1600 a year, to keep it up, was
all they asked—and this was as summarily refused;
whereupon the doom of the cathedral was consid-
ered to be sealed. Every year now added its com-
pound interest to the damage already incurred—the
stonework crumbled—the temporary roofings rotted
the iron stanchions only unsettled what they were
intended to strengthen—the roof of the choir was
in a deplorable condition, and nothing, in short, but
that peculiar tenacity of life which resides in the
'buildings of the 13th and 14th centuries, could
have preserved it from becoming the literal ruin
which had been predicted.
Thus it stood—a spectacle to gods and men.
And the stranger who passed by looked up at the
wasting structure, either with indifference, admira-
tion, or regret, as the structure of his own heart
might be. Many a disciple of David Hume visited
Cologne, and like his master never noticed that
there was a Dom at all—Schlegel dubbed it “an
enormous crystallization”—Goethe likened it to a
mighty, tree spreading forth its branches—poor
Hood, in whose later writings there is so much
profound feeling simply and memorably expressed,
lamented over it as “a broken promise to God”—
and Wordsworth burst into that noble sonnet—
“Oh! for the help of angels to complete
This temple—angels governed by a plan
Thus far pursued (how gloriously () by man,
Studious that HE might not disdain the seat
whº, dwells in Heaven' But that inspiring
heat -
Hath failed; and now, ye powers! whose gor-
geous wings -
And splendid aspect yon emblazonings
But faintly picture, ’t were an office meet
For you, on these unfinished shafts to try
The midnight virtues of your harmony—
This vast design might tempt you to repeat
Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground
Immortal fabrics, rising to the sound
Of penetrating harps and voices sweet!”
But a spark of the “inspiring heat” had still
lingered in Cologne—and it was one of her own
children, who, baptized at her altar and taught be-
neath her walls, now came forward—not to rescue
the failing parent from destruction—this was too
sanguine a hope even for him—but to preserve the
memory of her greatness from oblivion. It was
Sulpice Boisserée—one of two brothers of whom
Cologne may well be proud—who first really be-
stirred his energies in the cause of the cathé.
dral. Under his superintendence, careful meas:
urements and beautiful drawings were made of
the principal portions, which were subsequently
given to the public in a series of engravings,
admirable in execution and magnificent in scale.
The efforts intended to memorialize the last
days of the cathedral, proved the chief means
of procuring it better; for this remarkable work,
enriched with a valuable historical notice by M.
Boisserée himself, attracted the attention of all
lovers of art throughout Germany. . No direct al-
lusion, however, is made by M. Boisserée to the
continuation of the building, further than a few.
words, which, in 1810, quite as much implied its
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
577
hopelessness as its feasibility—namely, that such a
measure could only become possible “under the
special favor of a mighty prince, and the auspices
of a long and happy peace.”
Soon after this the struggle for independence
began—the German states threw off the yoke of
France—and in 1814 the Rhenish provinces were
attached to the Prussian monarchy. The return
of peace was hailed with national transports. The
Germans felt that they were free, and forgot they
were poor. Temples, pillars, and memorials of all
sorts were proposed by hundreds from the Rhine to
the Elbe ;--and, in the midst of the clamor, a strong
voice from the Rhenische Mercur called upon the
people not to form new schemes and begin new
works, but to honor their forefathers and exculpate
themselves by completing—as the worthiest monu-
ment of peace—the sacred cathedral of Cologne.
But auspicious as the occasion seemed, it was not
the right one;—the fervor of national gratitude
passed away;-each had some little edifice of his
own at home to look after, which the late wars had
damaged or overturned, and the cathedral lan-
guished and crumbled as before.
However, M. Boisserée had not relaxed in his
interest for the cause, and an accident presently
occurred that greatly helped him on. This was
the discovery of the original design for the north-
ern tower, which had been carted out with the rest
of the documents, and found its way to an inn at
Darmstadt. Here, being a magnificent piece of
parchment, some excellent hausfrau pounced upon
it, and nailed it on to a stretcher for the notable
purpose of drying her beans—in which capacity it
was found by a scene-painter engaged in getting up
an arch of triumph for some festival of volunteers.
The discovery was instantly communicated to M.
Boisserée, who lost no time in obtaining possession
of the precious relic by purchase. The drawing is
13 feet high, and three feet two inches wide, beau-
tifully and delicately executed in ink, and with
wonderfully few marks of the many dangers it had
undergone. It comprises the northern tower from
the base to the tip of the spire, with more than
half of the western gable front between.
M. Boisserée's attention was next attracted to a
plate in No. 12 of Willemin’s “Monumens Fran-
gais inédits,” representing a great westerº window
corresponding exactly with the position of that con-
tained in the Cologne, design, with the name of
Peter van Sardaam below. Hoping, therefore, to
find some scholar of the Cologne school of archi-
tecture in an older representative of this name, M.
Boisserée, wrote to the editor for information, who
replied that the name of Peter Yan Sardaam had
been merely of his own supplying, and that the
window in question was in reality taken from a
large architectural design in his pºssession. For
this again M. Boisserée paid a high price, and on
its arrival recognized the southern tower of the
cathedral, and the fellow-drawing to that he al-
ready had. This was much the more injured of
the two, and, what was still more trying, there ap-
peared at top, next the spire, a small anagram,
above which were evident traces of an obliterated
name, which, it is provoking to infer, must have
been that of the designer himself. A. few devia-
tions from this plan appeared in the portion of the
southern tower already completed, but this onl
the more substantiated the date of these designs,
which we have every reason to believe are the
same originally submitted to the approbation of
Conrad of Hochsteden. How the last-found draw-
*
ing made its way to Paris is easily accounted for in
the indiscriminate transfer of ºil objects of art
. ". º: º accompanied it on
its return, which proved to be *
º i. i. tºl iſ..." of the choir,
till there was nothing done for t
and, as if the building º gave ...'.
old crane, which had so long appeaſed from a.
to heaven in vain, now fairly gave way. For
nearly four centuries it had proclaimed tº a cold
and thankless generation that the vows of their
fathers were unfulfilled. For more than four.
turies it had borne unmoved the blast of every wind
that blows, and found them
“not so rude
As man's ingratitude.”
At last, weary and time-worn, it fell from its high
estate, and, if ever a crane can be said to die of a
broken heart, that crane certainly did.
No sooner was it gone, however, than the citi-
zens were visited by strange compunctions. . They
did not know how dear that poor crane had been,
till they missed the familiar form that had so long
bent over them. It seemed as if the guardian
angel of the city was removed. Some of them
could not sleep, and, though hard to believe, it is
said some of them could not eat—at all events, one
old Burgermeister could not die comfortably in his
bed till he had bequeathed a legacy towards
replacing it; and then all clubbed together, and a
new crane was actually reared at a considerable
expense upon the old position. Considering the
state and prospects of the Cathedral at that time,
We do not know any act of the present age so grati-
fyingly useless. It is hard to believe that it was
not the fun of a set of young students, or the senti-
ment of a committee of fair ladies—but the delib-
erate will of a corporation of ſat German Burger-
meisters which performed such a piece of practical
poetry no later than the year 1819. Such was the
general feeling, that a very edifying, though com-
mon-place, history of the town and cathedral, writ-
ten at that time, is gravely dated, “1820–The
year after the erection of the new crane upon the
tower of the Cathedral.” The good citizens
deserved to have their Cathedral repaired for them
after this, and so it soon was.
The Prussian treasury had meanwhile somewhat
recruited itself. The Crown Prince, his present
Majesty, had visited Cologne, mounted to the roof
of the edifice, and lamented over its desolation—the
condition of the building was shortly after officially
inquired into and reported, and in 1824 the long
needed repairs at length commenced. For the
enormous roof and other crying distresses the sum
of 105,000 thalers, or about 18,000l., was imme-
diately granted, and, while this was being applied,
architects were employed in estimating the amount
required to put the whole, into thorough repair,
which they finally reported at a sum of 381,000
thalers, or about 65,000l. in addition. At this,
though by no means so much as might have been
expected, the Prussian government drew back in
dismay, and the undertaking seemed in danger of
being abandoned. Whether the condition ºf the
Cathedral had attracted royal attention to that of
the diocese, or vice persä, it matters not here to
inquire. At all events, about this time tho ancient
archiepiscopate of. Cologne was restored; shorn
indeed of its worldly honors, but in spiritual integ-
rity most worthily filled in the person of Charles,
Count Spiegel zum Desenberg. One of the first
578
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
acts of this venerable prelate was to renew an old
Cathedral tax" in favor of the repairs, which, with
his own urgent advocacy of the cause, finally deter-
mined the government to undertake them in the
fullest extent.
This included every portion of the exterior, from
the grandest rockwork masses of strength to the
minutest lacework tracery of ornament; and a host
of workmen, chiefly gathered from the city itself,
were soon organized in regular squadrons and
actively engaged. The roof and walls, in them-
selves a gigantic undertaking, were first thoroughly
secured. The magnificent buttresses, which, with
their flying wings, and forest of bristling piers and
pinnacles, were by far the most expensive and intri-
cate section of the work, were fourteen of them in
part rebuilt, and all repaired. The stone shafts
and tracery of the cnormous choir windows, 54 feet
high, which, instead of protecting, had begun to
demolish the gorgeous colored glass in them, were
entirely renewed, and the glass itself, broken,
maimed, and obscured with the coatings of centu-
ries was taken out, cleaned and mended. When
the exterior had thus renewed its youth, the inte-
rior was cared for in turn. Here every damaged
or failing feature, in stone, marble, or , metal,
passed under the healing hand of the careful work-
man. The walls were cleansed from every stain-
new and old stone united under the same tempered
color—the gold stars in the roof twinkled again
from their places—the beautiful leafy capitals lay
with their golden foliage upon a scarlet ground—
the figures of the apostles upon the piers, with
their gorgeous brackets and canopies, revelled in
the brightest hues the palette could supply; and
then the colored glass was replaced, and the light
which streamed in upon the restored decencies of
the holy place was richer and more glowing than
it had been for ages. -
It was twelve years before all this was accom-
plished—and no wonder, for the labors were multi-
ſarious, and the funds administered in but a slender
stream. Meanwhile, a grand plan on the part of the
city for completing the whole building, by merely
levying a tax of seven Pſennings per head through-
out Germany, came, as might have been expected, to
nothing; while another, more highly patronized,
for continuing it in a very bad fashion, threatened
to be fulfilled. It was evident not only that the
service of the church required, the completion of
the building, but also that the choir itself, in a con-
structive sense, needed the support of the body. A
proposition, accordingly, for a cheaper style of
completion—leaving the ornaments en bloc-substi-
tuting stouter piers within, and dispensing with the
elaborate buttress-work without, and introducing
iron shafts for the roof instead of stone groining—
had met with the sanction of government:—but
luckily the death of the architect from whom it
chiefly emanated, and the appointment of Herr
Swirner as Dombau-meister, presented a double
guarantee against such doings. This gentleman,
whom knowledge of his profession, and reverence
for the cathedral, equally qualify for his position,
instantly felt how opposed was such a plan to the
original intention ; much, however, still remained
to be done before the mischief would begin, and
therefore he wisely waited the course of events.
It was evident now to the citizens of Cologne
that, if ever their cathedral was to be completed,
this was the time. The nature and extent of the
* Ten groschen for a marriage, five for a baptism, and
two and a half for a burial.
L
repairs had in themselves raised up a school of
workmen entirely competent to carry on the work.
Public interest had been attracted to the subject—
a reverence for old times and old things had re-
turned—and the happy peace, and the mighty Prince
to whom Boisserée had in faith pointed, were both
j, over the land. At this juncture the
king of Prussia died—his present majesty ascended
tho throne—all favors and all grievances hastened
to unfold themselves in the first sunshine of his
popularity—a cry of “Jetzt oder nie”—now or
never—was echoed from journal to journal along
the Rhine;—the citizens of Cologne met tºgether
—made glowing speeches, and quoted Goethe,
Schlegel, Boisserée, Wallraf, and every other
writer who had even alluded to the cathedral—the
first outline of a Dombau Verein, or cathedral-
building society was formed ; and, finally, a requi-
sition, signed by two hundred of the most respecta-
ble citizens, reporting their wants and wishes, and
imploring royal help and sanction, reached Berlin
in September, 1840, a few days before the corona-
t10n.
His majesty's answer was everything that could
be desired. He took the society under his especial
patronage—encouraged them to collect funds—
directed that the southern aisles should be forth-
with continued at his own expense, and reserved
for speedy consideration the amount of his further
help. This was sufficient to stir the flame. All
Cologne flew, not to arms, but to committees—they
made statutes and revoked them—shed tears—com-
plimented one another—embraced one another—
then contradicted one another, and under these cir-
cumstances spent some time before they thoroughly
understood one another. At length it was settled
that an annual contribution of one thaler should
constitute a member—that the funds should be
strictly appropriated to the cathedral as a Roman
Catholic place of worship—that the honorary presi-
dentship should be vested in the archbishop, and
that a working board and president should be
elected from year to year till the building was com-
pleted. Lists were now kept open at the principal
laces of resort for members to enrol, and in
ebruary, 1842, a grand procession was formed,
which, after attending high mass, proceeded to the
Gürzenich, an old hall in Cologne appropriated to
public purposes, where the views of the society
were eloquently explained, and all ranks and ages
invited to join. Numbers flocked to the standard
that day, and, as an instance of the pervading en-
thusiasm, a little lady, with the long name of
Maria Eva Petronella Paulina Hubertina Groyen,
born at eight o'clock that morning, was enrolled the
junior member of the society by ten. Before tho
evening closed the names amounted to about five
thousand. From this day, therefore, date the
operations of the Central Society.
In a few days the news of the Gürzenich mect-
ing had spread far and wide, and Germany at largo
began to respond. Branch societies were speedily
formed in neighboring states, and even in distant
lands, for the Germans at Rome, headed by Thor-
waldsen and Overbeck, were among the first to an:
nounce their adherence. Contributions in money
and in kind, not to mention congratulations III
prose and verse, poured in. Ladies worked banners
and wax flowers—authors wrote books—artists
ave pictures to be raffled for, and that with which
É. throw a sentiment over all that is coars?
and common beside—their delicious music—liſted
up a willing voice, and Singer Vereins, with sweet
º
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
579
choral strains that would draw tears, to say nothing
of thalers, out of hearts of stone, made over their
profits to the cause.
Foremost in the generous race of benefactors
must be mentioned the burghers of Stuttgard, who,
as early as September, 1841, freighted a vessel
with hewn stone, and sent it down the Rhine—
begging, in quaint phrase, that the materials might
become a window in that side of the cathedral
facing their Wirtemberg—namely, on the south.
By this time the want of some separate organ to
report the business part of the undertaking, receive
the learned suggestions, and foster the growing
zeal, was much felt, and the Domblatt, as a gratis
supplement to the weekly Cölnische Zeitung, was
now set up. 3r
While the common fund was thus swelling, the
king had not been unmindful of his promise, and it
was duly announced that the royal contributor
would take the lead with the annual sum of
50,000 thalers, or about . E8000—his majesty
further signifying his intention of assisting in per-
son at the consecration of the second foundation-
stone of the cathedral, which was fixed for the 4th
of September, 1842.
On that day, therefore, the gates of the city
opened wide to receive a royal train, such as they
had seen often in the olden time—but not come
from wars and feuds, or from a truce destined to
cease the moment the errand was over, but come
in peace with each other and with all men, and in-
tent only on using the sacred occasion as a further
bond for its blessings. With his majesty came the
queen, the prince of Prussia, and five other princes
of the house of Brandenburg; the arch-duke John of
Austria, the crown prince of Bavaria, our own
prince George of Cambridge; with dukes and
grand dukes, princes and counts—the flower of the
German confederacy; while over the bridge of
boats and through every inlet to the city there
streamed a countless crowd, which even the vast
crescent of the city walls seemed insufficient to
contain; and cannon roared, and music, swelled,
and every tower of every church in the many-
churched Cologne sounded its iron tongue, and the
rand cathedral bells were heard above them all.
É. and happy men that day were the members
of the Dombau Verein—mustering, with the depu-
ties from the branch societies, some fifteen thousand
in number; each distinguished by a medal, and en-
vied for the privileges it implied; and many in the
fulness of their hearts promising to double their
subscription from that day—which some did.
The ceremony began with high, mass at the
cathedral, performed by the archbishop-coadjutor,
at which their majesties and their distinguished
guests, with the members of the society, and the
whole body of the workmen, attended. . The newly
beautified choir, reëpened for the first time, excited
the greatest admiration. Service being concluded,
the cathedral poured forth its thousands, which,
being joined by the thousands more awaiting them
without, formed into a P. for numbers and
union of all classes and interests almost unprece-
dented. The staid and grave Dombau Vereins
represented the learned professions, with those
countless grades above and below, whom the edu-
cation of modern times has equalized. The hardy
and picturesque ranks of cathedral workmen includ-
ed every department and degree of skill and handi-
craft from the architect to the glazier. The
glittering uniforms showed every gradation of
ervice, civil and military, under every crown of
Europe. Every, striking variety of clerical cos-,
tune was arrayed in attendance on the archiepisco-
pal crozier—while the whole was brought up by a
heterogeneous but orderly mass, in which the
sturdy peasantry from the surrounding country
supplied the only class not hitherto mentioned.
Many were the hearts that day which sweiled with
the sense of wishes now fulfilled, and labors .
rewarded, but nºne with so warm a glow".
So just a title, as that of the aged Sulpice Boisseré.
who walked conspicuous in the procession, and wº.
hailed with enthusiasm wherever he turned.
And now, while this remarkable procession was
winding through the principal streets, received at
every house they passed with every demonstration
that joy and devotion could suggest, the great
Dom Platz, or square on the south of the cathédral,
where were stationed all the schools and charitable
institutions with which Cologne abounds, had be-
come the focus of gathering interest. It was from
the centre portal of the southern transept that the
Second foundation of the cathedral was to start. In
the space, therefore, stretching from the choir to
the southern tower, a tribune for spectators had
been erected; from the midst of which rose a
richly decorated pavilion. Here their majesties
with their brilliant cortége soon mounted—the pro-
cession arrived and defiled with thundering vivals
before them—then, as the body of the clergy ap-
proached, the royal head, with every other, was
uncovered—the exquisite strains of the Veni Cre-
ator: silenced every other sound—the archbishop
slowly pronounced “Domine ! exaudi orationem
mººm,” and the consecration service began.
The scene was one which none present can ever
forget. The day was fine, with deep blue sky and
shifting white clouds. The gigantic grey mass of
the cathedral, now sparkling with its countless
detail in sunshine, now hiding all but its huge out-
line in the shade, seemed lified from its founda-
tions upon a sloping bank of human heads, inter-
spersed with floating ſlags and waving banners,
which spread like a torrent into every corner of the
irregular plain; every head being turned towards a
small vacant space midway between choir, and
tower, over which hung suspended one single
block of stone, and whence rose and fell in meas-
ured tones the solemn responses of the choir.
Just six hundred years had elapsed since all
Cologne assembled on this same spot for a similar
purpose, and much had grown up and fallen down
in the time. The old world had changed—a new
one had been discovered. Raphael had painted
and Shakspeare written—Luther preached and
Voltaire blasphemed. The Archbishops of Co-
logne had lost a crown, and the Margraves of
randenburg had gained one. Still, had a burgher
of the thirteenth century arisen from the dead
beneath their feet, and stood in that inner circle
overlooking the foundation, he would have beheld a
venerable prelate clad In the same vestments, and
performing the same rite ; he would have seen a
stone from the old Mother, Quarry of Drachenfels,
sprinkled with water from the old Father Rhine; he
would have observed a slight alteration, in the ma-
chinery above his head, and in the costumes of those
who stood about him, but soon found out that men
of like passions with himself guided the one and
wore the other; he would have seen nothing new
that human intelligence might not have attained,
and nothing missing that human infirmity might not
have forfeited—but one thing his mind would have
stumbled at, as equally beyond the pale of his expe-
580
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
rience and the limit of his belief, and that is, how a
monarch of one creed could openly and solemnly
assist to build a church for another, and that creed
one denied by his forefathers and himself, and yet
personally not err in so doing.
. The block was lowered, and the archbishop, as-
sisted by Swirner, adjusted it into its place with the
usual form of words. The king descended from
the tribune—addressed the multitude with the facili-
ty which distinguishes him—took the mallet, and,
amid roars of applause, struck the newly laid stone
three times. Then, whilst the mallet passed in
turn to all the royal personages, and to every indi-
vidual of distinction, the archbishop, the president
of the society, and the Dombau Meister spoke in suc-
cession. The king's speech had been short, patri-
otic, German—and quite latitudinarian. The prel-
ate's was long, courteous, and most carefully Roman
Catholic. The president addressed himself espe-
cially to the societies, and encouraged them to
continue their zeal. The Dombau Meister turned
particularly to the artisans, and bade them prove
their skill—concluding a manly, honest effusion with
the sentiment of Schüler's song of the Bell —
“Let praise be to the workman given,
But the blessing comes from Heaven.”
He was answered by a “hurrah” from the tower.
The crane moved slowly on its axis—a chorus of
workmen's voices rose in sonorous melody—a block
of stone was seen mounting slowly through the air
—every hat was waved, his majesty's the heartiest
of them all, and amidst roars of cannon one stone
more was added to that tower where the last had
been left above four centuries before.
Thus terminated the ceremonies of the day as far
as the cathedral was concerned. We have dwelt
upon them thus at length, not because of the tem-
porary excitement, picturesque beauty, or solemn
nature of the scene; but because, to our view, the
occasion included far more than the mere laying of
a foundation-stone, or the paying of a royal visit.
Neither one nor the other, taken separately, was
very remarkable in itself, but in the bridge that
bound them together every stone had been laid by
time and graven by history.
The day was a fruitful one. The Domblatt
teemed with contributions from every class of soci-
ety. The King of Bavaria promised the painted
lass for the four south windows, and a tradesman
in Cologne gave two thousand two-inch nails. The
Duke d'Arenberg subscribed a thousand thalers
a year for his possessions on the Rhine, and common
laborers gave annually the value of a day's hire.
Oſficers of regiments clubbed together from their
mess, and private soldiers who had helped to extin-
guish a fire presented their Trinkgeld. , Schoolboys
sent in their prizes, and young girls their trinkets.
Parents made a thank-offering for the recovery of a
child, and penitents a sin-offering for a burdened
conscience—while one result of his majesty's per-
sonal patronage was an exemption from postage for
all business concerning the cathedral, throughout
the Prussian dominions—an example that has been
followed by other states. º
In the midst of all this overflowing enthusiasm,
a task, requiring consummate tact and dexterity as
well as professional skill, had fallen to the share of
the chief architect. His first care was to obtain
the reversion of the late king's order, touching the
continuation of the edifice upon a cheaper scale—
chiefly at the sacrifice of the grand external but-
tresses. This, with the faithful help of Sulpice
Boisserée, he proved to be objectional on technical
as well as on acsthetic grounds-adducing the cathe-
dral of Utrecht as an example, where, a similar
plan of economy having been pursued, a great
storm in the seventeenth century overthrew the
body of the church, while the choir, supported like
the Cologne one, remained uninjured. Upon such
arguments, and with the feeling that all half-meas-
ures were unworthy of the cause, the Board direct-
ed the words “that the building of the cathedral be
continued according to the original intention,” to
be inserted into the first article of their statutes,
and obtained the royal sanction to that effect.
Swirner's next task was to convince the society
that there were certain laws connected with the
erection of the cathedral more imperative even than
those of boards and presidents. For, stimulated
by the natural desire to see some result for their
money as soon as possible, the worthy citizens had
settled it among themselves that those portions, such
as the towers, which told most to the eye, should
be first set in progress; while every little society
sent in its mite with express stipulation of its being
devoted to some particular feature of the building
to which they and their descendants forever might
point with tears of rapture. Throngh all these del-
icate difficulties the worthy Meister steered with
admirable adroitness. He promised to comply with
all separate wishes as speedily as was consistent
with the nature of the work; explained that, for
reasons obvious to all, the corresponding portions of
a building must advance at the same pace—that a
single window could not grow here, nor a separate
pier start there, and above all that it was necessary
to finish the main body of the church before attempt-
ing the steeples. To this, therefore, all parties
were at length brought to consent. The comple-
tion of the towers has been abandoned for the pres-
ent, and all the efforts of the king and people are
directed to those portions which are essential to
constitute a perfect church—the royal funds being
especially devoted to the south side, the society's to
the north. ‘.
With these and other hindrances several months
passed away before any apparent progress was made
—the workmen being amply employed in complet-
ing the repairs, and in preparing a stock of materi-
als for future use. The stone of the 4th of Sep-
tember, as we have shown, was laid at the western
ier of the centre arch of the southern transept.
The preparations for this had been combined with
unforeseen labor, for, on examining the foundations
of the south front, above one half was found to be
entirely wanting—and of what existed, only *
small portion, connected with the choir and eyr
dently coeval with it, had been finished to the orig"
inal depth ; an extent therefore of eighty feet in
length, thirty-four in breadth, and forty-six in depth,
had to be completely supplied; being built, like the
rest of the cathedral foundations, of basaltic col-
umns, filled up with the well-known lava-stone
from the Brohl valley; and which, after the placing
of the stone, were left to settle.
The wall of the south aisles was now com"
menced and raised to the level of that ºn the
north, including the four great windows with their
tracery, the broad foliage moulding above, and
the grotesque gutter-heads. The removal of th9
temporary roofs next followed, which, owing tº
their extent and rottenness, was attended with great
difficulty and some danger, when the interior piers;
which, as we have said elsewhere, had been advanced
to the height of forty-two feet, were found in *
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
581
state which rendered their preservation up to that
moment a matter of wonder. Most of them, from
the absence of due consolidating pressure from above,
had swerved from the perpendicular, and some so
perilously so that a slight sideward pressure sufficed
to set the whole mass tottering from the base up-
ward. . To remedy this without completely pulling
them down, required great skill and no little time
—after which they were carried up to the destined
height, and the stone vaulting gradually procecded
with.
North and south walls being thus brought up to
the same level, the south transept was resumed,
and preparations made to proceed simultaneously
with north transept and tower. For this purpose
an order was procured from the sºlº, for the
demolition of the church of Sta. Maria in Pasculo,
as also of a chapter-house similarly intrusive. As
soon as the removal of the rubbish permitted, the
foundations were examined, when the same defi-
ciency that had met them on the south side, though
not to such an extent, was discovered here. The
northern tower in its turn offered unforeseen diffi-
culties. The old stump of the southwestern pier,
which we have mentioned as having been aban-
doned at the height of forty-two feet, was found so
utterly worn away with length of exposure that no
course remained but to take it entirely down. This
done, the ground was cleared and preparations made
for laying the first rounds of the central pier; no
doubt being entertained that the foundations for this,
as for the other piers of the tower, according to the
rules of building, had been placed coevally. Great,
therefore, was Swirner's dismay in finding, after a
toilsome exploration of above thirty feet in depth,
that none whatever existed. Already a heavy ex-
pense which had not entered into the estimates has
thus been necessitated—and it remains to be proved
whether the other piers will not be found equally
unprovided for.” |. supply the basaltic columns
for this and any other foundation emergencies is not
difficult, as the banks of the Rhine are plentifully
furnished with basaltic quarries, but otherwise the
supply of materials for the building has been a
question of great trouble to the architect. sº
It is well known that the fine trap-rock quarries
of the Drachenfels had been, both for their intrinsic
excellence and from their vicinity to the river, in
vogue with all Rhenish architects from the earliest
times. The Romans worked them, as an abun-
dance of their remains testify, while so many of
the early churches of Lower Germany, and espec-
ially those along the Rhine, are found to be bone
of its bone, that the wonder is how so much of the
“castled crag” still survives. The present cathe-
dral—probably that of Hildebold also-having been
entirely drawn from the Drachenfels—the great
quarry on the south side had always kept the name
of the Dom Kaule; but to all appearance this had
been in disuse during many centuries: it was quite
overgrown with dwarf wood and vineyards; while
a quarry on the west side, from which it does not
seem that the Dom was ever fed, had been, from
its contiguity to the high road, especially interdicted
by government. But moreover; principally from
the mouldering aspect of the Cologne. Dom itself,
the Drachenfels stone had fallen into disrepute with
modern architects; and therefore, for the restora-
tion of the choir end, the millstone-quarries of
Niedermendig and Mayen were put into requisition.
*The last building report, received while these sheets
are going through the press, proves this to be the case.
Qf the durability of this stone, in the most delicate
forms and under the severest exposure, there is
ample evidence on the Rhine ; but the darkness of
the color, only increased by time, proved an objec-
tion, which ultimately led to a royal order for its
discontinuance. Many experiments and efforts
were now made to test the qualities of various
stones, and ensure a steady supply, and quarries
were opened at a distance both on the Mosel and
on the Neckar, thus occasioning great expense and
delay. But ere long it was whispered that the old
Drachenfels had been too hastily traduced. It had
been observed, that while parts of the external or-
naments of the cathedral had been entirely obliter-
ated, others remained as sharp as when first put
up. This discrepancy was now found to originate
in an organic peculiarity of the stone, of which the
preceding race of savants, it seems, had been totally
unaware. The rocks of the Drachenfels are
largely impregnated with feldspar crystals, lying
together in parallel strata. In the direction of these
strata the stone divides easily; across them, it re-
quires labor. With the strata the rocks in their
native state splinter and crack off perpetually;
across them, they defy both time and weather.
Where, therefore, in building, the crystals have
been placed vertically, the stone has crumbled
away; where horizontally, it has remained unin-
jured. This was a welcome discovery for Mr.
Swirner, and the facts were no sooner established
than the Domblatt announced a deed of gift, by
which the worthy proprietor of the south side of
the Drachenfels, the Chevalier Dahm, made over
that portion called the Dom Kaule for the free use
of the Central Society during the next twenty
years. We rejoice in this; for, setting aside the
obvious advantage of continuing with the same
materials, it seemed hard that, while all were con-
tributing to the cathedral, its own parent after the
flesh should alone be debarred. Even the lime for
the mortar is the same that was used before, being
brought from Paffrath and Gladbach on the right
bank of the Rhine. - *
... We must now take a glance inside. While the
interior reparations were in progress, the remains
of some fresco paintings, in the space round and
above the arches of the inner choir, surrounding the
high altar, had come to light. . Here, the last cen-
tury’s customary coating of whitewash being
removed, there emerged angelic figures of great
solemnity, two to each arch, holding the vessels of
sacrifice and worship, all upon a gold damask pat-
tern ground. Even in their faded and imperfect
state the effect was so grand that it was unanimously
determined to call in the aid of modern art and re-
place them. The choice fell upon Steinle, known
chiefly in England by his outline drawings of the
Seven Works of Mercy. This artist has adhered
closely to the spirit of the old composition; indeed,
with the religious feelings that he has, he could
not do otherwise. The larger spandrils of the
side arches he has filled with angels and archangels,
with their appropriate attributes; while in the
smaller compartments over the altar appear the
mysterious four-winged cherubims, veiling their
faces from the divine splendor.
The angels are eleven feet in length—highl
graceful, if not too solemn to be so called—wit
grand wings and sublime expressionless heads.
We have seen no better specimens of modern
fresco. The general effect, as concerns the rest of
the building, is most admirable—the height of the
arches giving glimpses of the floating celestial
582
ÓF COLOGNE.
THE CATHEDRAL
hierarchy, from every part and thus announcing
that which is holiest of all. *
We wish we could say anything in favor of the
fourteen statues upon the outer sides of the same
choir piers; the recent painting of which, though
equally supported by ancient example, we cannot
help feeling to be a thing that no precedent can
defend. , Setting aside the generally affected and
unimposing character of the statues themselves,
we safely appeal to the reader, what must be the
effect of a stone figure, six feet and a half high,
painted with black hair and beard, red checks and
lips, and drapery in every gaudy variety of red,
blue, green, and gold, the pattern carefully picked
out. The province of true art is not to deceive the
senses, but to please or exalt the imagination—in a
sacred building certainly the latter: the province
of such art as this is to give the idea of a Chinese
mandarin, and the association of a Vauxhall. Even
the defence made on the score of carrying out the
brilliant hues of the windows, is untenable, for the
effect is utterly to overpower them. One of the
chief charms of painted windows is the contrast
they oppose to the broad masses, the sombre lights
and shades, and the dim reflected coloring of the
architecture surrounding them, and which is of course
sacrificed the moment you cover the architecture
itself with a glare of colors. The statue, in this
instance, does not even keep its real size, for the
vulgar brightness of the paint has brought it unduly
close to the eye. We especially grudge the disfigura-
tion of the canopies and brackets, as they are far
superior as works of art. The brackets, like the
capitals of the piers, are composed of foliage and
fruit—the hop, the fig, the vine, &c., in exquisite
form and relief;-the canopies of the richest archi-
tectural delicacy, with angels upon them playing
on different musical instruments—in allusion to
their position in the choir:-the whole, comprising
canopy, figure, and bracket, above sixteen feet
high, and twelve feet from the ground. The same
objections do not apply to the capitals supporting
the roof; only two colors, scarlet and gold, have
been used here, and those are appropriately sobered
by their distance from the eye. Traces of gilding
and color in a damask pattern were also found,
reaching about twelve feet up the choir piers, one
of which has been renewed in the same style by
way of experiment, but pronounced unsuccessful.
We sincerely hope no further essay of the kind
will be made, as every stroke of a gaudy brush
within the cathedral walls will only lessen the
solemnity of its grand space and sublime masses,
and especially mar the effect both of the fresco de-
signs and of the colored windows.
If we consider the immense substructure of
tedious preparation required at the outset of an un-
dertaking comprising, like this, the one general
effort of a fresh foundation, and the thousand
minutiae of a precise joining on, the progress made
in the course of four years is a satisfactory proof
of the saving of time due to modern machinery,
and of the efficiency of those to whom the works
are intrusted. Nevertheless, to the many impatient
obscrvers who looked up daily and wondered what
had become of their thalers, we can imagine that
the business appeared to make but very slow way.
It was, therefore, a satisfaction to all parties when,
in May, 1845, Swirner availed himself of a society
anniversary, to throw open the now perfect south
aisles, from which the public had been banished
for above two years; they resumed possession with
great enthusiasm. A further ebullition of popular
feeling took place on occasion of our queen's visit
to the Rhine, when her majesty assisted to place
a beautiful bracket in the centre arch of the north
front, and left a donation of 500l. About the same
time the emperor of Austria and the king of Bel-
gium also forwarded very handsome contributions.
Since then the progress of the building has told
more. The beautiful and elaborate decoratious
Which had been slowly executing in the workshops,
are now rapidly taking their places on the building.
The fronts of both north and south transepts, with
their richly perforated gables and exquisite triple
arches, stand sparkling in the first brightness of
newly hewn stone. The internal piers have reached
their full height, and preparations for vaulting them
over are begun. The failing compartments of the
northern aisles are perfected, and the north tower
is the centre of activity. Such is the amount of
hewn stone already in hand, from the massive uni-
form rounds of the piers to the most intricate
details of Gothic sculpture, no two of which are
alike, that the Domhaumeister looks forward with
conſidence to throwing open the whole body of the
building—aisles and transepts complete, and nave
finished up to above the level of the clerestory win-
dows with a temporary roof over—by the 14th of
August, 1848, when a grand celebration of the
cathedral's six hundreth birthday is to take place.
The final completion to the tip of the spires, with
full complement of external buttresses, was not
originally anticipated within less than twenty-five
years; and at the pace of progress now going on,
which will not abate unless the funds do, this is
still expected to be fulfilled. .
The branch societies now amount to above 130
in number, including one of the Germans settled in
Mexico, but none, strange to say, of those in Eng-
land. The whole amount hitherto subscribed,
(August, 1846,) exclusive of the government's
annual 50,000 thalers, reaches to about 300,000
thalers, or 50,000l. It is very agreeable to see
that the payments continue from year to year to
increase ; but still it is evident that it will require
a much larger annual return before twenty-five
years can accomplish a work estimated at the round
sum of five millions of thalers, or nearly a million
sterling.
We hope the best. The more the cathedral
grows, the more its beauties develop, the greater
the pride of finishing and the shame of again aban-
doning it. It is but natural, however, to surmise
that much of the existing glow will have cooled
away before the lapse of five-and-twenty years; at
any rate, all the Vanity Fair ingenuities for scraping
together money, the balling, and bazaaring, and
raffling, and the list of fine-lady trumperies, in
Germany more trumpery still than anywhere else,
which have run riot at the start, must subside long
ere then. The completion of the cathedral will
then devolve upon those whose motive is not an
indulgence of vanity, or taste, or mere sentiment,
but a principle of religious duty—we mean upon
the Roman Catholics of Germany. As it is, all
the immediate agents for the cause, both those who
are conducting the works and those who superin-
tend the outlay, are zealous Romanists. The
Domblatt itself is an ultra-Catholic organ, while
the very existence of the Central Society, on which
all the others hang, is based upon the one primary
condition of the cathedral being finished and up-
held as a strictly Roman Catholic temple, and not
a single thaler applied to it with any other view.
We are no admirers of some of the reasons
DIPLOMIATIC NOTES.
583
which the king of Prussia avowed in the speech of
Sept. 1842, for his ardor in this great work. His
majesty's words about all differences of creed being
buried in it, savored too much of the modern Pro-
testantism of his country. But the work is a great
one, and a national one, and therefore king and
cottager do well to befriend it. And indeed, in
case of any unfortunate falling off in the general
subscriptions, we think the king would stand in
need of no apology should he undertake to com-
plete the work himself; for his majesty is in pos-
session of the magnificent revenues of the Cologne
see, and the appointments of the modern archbishop
make but a small deduction from them.
From the Spectator, 14 Nov.
WHATEven may become of the dispute between
the governments of France and England, however
menacing the aspect kept up in London, there are
still in Paris signs that the disagreement is not past
recall. Lord Normanby, as ambassador, acting
upon his instructions, is on one point inexorably
sulky, but as a man he is as urbane as possible;
and the French government shows every desire to
conciliate him.
A good deal of speculation has been excited in
Paris by the fact, that King Leopold, who had been
visiting his wife's family, did not stay to see the
Duke de Montpensier and his bride, and that the
Belgian ambassador staid away from the “recep-
tion” by the duke and duchess. Reports differ as
to the king's real opinion ; some representing him
as leaving congratulatory messages, others as ex-
pressing utter disapproval of the Spanish match.
There is no evidence that he has done anything but
what might have been expected from his position
and character—preserve an impartial bearing to-
wards his French and his English relatives. He
was called away to the opening of the chambers in
his own kingdom ; and may yet, if needful, prove a
good mediator. In many respects he is well suited
for the office. King Leopold is not only a states-
man of unusual experience in affairs, and royal by
station, but he is familiar with the society, the
habits, and the views, both of the French and Eng-
lish palaces. His interests are pledged to peace;
for Belgium has had the dismal distinction of being
the battle-field of Europe, and would most assured-
ly be so again in any general contest. . He under:
stands state policy; he has often displayed good
sense and good taste; and probably, both sides
would have faith in the sincerity of his desire not
to betray the interests of either. We cannot be-
lieve the reports of some journalists, that. King
Leopold has forfeited his advantageous position by
any indiscreet declarations.
i. is rumored that Lord Brougham has under-
taken to appear as counsel for the French govern-
ment in the British parliament—that is, to state the
case of that government. Our whig papers have
raised a shout of ridicule against Lord Brougham,
in order by anticipation to diminish the effect of his
agency. It is very likely that the French govern-
ment may have overrated Lord Brougham's per-
sonal influence as a public man. Seeing the prom-
inent part he has played in national ineasures
actually adopted, the part he still takes in council,
his untiring activity, his personal intimacy with
distinguished statesmen, and even with several
royal acquaintances, they may naturally suppose
that he possesses a coèxtensive influence. They
may know as a matter of information, but can
scarcely feel as a matter of fact, how little way the
influence of talent makes with us against the dead
weight of three overriding influences, birth, wealth,
and party connexions, Even if they had such
knowledge, it is probable that party influence would
have debarred them from obtaining any other patron
as good. Nor is it to be denied that, for all his
eccentricity and discursiveness, Lord Brougham has
in an extraordinary degree the faculty of stating a
case in the most lucid and emphatic manner. If he
has undertaken the mission, we believe that he
will discharge it more effectively than any other
Oratſ)r.
We no less think that the mission is one honora-
ble in itself. Whoever may prove to be “right”
or “wrong” in the affair, it will be convenient for
all parties to have it distinctly and authoritatively
set forth and kept clear from misrepresentation.
And it is an interesting trait in the international
relations of the two countries, to see the French
government so desirous of bringing its own case
before the British public, as to appoint an honorary
agent in our parliament.
It is to be hoped that M. Guizot is sincere in his
desire to maintain amicable intercourse. If so, he
cannot do better than adhere to his avowed pur-
pose of appealing to the English nation....Absolute
approval a statesman of his sagacity will not ex-
pect: a critical frown at certain supposed sallies
of cunning on the king's part, met by the minister
with undue subservience, he must bear with pa-
tience. But the English public cares little for
niceties of etiquette, which so greatly agitate
diplomatists and heralds; attaching much more
importance to peace, with its quiet, safety, and
commerce. It will sympathize with any sincere
endeavor to preserve peace. It will be disposed to
pardon our neighbor’s escapade as a venial error
of over-'cuteness, in consideration of Louis Phil-
ippe's past services in the cause of peace, and of
any earnest that he will henceforth act again in the
same behalf. And we believe, that if it be con-
vinced as to the reality of such a desire on the
other side, the public will not, after all, suffer any
political party to go to extremes. Much, no doubt,
is tolerated, because there is a strong inclination
just now to be indulgent towards a “liberal” min-
istry, and not too strictly or openly to criticise its
conduct under embarrassing party ties. But French
statesmen—and English statesmen also—will do
well not to confound that forbearance on purely do-
mestic grounds with any disposition to sanction a
dangerous foreign policy, should it go to the length
of overt acts. *
DIPLOMATIC NOTES.
LoRD PALMERSTON is determined to punish the
French court and ministry for their perfidy. If he
cannot show his resentment in one way he will in
another. Debarred the employment of cannon, he
throws all his anger into protocols. They are for-
midable instruments when forged by his lordship's
hands. Everything now is on the monster scale—
monster mortars, monster concerts, monster meet-
ings, monster trains, monsterstatues. His lordship
swims with the stream, and has manufactured a
monster “ note.” He has sent to M. Guizot a
diplomatic letter extending to one hundred and nine
pages of closely-written foolscap. We can imag-
ine the French premier's dismay when Lord Nor-
manby requested an audience for the purpose of
presenting this formidable document; but how must
584
CON AMORE,
his terror have been increased when the ambassador
informed him he conceived it necessary to read over
to him the whole of this extraordinary specimen of
verbosity, in order to insure due attention to the
prolix eloquence of the English Foreign Secretary?
- Most persons will think, we imagine, that M. Guizot
has now been sufficiently punished for his share of
the transaction.
The “note ” finished, we are told, with the con-
clusion that the Duke and Duchess de Montpensier
must, for themselves and their children, renounce
all claim to the Spanish succession. The de-
mand is as stupid as it is arrogant. If persisted
in, it will cost his lordship his station in the For-
cign-office. The mind of every rational man who
has paid the slightest attention to the question is
made up that the treaty of Utrecht gives us no title
for interference with this marriage. Since that
treaty was concluded there have been no less than
three alliances between members of the house of
Orleans in France and of the house of Bourbon in
Spain, without one word of objection being uttered
against the principle of them. The Duke de Mont-
pensier cannot deprive the children of the Infanta
of a right he does not conſer on them. In a consti-
tutional view, as regards their right to the Spanish
succession, they are the children of the Infanta
alone. There is not the slightest pretence, in
sound reason, for the absurd demand Lord Palmer-
ston has made. Among the ministers of Europe he
stands alone in urging it, and to the experienced
statesmen of the continent he must be an object of
wonder and ridicule. His conduct is hardly consis-
tent with the supposition of vanity; and it is made
the more conspicuously foolish by the remoteness
of the contingency he raises as a ground of dis-
pute. He persists in fighting with a man of straw,
and on levelling all the force of his diplomatic
battery against what is merely the shadow of a real
€Vent.
A few weeks, or perhaps days, must rouse his
lordship from the fool's paradise in which he is lap-
ping himself. The English people are generally
indifferent to the conduct of their foreign affairs.
But there is a limit to their patience, and we are
persuaded they will not much longer suffer their in-
fluence on the continent to be sensibly weakened,
and their diplomacy made ridiculous, for the sake
of retaining a minister at the head of the Foreign-
office to write voluminous pamphlets, under the
title of “Diplomatic Notes.”—Britannia, 14 Nov.
THE newspaper war about the Montpensier Iſlar-
riage, between the Paris and London journals, wax-
es fiercer, and it professes to reflect the diplomatic
relations of the two governments; the Times
treating the Journal des Débats as if it were M.
Guizot, the Journal des Débats treating the Times
as if it were Lord Palmerston. In the midst of the
mutual attacks some further explanations are let fall. |
The French case finally takes this shape. When
Queen Victoria was at Eu, the marriages of Queen Is-
abella and the Infanta Louisa were discussed. Lord
Aberdeen consented that the husband of the queen
should be taken from some branch of the Bourbon
family; and he did not resist the marriage of the In-
fanta with the Duc de Montpensier, but stipulated that
it should take place after the queen's—or, as our
journals allege, after she should have children.
When Lord Palmerston came into office, he did not
respect the arrangement; he added Prince Leo-
pold of Coburg to the list of candidates for the
queen's hand, and thus broke down the limitation
to the Bourbon family. France therefore consid-
ered herself free from the compact of Eu, and the
Montpensier marriage was not postponed. The
Journal des Débats is careful to remark, that no
attempt was made against the independence of
Queen Isabella's choice; England and France
only agreed as to the advice which they would join
IIl ."É.
The Palmerston case stands thus. England did
not espouse the cause of Prince Leopold, but he
was first suggested by Queen Christina. No doubt
but she meant the proposal as a trap for England,
and would after all have left the prince in the lurch;
but Lord Palmerston saw the trap, and declined to
interfere. This trick, planned by M. Bresson, was
defeated solely º the indifference of the British
#. to Prince Leopold's success. Lord
almerston merely insisted that Prince Leopold had
nothing in common with the royal family of Eng-
land, and that Queen Isabella should he left to a free
choice. The accident that Lord Palmerston first
named the Coburg prince, and the pretence that
the British government gave a preference to him,
is the sole defence of Louis Philippe's conduct.
The Presse, which is by turns described as rep-
resenting the conservative opposition, the court,
and Queen Christina—and indeed appears to do a
little by turns for all those parties—avoids the ex-
acter diplomatic controversies, but continues its
general railing at England: hºping on an allianco
betwen France, Russia, and the United States, to
reduce our maritime power. The liberal Siècle
laughs at this extravagant dream ; calling to mind
one serious obstacle to an alliance with Russia—the
annual protest of the French chambers in favor of
Polish nationality. The exciting cause of the fierce
anger is Lord Palmerston's exasperating demeanor;
our foreign secretary, says the Presse, “by his
conduct, and by the language of his journals, is
evidently seeking to create a quarrel between the
two nations out of a struggle for influence between
the two governments.” This is a heavy charge;
pity that the Presse, so clearsighted on the point,
should work so hard to help what it denounces.—
Spectator, 7 Nov.
CON AMORE.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
LovE was ever yet a martyr;
Bred in sorrow, born in pain;
Tossed about on troubled waters;
By a scornful arrow slain.
Wherefore, then, O fairest lady,
Bid me sing of Love again!
I was young, and I was dreaming,
When a burning Vision came,
Lighted up mine eyes with passion,
ouched my cheeks with crimson shame;
Smote my heart, that shrank and trembled,
Till it burst abroad in flame. ... '
Long the Vision seemed to linger: . .”
Then without a smile or sound,
Passed beyond my humble region, "
Like the sun when seaward bound,
Glorious, but content with having
Cast a glory on the ground.
Now I dwell within the shadows,
And the Dream that shone of yore
Lighteth up another passion;
ingereth on another shore;
Leaving Love, that was the martyr,
Master still, for evermore :
LITTELL's LIVING AGE.-No. 137–26 DECEMBER, 1846.
From the Britannia.
The Bonaparte Letters and Despatches; from the
Originals in his Private Cabinet. 2 vols. Saun-
ders & Otley.
THE conviction is now general that a man may
be most truly judged by his own revelations. If
he has acted an important part in life, if his cor-
respondence has been active and extensive, treating
of many subjects, addressed to many parties, and
often written on studden emergencies, without time
for reflection, it will certainly exhibit the move-
ments of his mind, and reflect his character, what-
ever that character may be. . Furnished with his
letters, we are enabled to enter with him into his
secret cabinet, to view his dealings with the differ-
ent parties he had to conciliate or oppose, and to
witness the changes made by circumstances in his
sentiments. The cvidence on which we try
him is furnished by neither friend nor foe, but by
himself. It is of all testimony the most unexcep-
tionable, for no man can be constantly false to him-
self. Hence the value of those collections which
have been lately formed of the letters and despatches
of illustrious characters. Cromwell, Marlborough,
Wellington, and Nelson are made to tell the story
of their own lives without premediation or art. To
those names we have now to add that of Napoleon
Bonaparte.
These collections are too voluminous to become
popular, though they may be, applied to popular
uses. They require some skill and much time to
extract their essence. What is material is often
mixed with what is purely local and transient. A
trait of character, or a principle of policy, may be
overlaid with details for the march of a battalion or
for victualling a corps. There is a large propor-
tion of chaff to the grain. Nor can these documents
be studied in detached portions. The evidence of
one part is required to moderate, correct, or explain
the evidence of another. A superficial glance
will observe in them much that is inconsistent, but
deeper attention will show that the inconsistency,
if it exists at all, is a part of the mind of the author,
and therefore to be taken into account, as well as
other peculiarities, in estimating his character. As
materials for history these collections are invalua-
ble, and, if judiciously employed, they may be
made the means of conveying just ideas to those
who have had not leisure or opportunity for a care-
ful perusal of works so voluminous. . . .
It is an evil inseparable from all publications of
the kind, that they must contain a mass of matter
of very subordinate interest. But, in general,
whatever is written by a person of distinguished
capacity will bear, in some way or other, the stamp
of a superior mind. In each fragment of his corre-
spondence there will be some originality of thought,
some decision of touch, or some involuntary impress
of his genius to give it value and mark its identity.
Naturalists can, from the single bone of an animál,
draw out the whole skeleton, and assign the
species to which it belongs. Critics have less cer-
tain ground to go upon. Yet a letter of Cromwell,
Wellington, or Napoleon will ordinarily contain
CXXXVII. LIVING AGE. WOL. XI. 37
within itself something to determine its authorship
and to establish it as part of the mind from which
it proceeded.
The two volumes before us contain the corre-
spondence and despatches of Napoleon from his tak-
ing the command of the army of Italy to the treaty
of Campo Formio. The collection was known
before, and has been largely quoted from, but it has
not, to our knowledge, been previously published
in this country. The first document is dated March
6, 1796; the last November 7, 1797. In those
twenty months he accomplished his most brilliant
operations; and by a succession of victories, so
rapid, glorious, and decisive as to be without par-
allel in all the annals of warfare, he laid deep and
sure the foundations of his throne of empire.
The earlier documents are curious for the evi-
dence they furnish of the deplorable destitution of
the army of Italy when Napoleon assumed the
command of it. A large proportion of the soldiers,
without arms, clothing, shoes, ammunition, or food,
seem to have more resembled troops of ragged
banditti than battalions advancing to invasion and
conquest. Bonaparte saw all the diſficulties of his
situation, but he saw that conquest would over-
come them. His first care was to impress on the
mind of the Directory his ability to cope with the
dangers and perplexities of his command. Another
..] man would have shrunk from encountering them.
He grappled with, them boldly. In his first de-
spatch to the Directory he writes:—
“The administrative situation of the army is de-
plorable, but not desperate. The army will hence-
forth eat good bread; and will have butcher's meat,
and it has already received some advances on its
arrears of pay.”
A week later he remarks in the same strain :—
“The army is in a state of frightful destitution.
I have still great obstacles to surmount, but they
are surmountable. Want has authorized indis-
cipline, and without discipline there is no victory.
I hope that this will speedily be set to rights; the
aspect of things is already changing ; in a few days
we shall be engaged with the enemy.” .
his language was calculated, while it revealed
the distresses of the army, to reinspire the Directory
with confidence as to its fate. By their choice of
a general they had removed, all responsibility from
their own shoulders. Another commander would
have teased them for arms, for food, for clothing,
just as the generals of Napoleon, implored him for
succors of all kinds. He trusted to his own efforts
alone, and took the care of providing for the wants
of his soldiers entirely on himself. It was not till
he felt his position secure by repeated victories that
he demanded from the Directory supplies and rein-
forcements. He made himself indispensable to
them as a servant before he assumed the authority
of a master. Their ...; for some months must
have been that of profound thankfulness at having
found a commander who suited them so well.
The destitution of the army was indeed greater
than Napoleon had represented it. From the first
he made up his mind that nothing was to be got
from the home government, and that to victory he
5S6
THE BONAPARTE LETTERS AND DESPATCHES. "
must look for relief from want. The Directory sent
'forth their troops without the slightest thought of
furnishing them with supplies. The exchequer
was empty, all resources were exhausted, and the
armies were told to supply their wants from the
countries they invaded. This new principle in
warfare was attended with frightful privation ; and
not all the genius, victories, and resources of Na-
poleon could prevent his soldiers from suffering the
horrors of aggravated famine. On the 15th of
April, three days after the victory of Montenotte,
La IIarpe writes to Bonaparte –
“Notwithstanding your promises, general, the
troops are without bread; they are sinking under
ſatigue and inanimation. Send us something, at
least some bread and a little brandy, for I am fear-
ful of being a prophet of disaster; but if we are
attacked to-morrow the troops will fight ill, for want
of physical strength.”
Either La Harpe's division was one of the worst
in the army, or he wanted firmness to view its suf-
ferings unmoved. On the 17th of April he writes
to Napoleon, tendering his resignation :-
“The boundless licentiousness to which the
troops give themselves up, and which cannot be
remedied, because we have not a right to order
a scoundrel to be shot, is hurrying us into ruin, dis-
honoring us, and preparing us for the most cruel
reverses. * * * In consequence, I beg you to
accept, general, my resignation ; and to send an
officer to take the command entrusted to me, for I
would rather dig the ground for a livelihood than
ºbe at the head of men who are worse than were
the Wandals of old.” *;
Napoleon sent supplies when he could, and hopes
and cheering promises when he could despatch
nothing better. He constantly held out the pros:
pect of conquest to the troops is the only means of
diettering their condition. He taught them to ex-
pect no relief but from their own valor. But after
an action the men committed the most frightful
excesses, and were often disappointed in their ex-
pectation that victory would give them #. A.
few extracts from the despatchcs of Bonaparte's
generals will prove instructive, as showing the
condition of his army after its earliest successes:
“Heights of St. Michael, April 20, 1796.
“Several corps have been without bread for
these three days': the soldiers abused this pretext to
abandon themselves to the most horrible pillage.
The corps have somewhat rallied, but there are
still wanting a considerable number of men, who
have gone off to get provisions in all possible ways.
I am ill seconded by the officers, who pillage too:
they were drunk yesterday, like the others:
“If bread does not reach us, the soldiers will
not march. We are still in want of a great man
muskets; there were nearly 2,000 deficient before
the aſſair.
“ SERRURIER.”
“Cairo, April 20, 1796.
“ Unless we receive bread to-night, we shall be
without an ounce to-morrow, and, should it even
arrive, there would not be sufficient to give a quar-
ter of a ration to the three brigades and to the
cavalry.
“All the agents, storekeepers, and others, in all
the administrations, are making requisitions at ran-
dom; the peasants of these parts are absolutely
ruined; the soldiers are destitute, and their leaders
disconsolate ; rogues only are enriching themselves;
there is not a moment to be lost, general, if you
would save the army, if you would not have us be
considered in Piedmont as men worse than the
Goths and Vandals.
“Since the 23d of last month the 6th has re-
ceived but two rations and a half; and the others
have suffered in like manner. It is not possible to
repress the men in this miserable state ; your army
is about to be worn down by disease ; and, when-
ever we march, by the Barbets; for it cannot be
doubted that the inhabitants, driven to despair, will
arm and slaughter every French straggler.
“Above all, general, it is urgent that you
should put a stop to that host of illegal requisitions;
or, if they must continue, it would be better to as-
semble the inhabitants, shoot them, and then finish
plundering, for it comes to the same point; they
must be starved to death.
“Bread bread and again bread : *...
“LAHARPE.”
“Camp of Dego, April 20, 1796.
“Indiscipline has reached the highest pitch. I
am using all possible means to maintain order, but
they are of no avail. There is no kind of excess
which the soldiers do not indulge in, and all that I
can do is useless. I therefore request you, gen-
eral, to be pleased to accept my resignation; for I
cannot serve with soldiers who know neither sub-
ordination, nor obedience, nor law, and who are
every moment threatening their officers and their
commanders. “CHAMBARLIIAc,
“Chief of the 70th demi-brigade.”
“I)ego, April 20, 1796.
“Indiscipline and insubordination are at their
height; the excesses perpetrated by the soldiers
cannot be checked. For several days past, I have
been employing all the means in my power to bring
them back to obedience and subordination ; all my
efforts having proved unavailing, and finding my-
self wholly unable to reduce them to order, I request
you, general, to accept my resignation.
“MAUGRAs.”
“Monte Barcaro, April 22, 1796.
“It is two o'clock and nothing has arrived; the
soldiers are more busily engaged than ever in theft
and plunder; peasants have been murdered by our
men, and soldiers have been killed by the peasants.
Words cannot adequately describe the horrors that
are committed. The camps are almost deserted,
the soldiers roaming over the country more like
ferocious beasts than men ; those who do not join
in the atrocities patrolling the while, with superior
officers at their head; it is to no purpose to drive
them from one place; they only run to murder at
another. The officers are in despair. The sol-
diers are culpable, but those who reduce them to
y|the alternative of plundering or starving are much
more guilty. In the name of humanity, in the
name of liberty, which wretches are assassinating:
rescuous from this situation! Send us wherewithal
to prolong our miserable existence without commit”
ting crimes. *
“Can there then exist a Providence, since its
avenging bolts do not crush all the villains who
are at the head of the administration?
in “LAHARPE.”
Napoleon's firm nerves were not shaken by thºse
complaints. Action was his remedy for mutiny; ſo.
famine, for sickness, for every ill that could afflict
the troops. His answer to their complaints was to
precipitate them against the foe ; and it heightens
the merits of his combinations that, fighting under
THE BONAPARTE LETTERS AND DESPATCHES.
587
every disadvantage, with men worn out by hun-
ger, and frequently without arms or shoes, he was
constantly victorious i". the superior forces
of the foe, though well disciplined and well pro-
vided.
The condition of the army, was improved as it
advanced into the heart of Italy. But the errors
and corruption of the administrative officers were
too deeply seated to admit of instant cure. In
August, 1796, Despinois complains of the coward-
ice of his troops, and accounts for it by their desti-
tution :-
“Brescia, Au
“I should betray my duty were
st 4, 1796.
not to tell you
the whole truth : there is no good, no resource to.
be hoped from the eighth brigade; it is so infected
with cowardicë that, on the firing of a single mus-
ket by one of our sentinels, this morning, at an
Austrian prisoner who had appeared on the road,
half the corps was already in flight. We, Gene-
ral Bertin and I, and all the brave, join to beseech
you to put this corps in its place, or at least to
spare us the evident risk of being dishonored with
it, and of being prevented from justifying your con-
ſidence. At any rate the division of which you
have given me the command cannot exist in the
state of disorganization in which it is at present.
It is in want of everything, and not a creature to
furnish it with supplies, no commissary of war, no
agent, not even a medical officer and an hospital
for the wounded. It is always the case that, when
a prey to distresses, and suffering all sorts of pri-
vations, the soldier is disheartened ; and it is this
mischievous impression too that we ought to hasten
to destroy.
** DESPINors.”
Almost at the same time Augereau complains of
the deplorable state of a corps who had joined his
division :- -
“Head-quarters, Verona, August 23, 1796.
“The 20th demi-brigade has joined my division,
which I reviewed on the 3d and 4th inst. Indeed,
the condition of that 29th is pitiable : it has at most
a hundred bayonets; it has no clothes, no shoes;
I found in it volunteers under arms without any
covering but a shirt and linen trousers. These
troops must necessarily be armed, equipped, and
clothed, or left in the rear, for they cannot be
brought before the enemy in this state, occasioned
by the carelessness of the chief. They are, never-
theless, soldiers who, on some occasions, have ex-
hibited proofs of bravery, and on whom one might
rely; which ought to stimulate our anxiety to put
them in order, and render them fit to do good ser-
vice. Make, I beg of you, all the efforts you can
to this end.”
Three months later yet, and after Napoleon had
gained some of his most splendid successes, his
brother, Louis Bonaparte, represents his troops as
literally naked:— --
“Lavis, Nov. 3, 1796.
“The troops are without shoes, without coats—
in short, they are naked, and are beginning to be
daunted; they looked yesterday with rºspect at the
fine appearance of the Austrians in order of battle;
they are in the snow; their state ought to be taken
into most serious consideration. With what conse-
quences would not our defeat be attended ! The
officers in general are worn out; there were some
who, amidst the fire, talked only of retiring to their
omes.”
In another place Louis Bonapart notices the de-
sertion of some soldiers who had left their corps
“in a rage on account of their bare and bleeding
feet.” Yet these troops, destitute as they were,
beat five of the finest, armies Austria could bring
into the field, and made the world resound with the
successes of France.
Napoleon was not indifferent to the peculations
of the army agents and contractors. There are in
these volumes a thousand proofs of the vigilance
with which he watched them, and of his care for
the soldiers' interests. The republican adminis-
tration was corrupt in all its branches; and Bona-
parte found it impossible, with the urgent calls on
his time, to collect proofs of the villany of the
agents, who, in all their schemes, hung together.
On his own responsibility he arrested several :
and denounced others to the Directory, charging
them as guilty, on his honor, though not supplied
with proofs.
rectory:—
“Thevenin is a robber; he affects an insulting
profusion; he has made me a present of several
very fine horses, for which I had occasion, but for
which I have not been able to make him accept
payment. Let him be arrested and kept six
months in prison; he can pay a war-tax of 500,000
francs in money; this man does not perform his
duty.” -
At another time he calls for severe measures
against the universal corruption that prevailed.
Writing to the Directory in January, 1797, he calls
for a despotic magistracy to examine into the army
accounts and keep the agents in check:—
“Everything is sold. The army consumes five
times as much as it needs, because the storekeep-
ers forge orders and go halves with the commis-
saries of war. The principal actresses of Italy
are kept by the employés of the French army;
luxury, licentiousness, and peculation are at their
height.” - -
When he felt his power he spoke to the Directo-
ry in a more decisive tone, and accused them of
protecting extortioners:—
“I have written to the treasury relative to its
indecent conduct with Flachat and Co. Those
fellows have done us infinite injury in carrying off
millions, and thereby placed us in the most critical
situation. For my part, if they come into the ar-
rondissement of the army, I will have them put in .
prison till they have restored to the army the five
millions of which they have robbed it. Not only
does the treasury care nothing about furnishing the
army with its pay and supplying its wants, but it
even protects the rogues who come to the army to
feather their nests.” -
With vast exertions he succeeded in introducing.
a system of greater order and regularity into the
financial and commissariat departments of the
army. He personally inspected the stores furnished.
When he ordered shoes for the men, he was not
satisfied without inspecting specimens himself.
When from the shortness of provisions their rations
were reduced, he directed that the difference should
e made up to them in money.
It is not often in these papers that we find
Napoleon speaking of himself. We discover his
activity, by incidental notices here and there. “In-
fuse greater activity into your correspondence,” he
writes to the French minister at Venice. “Have
daily accounts rendered to you,” he writes to Wau-
bois when governor of Leghorn, “and inform me.
g y
They found him inaccessible to .
bribes. Of one superior agent he writes to the Di-
*
5SS
THE BONAPAIRTE LETTERS AND DESPATCH F.S.
regularly of all that passes.” “Five of my horses
are dead of fatigue,” he writes to Salicetti; “I
cannot write to the Directory : I beg of you to
inform it of what you see, and of what Louis will
tell you verbally.” “I do not hear from you so
often as I wish ;” “Let me know, everything,”
are his constant exclamations. He found time for
the minutest regulations. He enjoins the com-
mandants of his garrisons what company they are
to keep, and in what style they are to live. How-
ever distant might be the divisions of his army,
he seemed constantly present among them, and
was never absent where the true blow was to be
struck. Succor always arrived where succor was
Inost needed. *
He had formed a correct judgment of the char-
acter of the Directory, and knew how to obtain its
confidence. With success, he managed to remit
it supplies. Before he had been six weeks in
Italy, he proposes to send a million of francs to the
army of the Rhine. A little later and the Directory
find themselves able to draw on him for ten
inillions. He knew the spirit of his employers,
and sold peace dearly. He writes to the Directory,
June 7:—
“I shall soon be at Bologna. Is it your pleas-
ure that I should then accept from the pope, as
the price of an armistice, twenty-five millions of
contributions in cash, five millions in kind, three
hundred pictures, statues and manuscripts in pro-
portion, and that I insist on the release of all
patriots confined for revolutionary acts? I shall
have sufficient time to receive your orders, since
º not be at Bologna for these ten or fifteen
ays.”
Who can wonder that the Directors were in
raptures at their choice On the 8th of June he
WrlteS :—
“A commissioner of the Directory is come for
the contributions. A million has been despatched
to Basle for the army of the Rhine. You have
eight millions at Genoa: you can reckon upon
that. Two millions more were going off for
Paris; but the commissary assured me that it
is your intention that the whole should go to
Genoa.”
Under date of July 5 he writes to the commis-
sioner of marine at Toulon —
“Eighty carriages loaded with hemp are about
to start from Bologna for Nice, where they will be
at your disposal. w
* I have written to the minister of the marine
to inform him that he might send commissioners
to Rome, to receive to the amount of 4,000,000 in
cash.” *
On the part of the Directory, Reveillere-Lepeux
writes back to Napoleon, August 23, 1796 :—
“The supplies which the army of Italy pours
into the national treasury are the more valuable
the more violent the crisis: they have contributed
to thwart the plots of our internal enemies.”
The Directors sold themselves to Bonaparte.
He saw his advantage, and soon asserted the
superiority of command. When it was proposed
to associate Kellerman with him, he decisively
refused. IIis answer shows both his resolution
and his judgment. To Carnot he says, May 14,
1796 –
“Kellerman will command the army as well as
I, for nobody is more convinced than myself that
the victories are owing to the courage and daring
of the army; but I cannot help thinking that to
unite Kellerman with me in Italy would ruin every-
thing. I should not like to serve with a man who
deems himself the first general in Europe; and I
think, besides, that it is better to have one bad
general than two good ones. War is like govern-
ment—it is an affair of tact.” -
To the Directory he is yet more explicit:—
“If yeu impose fetters of all kinds upon the , iſ
I must refer at every step to the commissioners of
the government; if they have a right to change
my movements, to take from me or to send nie
troops, expect no more good. If you weaken your
means by dividing your forces ; if you break the
unity of military conception in Italy; I tell you
with grief, you will have thrown away the ſairest
occasion for imposing laws upon Italy.
“In the position of the affairs of the republic in
Italy, it is indispensable that you should have a
general who possesses your entire confidence ; if it
were not to be myself I should not complain, but I
would strive to redouble my zeal to deserve your
esteem in the post that you should confer upon me.
Every one has his own method of making war.
General Kellerman has more experience, and will
do better than I; but, both together there, we
should do nothing but mischief.” h
The next despatches brought news of great suc-
cesses, and the Directory yielded, avowing the
confidence it had in his talents and republican zeal.
He frequently arraigns the measures of the Direc-
tory with great bitterness. “Our administrative
conduct at Leghorn,” he says, “is detestable. It
makes us pass in the eyes of all Italy for Van-
dals.” To reproaches of this kind the Directory
replied submissively. Reveillere-Lepeux writes
July 31, 1796:—
“You possess, citizen-general, the confidence ºf
the Directory: the services which you are daily,
rendering give you a right to it; the considerable
sums which the republic owes to your victories
prove that you attend at once to glory and to the
interests of your country.”
In this campaign he began accustomed to coil
sider himself as entitled to the first consideration
of the state. He calls continually for reinforce-
ments, and uses persuasions, threats, and menaces
to obtain them. “The more men you send me,
the better I shall be able to feed them.” . When
expecting the assault of a fresh army from Austria,
he writes, Oct. 1, 1796:—
“If the preservation of Italy is dear to you;
citizens directors, send me all these succors.
want also 20,000 muskets: but these things must
arrive, and not be like all that is promised to this
army, but never comes.” ſº
The Directory were liberal in their promises.
They continually write, expect 10,000 men from
the army of the ocean, 10,000 from the Rhine,
&c., &c. But Napoleon expected them in Ya!".
The war administration was both corrupt and in
capable, and promises were nearly all that Napº.
leon received. His mortification rose into rage *
finding himself so often deceived. Desertion must
have prevailed on the most extensive scale. He
constantly says, “Do not expect more than º -
the troops you send to reach me. The others wil
dron off on the road.” sº
His style of composition is remarkable. It º
abrupt, stern, and commanding, . The opening o
his letter to the minister of the king of Sardinia º
very characteristic :— iº º
* I am no diplomatist, sir; I am a soldier : Y9.
will forgive my frankness. In different parts 9
his majesty's dominions the French are murdered,
THE BONAPARTE LETTERS AND DESPATCHES.
589
robbed. By the treaty of peace, the king, who is
bound to grant us a passage through his territories,
ought to make it safe for us, &c.
“People judge of men, sir, by their actions
alone : the integrity of the king is universally
known; yet one is almost forced to think that
there are political reasons which cause atrocities
so revolting to be encouraged or at least toler-
ated.”
His perception of character seems to have been
instinctive. He formed his judgment of his officers
at once, and rarely appears to have been mistaken.
The note in which he gives his opinion of his
generals of division to the Directory is striking:—
“Head-quarters, Brescia, August 13, 1796.
“I think it useful, citizens directors, to give you
my opinion of the generals employed in this army.
You will see that there are very few who can be
of service to me.
“Berthier: talents, courage, character—every-
thing in his favor.
“Augereau : a great deal of character, courage,
firmness, activity; habit of war; is beloved by the
soldiers; lucky in his operations.
“Massena : active, indefatigable, daring; has
quickness of apprehension and promptness in de-
C1SIOil.
“Serrurier : fights like a soldier, takes nothing
upon himself, firm, has not a very good opinion of
his troops; is ill.
“Despinois: soft, without activity, without
daring, has not fighting habits, is not liked by the
soldiers, does not fight at their head ; has, for the
rest, hauteur, intelligence, and sound political
principles: fit to command in the interior.
“Sanret: good, very good soldier, but not
enlightened enough to be general ; not lucky.
“Abatucci : not fit to cominand fifty men.
“Garnier, Meunier, Cassabianca : incapable, not
fit to command a battalion in so active and so seri-
ous a war as this.
“Macquart: a brave man, no talents, fiery.
“Gauthier : fit for an office (bureau); never
was engaged in war. iſ .
“Vaubois and Sahuguet were employed in the
fortresses; I have transferred them to the army :
I shall learn to appreciate them ; they have both
acquitted themselves extremely well of the com-
missions that I have hitherto given them ; but
the example of General Despinois, who, was all
right at Milan, and all wrong at the head of his
division, orders me to judge of men by their
actions.
“Bon APARTE.”
All his despatches are short, but full of matter.
He never fences with his subject. He expresses
himself with clearness and precision, but in few
words. His account of the defeat of the last arm
Austria on this occasion sent into the field, is in his
usual energetic style:—
“Thus during the last three or four days the
fifth army of the emperor is entirely destroyed.
We have taken 23,000 prisoners, among whom are
one lieutenant-general and two generals; 6,000
men killed or wounded ; sixty pieces of cannon,
and about twenty-four colors. All the battalions
of Vienna volunteers have been made prisoners:
their colors are embroidered by the empress her-
self. General Alvinzi's army was nearly 50,000
strong : part of it had come post from the heart of
Austria. In all these aſſairs we have had but 700
men killed and about 1,200 wounded. The army
*
is animated with the best spirit, and in the best dis-
positions.”
Occasionally short sentences of profound wisdom
and general applicability are found in his hurried
letters. Alluding, April 16, 1797, to the hesita-
tion of Moreau in crossing the Rhine, he says:—
“He who is fearful of losing his glory is sure to
lose it.” And again —“Never since history has
recorded military operations has a river proved a
real obstacle.” His sarcasm is cutting. Of
Genoa he remarks, it will be easy to attach it to
France, “if no attempt is made to extract from
them their money, which is the only thing they
care about.” He asks the Directory to send him
“some cavalry officers who have fire, and a firm
resolution never to make a scientific retreat.” Fond
of daring actions, he could yet discriminate be-
tween rashness and decision. “That man,” he
says, speaking of Beaulieu, “has the daring of
madness and not that of genius.” Noticing the
approach of the dog-days in Italy, which would
stop all operations, he exclaims —“Miserable
beings that we are, we can only observe nature,
not overcome it.” Relating a stratagem he had
formed for the surprise of Mantua, he expresses
himself doubtful of its result:—“The success
of this coup-de-main, like others of the same kind,
depends absolutely on luck, on a dog or a goose.”
The faithlessness of Napoleon's character often
breaks out in these volumes. He had for truth
not only a disregard, but a contempt., He never
negotiated but to deceive. Falsehood, he seems
to have regarded as an allowable artifice. Relating
to the Directory, the means by which he extracted
supplies from Venice, and had entangled that state
in a quarrel, he says, June 7, 1796:—
“If your plan is to extract five or six millions
from Venice, I have purposely provided this sort of
rupture for you. You might demand it by way of
indemnity for the battle of Borghetto, which I was
obliged to fight in order to take that place. If you
have more decided intentions, I think you ought to .
keep up this subject of quartel, inform me of what
you design to do, and await the favorable moment,
which I will seize according to circumstances; for
we must not have all the world upon our hands at
once.”
In his dealings with Genoa, he was equally faith-
less. He writes to the French agent in that city,
June 15, 1796:—
“We have established a great many batteries on
the Riviera of Genoa: we ought now to sell the
Cannon and ammunition to the Genoese, that wo
may not have to guard them, but yet find them.
there in case we have need of them again.
“Bon APARTE.”
But it was in his negotiations with the court of
y Rome that his duplicity was the most conspicuous.
Agreeing to Bonaparte's representations, the Direc-
tory authorized him (October 15, 1790) to continue.
negotiations with Rome until, having settled other,
affairs, he felt himself strong enough to march,
against the Papal States:-.
“We can now think with more advantage of
chastising the obstinacy of the pope, who has re-,
fused the conditions of the peace; but the taking.
of Rome is a great and delicate operation in thc.
state in which we are at present, and ought not to.
be undertaken till the most favorable moment. You,
have seen by one of our late despatches that, to
cover our ulterior plans, we have enjoined our cora--
missioners with the army of Italy to spin out the
590
FOR THE MURDER OF OVERBURY.
MR. AMos' TRIAL OF soMERSET
negotiation with the pope; but we request you to
inform citizen Cacault that he is exclusively charged
with the measures which he has to take, in order
to keep up a feeling of security in IRome, and to pre-
vent any suspicion of our designs, till you can
engage in the execution of them.” -
These sentiments were in perfect conformity
with those entertained by Napoleon. Indeed, he
did not want to receive them to carry out the decep-
tion they recommended. He wrote to Cardinal
Mattei, urgently entreating him to use his influence
with the pope to prevent hostilities, and stated in
the most express and solemn terms his desire for
peace :—
“Head-quarters, Ferrara, Oct. 21, 1796.
“The court of Rome has refused to adopt the
conditions of peace offered by the Directory; it has
broken the armistice, and, while suspending the
execution of the conditions, it is arming ; it wishes
for war, and shall have it ; but, before I can in cold
blood foresee the ruin and death of those senseless
persons who would pretend to oppose the republi-
can phalanxes, I owe it to my nation, to humanity,
to myself, to make a last effort to bring back the
pope to more moderate sentiments, conformable to
his true interests, to his character, and to reason.
“The French government permits me still to
listen to negotiations for peace ; everything may
be arranged. War, so cruel for the people, has
terrible results for the vanquished ; avert great
calamities from the pope. You know how anxious
I am to finish by peace a struggle that war would
terminate for me without glory as without dan-
ger.”
To judge of the sincerity of this communication,
we have only to turn to the letter he writes (three
days later) to “citizen Cacault,” the French min-
ister at Rome :-
“Verona, Oct. 24, 1796.
“The Directory informs me that it has charged
you to continue the negotiations with Rome. You
will keep me regularly apprized of what you are
doing, that I may seize the favorable moment for
executing the intentions of the Directory. You are
well aware that, after the peace with 'Sai. and
Genoa, the good harmony which prevails with the
king of Sardinia, the recapture of Corsica, and our
decided superiority in the Mediterranean, I shall
not delay for a moment to rush upon Rome, and to
avenge the national honor; the great point just
now is to gain time. My intention is, when I en-
ter the papal territories, and it will not be long
first, to do it in consequence of the armistice, in
order to take possession of Ancona ; thence, after
setting my rear in order, I shall be better able to
proceed further. In short, the great art at this
moment is to keep up the ball between us to deceive
the old for.”
At every period of his life Napoleon was equally
faithless. It may safely be asserted that he never
entered on a negotiation but with some treacherous
purpose, and never concluded a treaty he did not
intend to break, when a favorable moment for war
presented itself.
Hypocrisy seems to have been natural to his char-
acter. In the last despatch of this collection, Oct.
10, 1797, he recounts to the Directory the articles
of the treaty of peace he had concluded, and
speaks of withdrawing into retirement:—
“I think that I have done what every member
of the Directory would have done in my place.
have merited by my services the approbation of the
government and of the nation"; I have received re-
peated marks of its esteem. I have now no more
to do but to mingle again with the crowd, to grasp
once more the plough of Cincinnatus, and to set an
example of respect for magistrates and aversion for
military rule, which has destroyed so many repub-
lics and ruined several states.”
At that moment he was probably meditating the
seizure of the supreme authority. #. some months
previously he had regarded himself as the first
person in the state, and must have had profound
contempt for the government he expressed his in-
tention of obeying.
As illustrating the most important and brilliant
period of Napoleon's life, we regard these volumes
as of the first importance. They exhibit his char-
acter in all its brilliancy of light, and depth of
shadow. They show the general of unrivalled
skill, decision, activity, and courage, and the adven-
turer of boundless ambition, treachery, and false-
hood. With Napoleon no peace could ever have
been lasting. The last policy pursued towards him
was the bravest and wisest—to declare war against
him unto death, and to regard him as an enemy to
the peace and security of mankind.
MR. AMos' TRIAL of someRSET For The
MURDER OF over BURY.”
THE historical greatness of some of the persons
implicated, and the mystery in which it was
involved, have given an interest to everything con-
nected with the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury,
that more remarkable trials in a merely criminal
sense do not inspire. Something, too, must be
added for the manner in which the case has been
presented to us by eminent writers; something for
the previous circumstances attendant upon the con-
nexion of Somerset with lady Essex; and a good
deal, perhaps, to the necessary haze in which the
story must be popularly presented, from the inde-
cencies that would attend upon its full display. As
an example of the probable prevalence of atrocious
crime in high places, we do not think that it proves
much, from the evident horror with which it was
regarded by the public; though it may be readily
enough received as a specimen of the court of James
the First—the grossest and basest and perhaps the
most criminal in our annals.
A full exhibition of the whole case—a complete
filling up of the outlines of Hume—would form a
very curious and interesting book; especially if
recourse were had to our manuscript depositories,
now so accessible for literary purposes. From the
great mass of materials, either of subordinate inter-
est, or so like in character as to be little more than
repetitions, considerable art must be used in their
management; so that while the reader should have
all the original evidence which bears upon the proof
or illustrates the manners of the age, mere formal
matters or repetitions should be avoided. As far as
regards industry and research upon points connected
with his subject-matter, “the irial of the Earl of
Somerset for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury,'
Mr. Amos leaves little to desire. Whether the
subject has not been too much limited to the simple
*The Great Oyer of Poisoning: the trial of the Earl of
Somerset for the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury, in
the tower of London, and various matters connected there
with, from contemporary MSS. B Andrew Amos, Esq.
I} late member of the supreme council of India.-Bentley.
MR. AMos’ TRIAL OF SOMERSET For THE MURDER of oyeeBURY.
fact of trial and guilt, may be a question; there is
no doubt but that the materials are inartistically pre-
sented. The Great Oyer of Poisoning is neither a
story of the whole proceedings, such as we find in
some foreign narratives of criminal cases, nor a
simple report of the trial, nor a collection of origi-
mal documents relating to it, but to some extent
partakes of the nature of all three, without the unity
and character of either. Mr. Amos opens his work
with a review of the previous circumstances which
led to the murder of Overbury. In this he is brief,
and somewhat jejune; for which it may be said,
that fulness was very difficult, consistently with
modern delicacy, in all that concerned the intrigues
and divorce of Lady Essex; but there was ho occa-
sion to dwell, as Mr. Amos does at length and in a
kind of annual-writer style, upon the mere exter-
nals of the subjects—as masques and court parties.
The trial of Somerset from the State Trials, its com-
parison with another reportin the State Paper Office,
and the publication in full of many examinations
that were garbled or suppressed at the trial, have
the interest attending upon original documents, in
an age when more dramatic character was pos-
sessed by individuals and more dramatic spirit
infused into life. The remarks on the conduct of
king James, and an endeavor, to penetrate the
motives of its mystery—the elaborate exhibitions
of the behavior of Coke and Bacon in reference
to the getting-up and public management of the
case, with some observations on the general nature
of the charge against Somerset—have a relation
to the main business, but are rather of the nature
of antiquarian criticism than popular disquisi-
tion. But the true fault of all these chapters,
and indeed of the book, is diffuseness and overdo-
ing. Mr. Amos cannot let a position speak for
itself, or be content after proving without over-
whelming it. If he wishes to impress the caution
with which the confessions of condemned criminals
should be received, he quotes from Jonathan Wild
and The Beggar's Opera; and he continually wan-
ders as far if not so wide for illustrations of plain
positions. Hence, a heavy and lumbering character
is imparted to the matter of the book, and the style
frequently approaches the twaddling.
Notwithstanding the number of new documents
from the State Paper Office, we do not know that
the general conclusion formed by contemporaries
and continued to the present day is much affected.
That Overbury was poisoned, we think is clear
enough , that Somerset's wife, the divorced lady
Essex, instigated the plot, seems equally clear; as
well as that #. the apothecary and Mrs. Turner
concocted and conveyed the poisons; whilst Weston,
the jailer of Overbury, administered then, with the
cognizance and sanction of Elwes, ºr Helwysse, the
governor of the Tower, appointed by Somerset and
his friends—pro hac vice, as it is inferred., That
the earlier poisons were not administered through
fear and struggles of conscience, as declared in the
confessions of Weston and Elwes, is likely; be-
cause it seems impossible for Overbury to have sur-
vived so long had he taken some of the dºses. It is
even possible that their unskilled and bungling efforts
might not destroy him after all, but that, as Mr.
Amos infers, he was really done to death by a
clyster prescribed by the French physician of
James and administered by the French apothecary
Lobell; Somerset himself being innocent of the
plots both of the monarch and his wife. The only
evidence of this view, however, is a series of refined
and rather far-fetched inferences. The º of
591
the countess to Overbury—the quarrel between
Overbury and Somerset—the imprisonment of the
former at the instance of the latter—the removal of
one lieutenant of the tower, the appointment of
another, and the only known agents in the business
being traced to Somerset, or at least to his wife—
are strong moral and indeed legal presumptions
against him. The motives of James are hazy, and
are not known ; they have to be conjectured. That
Overbury was in possession of some mysterious
secret, either relating to the murder of prince
Henry—a fact, by the by, never established—or to
the king's addiction to an infamous vice, is merg
guess. Whatever Overbury knew we may be suro
that Somerset knew; so that the king had as much
inducement to poison his favorite as his favorite's
friend. That there was “something between” the
king and Somerset, was known by the anxiety of
James to get him to plead guilty, and by his prede-
termined pardon if he behaved inoffensively. Som-
erset (and additional proofs under Coke's own hand
are given in this volume) displayed the coolness of
conscious innocence or conscious safety; whilst the
cautious manner in which he conducted his own
defence, yet firmly protesting his innocence, led
some of his contemporaries to infer his ignorance
of the murder. On a trial under the modern sys-
tem, (as put by Mr. Amos—though, as such a
crime is impossible in our times, the supposition
must pass for nothing,) Somerset would probably
have been acquitted; but rather under a verdict of
“not proven” than “not guilty.” We should,
however, feel more inclined to adopt the hypothesis
of Mr. Amos as to the guilt of James than the inno-
cence of Somerset." t
The examination of the professional conduct of
Coke and Bacon in relation to this murder, and the
detection of the murderers, is rather collateral than
principal to the subject of the book. It therefore
wants the attraction of closeness and coherence.
Read as separate disquisitions on Coke and Bacon,
they possess considerable interest, from the light
they throw on the character of their respective
minds. We see Coke untiring in labor, patient
over the slightest facts, and wonderfully painstaking
in conning the details till he had thoroughly mas-
tered them and was ready to work up the whole
into a conclusive case. The legal character of his
mind is visible throughout. fic is submissive to
the king, ready to do his business, and withoutShog-
gling at scru }. but he must do it in a business-
like way. He will not mind straining the law, or
terrifying the witnesses; but he must work by
means of evidence, no matter what its moral value,
or how he gets at it; it seems pretty clear that he
pursued evidence which the king might rather have
held in; and he appears to have had that high pro-
fessional feeling which renders some eminent men
inclined to give despotic advice to their patients or
clients. The mind of Bacon on the other hand,
was more various and elastic. He studied to antic-
ipate the wishes, he soothed the conscience, (or
what might pass for conscience,) and he considered
the honor of the king, as well as regarded public
appearances. The treatment of Bacon was more
of the scholar, the courtier, the politician, and
orator. Coke was only the lawyer; but, as law
was the matter in hand, we suspect he shows to
most advantage in the business. Mr. Amos is
quite right in holding that the prosecutions for the
Overbury murders cannot properly be passed over
in the lives of either Coke or Bacon. The inquiry
will not reflect much credit upon Coke, and, we
592
MR. AMos’ TRIAL of someRSET For The MIURDER OF OVERBURY.
**
; to say, will only further confirm the truth of
ope's characteristic of Bacon, “meanest of man-
kind.”
A useful feature in the book, though somewhat
interfering with its march, are the remarks on
former legal practices, which Mr. Amos introduces
from time to time as the text gives occasion to it.
Of these we quote a few. *.
CIIARACTER OF THE OLDER STATE TRIALS.
“It is to be regretted that in Hargrave's and in
Howell's State #. the reader is seldom fur-
nished with any references to the authoritics from
which the reports of the different trials are taken.
The reports of the more ancient trials in these col-
lections were most probably copied from publica-
tions prepared under the inspection of the chief
officers of state and of the law, and sometimes
revised by the sovereign himself. We should not
attach much credit to a report published by the
Austrian government of a trial of William Tell, or
by the French republic of the trials of Louis XVI.,
and of queen Marie Antoinette; but, in our domes-
tic history, we are too apt to surrender our belief to
the only extant details of our ancient State Trials,
without duly considering by whom and with what
motives they were published.
“The course of proceeding in ancient times for
crushing an individual, who had excited fears or
kindled hatred in the breast of a sovereign, was
somewhat after the following manner. Written
.examinations were taken in scCret, and often wrung
from prisoners by the agonies of the rack. Such
parts of these documents, and such parts only as
were criminative, were read before a judge remov-
:able at the will of the crown, and a jury packed for
ghe occasion, who gave their verdict under the ter-
for of fine and imprisonment. Speedily the gov-
ernment published whatever account of the trials
-suited their purposes. Subservient divines were
next ºppointed to ‘press the consciences,’ as it
was called, of the condemned, in their cells and on
the scaffold; and the transaction terminated with
another government brochure, full of dying contri-
tion and eulogy by the criminal on all who had
been instrumental in bringing him to the gallows.
In the mean while, the star chamber, with its pillo-
ries, its S. L.s branded on the cheeks with a hot
iron, its mutilations of cars, and ruinous fines pro-
hibſted the unauthorized publication of trials, and
all free discussions upon them, as amounting to an
arraignment of the king's justice. ... .
“'The right of publishing State Trials, till a com-
paratively late period, appears to have been re-
stricted to persons appointed for the purpose.
Thus, in regard to the trial of Plunket, the titular
Primate of Ireland, for high treason, in the thirty-
third year of Charles II., we have the, following
imprimatur—“I do appoint Francis Tyton and
Thomas Basset to print the trials of Edward Fitz-
harris and Oliver Planket; and that no others pre-
...sume to print the same. F. Pemberton.”
“In the time of Queen Anne, long after the aboli-
‘tion of the Star Chamber and the emancipation of
the press, we have an instance of jealousy enter-
tained in regard to the unrestricted publication of
trials. It is the more remarkable as it occurred
before Lord Holt, a strenuous champion for liberty.
The transaction is thus, related in Howell's State
Trials, vol. xiv. p. 935.
“‘Counsel-My-Lord, we insist upon it, that
these fellows should not go on writing.
“‘Ordered, that the writers be turned out of the
COurt.
“‘And accordingly they were turned out, at the
repeated instances, &c. He ºvever, thus far the
short-hand writers had proceeded with great exact-
ness; and they are ready, by their handwriting and
notes, to justify all before mentioned in this trial,
which by this time was very nearly ended.”
“In a paper which one #. executed for the
abduction of an heiress in the first year of the reign
of queen Anne, delivered to the sheriff on the scaf-
fold, he complains—'I expected my trial should be
published, that the world might see my treatment,
what I have done and what I have left undone in
my case ; but I am informed it may not be
printed.’”
*
INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE.
“The Rack was a large wooden frame, of oak,
raised three fect from the ground; the prisoner was
laid under it on his back upon the floor; his wrists
and ankles were attached by cords to two collars at
the ends of the frame; these ends were moved by
levers in opposite directions, till the body rose to
the level of the frame; questions were then put;
and if the answers did not prove satisfactory, the
sufferer was stretched more and more, by the fur-
ther elongation of the ends of the frame from each
other, through means of the levers, until the bones
started from their sockets.
“The Scavenger's Daughter, another instrument
of torture used in the tower, was a broad hoop of
iron, consisting of two parts fastened to each other by
a hinge; it operated by pressure over the small of the
back, and by force of the compression soon caused
the blood to flow from the nostrils.
“The Iron Gauntlet, another kind of torture, served
to compress the wrists and suspend the prisoner in
the air from two distant points of a beam. “I felt,’
said F. Gerard, one of the sufferers by this kind of
torture, ‘the chief pain in my breasts, belly, arms,
and hands. I thought that all the blood in my
body had run into my arms, and began to burst out
at my finger-ends. This was a mistake; but my
arms swelled till the gauntlets were buried within
the flesh. After being thus suspended an hour, I
fainted; and when I came to myself I found the
executioners supporting me in their arms; they
replaced the pieces of wood under my feet; but
as soon as I recovered, removed them again.
Thus:-I continued hanging for the space of five
hours, during which I fainted eight or nine times.’
“A fourth kind of torture used in the tower was
called Little Ease. It was of so small dimensions,
and so constructed, that the prisoner could neither
stand, walk, sit, nor lie in it at full length. He was
compelled to draw himself up in a squatting posture,
and so remain during several days.” A
The LATER Platonists.—“The later Platonists of
Alexandria have perhaps hardly had justice done them
by the moderns, either in regard to the improvement
| which they wrought in paganism, or the share which
they have had in forming the present opinions of the
world. Taking the doctrine of Plato as the foundation,
borrowing something from the Jews and something
from the other sects of pagans, they formed a philº-
sophical religion, which we may think of little worth
when offered as the rival of Christianity, but which
we ought to admire as surpassing any other scet of
paganism.”—Sharpe's Egypt.
* TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
593
CHAPTER IX,
High and inscrutable the old man stood,
§. in his voice, and calm within his eye:
Not always signs in man of calmest mood.
Bygon.
That evening, John Downing, who for years.
had not approached the hall—never, in fact, since
the sense of his unworthiness of the bounties of the
old baronet weighed upon his mind—took his staff
into his hand, and walked steadily across Harting-
ton green, and up the old avenue. He had waited
till evening, not so much to conceal from vulgar
observation the emotions that blanched his shriv-
elled face, as for the greater certainty of finding
Sir Mark Colston alone
He was answered by the single servant, super-
added to the old establishment, that, at such an
hour, he could not be admitted; that Sir Mark was
writing in his study, and not to be disturbed. But
for this, the old man was prepared.
“Tell him, sir, it is the parish clerk of Harting-
ton who wants to see him on pressing business,”
said he, “and I warrant your master will not re-
fuse.” - *
To the evident surprise of the outler, the old
man's prediction was verified.
“Show him in immediately,” was the reply.
And a moment afterwards, old Downing, having
left his hat and staff in the servants' hall, was ush-
ered into a room, where, beside a bureau, lighted
by a shaded library lamp, sat the man he came to
upbraid.
“I expected this visit, Mr. Downing,” said he,
the moment the servant, after receiving orders that
Sir Mark was not to be disturbed till he rang, had
quitted the room. “I expected this visit, and am
prepared for it... You are not a man of sufficient
strength of mind to discern that it is as essential to
your welfare as to mine that we should not be sus-
pected of having met before.”
... It is not the care of either your welfare or
mine, that has brought me to this house,” replied
Downing; the firmness with which he had entered
the gates of the old place already somewhat shaken
by the stern self-possession of him he had expected
to find anxious and wavering. “I am come for the
sake of the innocent, who have been despoiled of
their inheritance. I am come to see justice done to
those who have been wronged.” -
“If you manage to effect that, my good friend,”
replied the new baronet, with a contemptuous
smile, “you will be a greater man than the lord
chancellor himself. You have been reciting for
the last fifty years the verse that promises the seed
of the righteous man they shall, not be forsaken,
and of the virtuous, that they shall not be seen beg-
ging their bread, till you fancy that, in redressing
grievances, you are sure of the strong arº on your
side. Haā’you lived in the stress of the world,
Master Downing, instead of in your lºnely cottage
by the Hams of Hartington, you would know bet-
ter. But sit down, sit down. We have much to
talk about. I have not the slightest wish to hurr
the homilies and menaces with which I see you are
about to ſavor me.” º *
“I am about to favor you with nothing of the
kind, sir; for I know, they'd be thrown away!”
replied the old man, sinking into the chair pushed
towards him, not in accordance with the invitation
of his host, but because he was scarcely able to
support himself. “The man who 'd act as you
have done, must be not only a villain, but a despe-
rate one. Bad as your actions have been, you'd
have doubtless done worse, had your occasions re-
quired it. And if I come here boldly, (though
knowing how glad you'd be to put me out of the
way altogether,) it is because, as your servants
have seen me come safe into your presence, it is
necessary to your character they should see me
safe out of it again.” -
“Ay, ay! Have you found tongue at last, old
gentleman?” retorted Sir Mark, a little amazed at
this self-assumption on the part of one he had pre-
viously found so meek. “You are right, however.
I cannot afford to shoot you. It strikes me, how-
ever, that an allusion to cutting throats, is ungra-
cious and out of place on the part of the father of
Luke Downing. Though, by this time, §. have
perhaps taken care to remove from Warling-
wood, the evidence of the murder committed by
him, I promise you that his neck is not the less in
jeopardy.”
Sir Mark was satisfied. The hint was not made
at random ; and the immediate change of the old
man's countenance convinced him that the evidence
in question had not been removed; either because
the poor father had wanted courage for the search
—or because his search had proved unsuccessful.
The latter was, in fact, the case. Fruitless had
been the clerk's utmost endeavors. When, at the
close of many months after the fatal event in his
family, he found heart for the attempt, all trace of
the §. in question had disappeared.
“It is not of me and mine, sir, that I am here to
speak,” rejoined old Downing, as soon as he could
command his voice. “Better we should all be
brought to shame, than that I should have to an-
swer before God for sitting by and seeing the old
house and lands of the Colstons wrested from their
rightful owner, to fall into the hands of $ 2
“One whom even you will allow to have as
much of the Colston blood running in his veins as
either of the whitefaced heiresses who pretended
to supplant me. By your leave, friend Downing,
you are not an ass, You are deserting the cause
of your order. If you saw things clearly, and
wisely, you would feel that, sprung from your own
class, the grandson of a man who was the friend
and companion of your grandfather, it is your
business to support me in my pretensions to the
Colston estate, rather than people who are no oth-
erwise entitled to it than inasmuch as their great
uncle Mark may have played the rogue to the
pretty daughter of one of the honestest men in
Hartington.” *
. The poor clerk, who had never before taken this
view of the case, was for a moment a little stag-
gered by the sophistry of his host. But by degrees
the plain sense of a virtuous mind resumed the as-
cendancy.
“It is not the rights or wrongs that may have
been, sir, for which I am accountable,” said he.
“All I have to answer for to God, to man, and to
my conscience, is the having suffered you to obtain
possession of documents, by the loss of which the
y|claims of poor Miss Sophia and her sister have
been set aside; and enable you to have a false
key forged for Hartington church, by means, of
which —” -
* “What evidence have you, my good friend, of
the facts you are pleased to assert!”
“The evidence of my own ears and eyes. Do
you suppose I have forgotten the hammering in
the church, the morning after the Colston vault
was opened? Do you fancy I am to be taken
in by the coffin-plate affixed to one of the old.
594
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
coffins, by the fellow who put himself off upon
me as one of the undertaker's men? No, no
sir; I see plain enough through all these things
now.”
“I did not inquire through what you saw, or
Jancied that you saw, Mr. Downing; but simply
what proof you could adduce in a court of justice
of any unfair dealing on my part with either reg-
ister, key, or coffin-plate. Such old wives' tales
as those you seem disposed to narrate, are not so
difficult of invention as to be believed on your
simple asseveration.
ness 1'.'
“There! ” interrupted the old clerk, pointing
upwards with his trembling hand.
“Excellent!” replied Sir Mark, with a bitter
sneer. “Truly a most dramatic touch I have
seen it better done though, before now, at the Sur-
rcy theatre. But do you suppose, my good friend,
that mummery of this description would be admit-
ted in proof by so matter-of-fact a person as a lord
chief justice of the realm ? No, no. The wisea-
eres of the bench require a pair of human eyes to
witness the doings of a pair of human hands, and a
human tongue to declare it. I saw the murder of
our son Jack, perpetrated by the hands of his
§i. Luke, on the outskirts of Warling-wood,
and am ready to depose to it on my oath. That is
evidence " But did you see me destroy any portion
of the Hartington register!, Did you see me take
an impression of the church key? Did you see any
person in my employ affix a false plate to one of
the Colston coffins'’
Poor Downing looked puzzled and panic-struck.
“Then how can you pretend to give evidence of
the fact in a court of justice! Do you suppose the
Jaw-officers of the crown have nothing better to do
with their time than listen to the drivelling sur-
unfises of a doting old fellow, whose brains have
been cracked by family misfortune?”
“I know nothing about courts of justice or law
officers, sir,” retorted old Downing, with more
, self-possession. “But I do know and am known
s to Colonel Garrett, the nearest magistrate in these
parts. He is aware, sir, that with whatever fami-
'iy troubles it has pleased God to try me, my mind's
as reasonable as his or your'n. Not a soul in
this parish can tax me with being negligent or
incapable of the duties of my calling; and my
word has, consequently, as much weight with an
upright justice of the peace as that of Sir Mark
Colston.”
Somewhat startled by the rationality of this ar-
gument, the man of the Inner Temple came closer
to the point.
“In one word, then,” said he, “it is your inten-
tion to denounce me! Good! Nothing like being
forewarned and forearmed.” * .
“I do not want to denounce you. I want you
to let justice have its way, without being forced to
it. 'I want you to give up the Hartington, estate
quietly and honestly, to them it belongs to.”
“And so accuse myself as a swindler and im-
poster! Fool' on, what pretence could I possibly
abjure the rights which I have asserted, and
which have been conceded to me! What plea
could I adduce for resigning my pretensions?
No! The die is thrown, and we must play out
the game.”
“Not if it is to be won by unfair means !”
ersisted Downing. “It is never too late to be
onest. I, sir, am, on the border of the grave;
nearer to it by five years, than when so sorely
Where, pray, is your wit-
tempted by you that I yielded to the temptation.
And for that yielding, I am now prepared to
suffer; for I can't die in peace till atonement is
made.” .
“Selfish, drivelling fool!” muttered Sir Mark,
eyeing him askance, with a contemptuous smile.
“Feeble in vice as you were unstable in virtue !
Will you never learn to be a man Who do you
suppose cares how you die, or when, or where?”
“The Almighty cares, without whose decree
not a hair of my head can fall,” persisted Down-
ing, gathering courage from this coarse abuse.
“Then let the Almighty take care of his own!”
cried his auditor, out of all patience; “for I warn
you, master clerk, that in case you persist in in-
termeddling with affairs that nothing concern you,
you will have need of stronger protection than
. ºf your own babbling tongue and palsied mem-
€rS.
The old man folded his arms meekly over his
breast; but his looks blenched not. He had evi-
dently made up his mind to abide the worst. And
the worst was soon unfolded. -
Taking from the upper part of the bureau a
small despatch-box, closed by a patent lock, his
companion proceeded to open it by a key, sus-
pended to his guard-chain. There was something
unaccountable, however, in the care with which
the box was secured. For the first object with-
drawn from it by Sir Mark was simply a printed
newspaper.
“You hear occasionally, I presume, from New
York?” said he, affecting negligently to examine
its columns. “It can be no news, therefore, to
you, though it might to old Wigswell and Colonel
Garrett, that Luke Downing of Hartington now
figures under the name of Laurence Donovan as a
partner in one of the most thriving manufactories in
the States.”
A slight moan escaped the lips of the miserable
father.
“You will readily believe that I am too deeply
interested in his career, to have lost sight of him
for a moment,” resumed Sir Mark. “No one
more appreciates than I do the skill and intelli-
gence with which, in so short a space of time, he
managed to acquire the confidence of the employers
to whose hands he intrusted the little capital with
which you were wise enough to establish him in
his adopted country, where money, combined with
shrewdness and prudence, has twice the value it
bears in our overgorged land. No one under-
stands as I do the motives of those arduous en-
deavors. Laurence Donovan, it appears, is now a
naturalized citizen of New York. Nay, the paper
before me contains a much applauded speech made
by him a few months ago, at a public meeting
of the chief merchants, to promote the abolition
5 *
OI -
“I don’t want to read it,” cried the old man, in
a querulous voice, pushing back with his hand tho
offered paper. f
“I will read it to you, then * *
“I don't want to hear it read, sir? It is not the
affairs of of Mr. Laurence Donovan I came here
to discuss.” *
“That point you must permit me to decide. I
have had some correspondence, within the last
ear, with the said Mr. Laurence Donovan, which,
jº" leave, I will now communicate to your-
self.”
And while the old man sat aghast with consterna-
tion at this astounding intelligence, he proceeded to
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT,
595
unfold a letter addressed to Mark Colston, Esq.,
Inner Temple, in the well-known hand-writing of
the unhappy Luke, bearing the New York, post-
mark, at which poor Downing cast a shuddering
glance of recognition. *
Deeply as his interest was excited by the letter,
he would fain have said again, “Don’t read it! I
can't bear to hear you read it!” so appalled was
his spirit at the notion of hearing confirmed the
terrible fact of his son's amenability to the power
of a ruffian, but that he was certain his prayers
would only serve to confirm the intentions of Sir
Mark. - *
“By what unhappy mischance my secret fell
into your keeping,” wrote the pseudo Laurence
Donovan, “it were useless now to inquire. Suffice
it that you know what I fondly believed to be safe
in the custody of my poor father, and of that still
more merciful Father who is in Heaven, who knows
my innocence in what you justly term a black and
heinous affair.
“But to what end, sir, have you disturbed me
in my career of industry and integrity, and the
happy security I was enjoying? It cannot be for
a good purpose. For, since you know the life of
isefulness I am leading, exercising my strenuous
2ndeavors for the promotion of the public weal,
while striving also to establish the respectability of
ony new and undeservedly prosperous condition,
you would, if a virtuous man, say, “Peace be with
him ' If he have sinned, he is making atonement.
If only unfortunate, Providence extends its hand
over him, and his cause prospers.”
“But the tone of mcnace in which you have ad-
dressed me, attests that such are not your views;
and I will, consequently, not waste my time in
appealing to your compassion, or describing the
moments of anguish, past and present, by which I
work out the expiation of an involuntary crime.
My crown of thorns is never laid aside. My
penitence is before God. And in His mercy is my
trust.
“To you, therefore, I address neither prayer nor
entreaty. We have never met, Heaven send
that we may never meet!... But I seem to under-
stand your nature and drift as though we were
well acquainted. * * * *
“Speak out, then. Tell me in plain terms your
object. . Fix your price. As you justly observe,
though my life may be secure against your denun-
ciation, that which is dearer to me than my life,
my character, would be destroyed at once by a
mere whisper of the fact that my name is an as-
sumed one, and that I fled my country to evade a
charge of manslaughter—offratricide! . Name the
sum or sacrifice by which your secrešy is to be ob-
tained, and, if by any human #. within my
compass, it shall be yours. f not, you must do
your worst. Should I be compelled, by the hard-
ness of your terms, to break off the negotiation, the
letter which conveys the tidings of my incompeten-
cy will also convey, the news of my death. On
such points I have dwelt too consideringly, under
the pressure of heavy and incessant affliction, not
to have made up my mind on every possible point
and contingency into which my unfortunate posi-
tion could betray me.
“I said just now, sir, that I scorned to address
to you either request or petition : I was premature
in the protest. On one point, sir, I would fain be
beholden to you. On one point I entreat your
mercy. In denouncing me to those among whom
I am now associating, and to whose level of mind
I have raised myself by severe study and a self-ef-
ſected education, do not, I implore you, aim a still
harder blow than I have been already the unhappy
cause of inflicting, on two whom I love as much
better than fame, or name, or mere worldly con-
nexions, as the ties of nature are stronger than
those created by interest or ambition. Let my poor
father, let Iny, dcar cousin, Esther, live in happy
ignorance of whatever evil you intend me. Above
all, spare the grey head of that dear and good old
man, and I shall find courage for my fate.”
“And this is the son,” cricd Sir Mark, as soon
as he perceived big tears pouring like rain from
the eyes of the unhappy Downing, “this is the son
whom you abandon to his ruin, in order to serve
the cause of a couple of peevish damsels, who
scarce consider you good enough to tread the same
earth as themselves; with whom, so long as you
live, you will never exchange a syllable; and who,
even if aware of the sacrifice you had made in their
favor, would think you did no more than your duty
as a born serf of their estate, in leaving your only
son to be hanged by the neck, in order that they
might enjoy the spending of a certain number of
thousands a year!”
“It is not for their sakes I am acting; it is
for my own" replied John Downing, in a dogged
voice.
“After all, then, your fine sentiments end in a
sneaking affection for number one!” cried his
adversary, with a hoarse laugh. “You are afraid
of what your neighbors would say were the truth
discovered You are afraid of losing appetite for
our food, and sleeping in the dark o’ nights.
ou are afraid of Parson Wigswell—you are
afraid of Jukes the wheelwright—you are afraid of
mine hostess of the Black Lion.”
“I am afraid of what 't were better for you that
you feared as I do—I am afraid of hell-fire!—I am
afraid that, in the better land promised even to sin-
ners, if contrite and humble,” rejoined the clerk,
“it may be denied me to behold again the beloved
wife of my youth, unless I strive to unburden my
conscience.” t - -
“Your conscience—your conscience!” retorted
Sir Mark, out of all patience. “People never find'
out the existence of their conscience, till they’ve
overloaded it, just as a rich man finds out he has
got a digestion. Take what, dinner-pills you
choose for your relief, but not at my expensc.
In one º, therefore, Master Downing, either
you keep your surmises and our º: acquaint-
ance to yourself; or this letter, long prepared for
the purpose,” continued he, taking a large envelope
addressed to the secretary of state's office, from the
case containing the collected documents—“this
letter shall instantly convey to the proper authori-
ties a disclosure of every fact connected with the
murder of John Downing the younger. After the
communication from a certain Mr. Laurence Dono-
van with which you have been favored with the
perusal, I need not tell you that such a denuncia-
tion were tantamount to a sentence of death upon
your son. Not by the hand of the finisher of the
law. The rope of the hangman reaches only the
body of the felon. . But better still, by his own —
his own—whose ministry will condemn his immor-
tal soul to the pangs of the worm that dieth not,
and the fire that is not quenched.”
“Man—man -have mercy on me, do not tempt
me thus cruelly,” interrupted the agonized old
clerk, to whom these words were sacred. But his
adversary was not to be entreated. *
596
º
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
“Let him have repented and atoned as he may
for his former sins,” persisted Sir Mark, “his last
act in this world will be the crime of suicide. For
that, expiation is impossible, unless by those tor-
ments of Cternity which constitute the vengeance
of a jealous God!”
“No, no, no!” cried Downing. “The Lord
our God is a God of mercy:—the Lord our God,
who hath witnessed our sore temptation.”
“And without temptation, who falls into sin!”
interrupted the evil-minded sophist. “My good
friend, know that he who has tripped once, may
without scruple fall again, for his cause is judged.
If, from a wishy-washy apprehension lest the
nearest kinsman of the late Sir Clement Colston
should enjoy his estate unsanctioned by a marriage
ceremony more or less, you should condemn your
only son to the eternal penalties of self-murder, far
greater would be your crime than in having for a
moment neglected the custody of a bunch of rusty
keys.” *
*You must give me time, sir, you must give
me time to consider all these things,” faltered poor
old Downing, the powers of whose enfeebled mind
were becoming exhausted. “You must give me
time !”
“On condition you pledge the flimsy thing you
call your conscience, that, in the interim, not a hint
escapes your lips relative to the position you sup-
pose me to hold in this place.”
“I give you my solemn wordſ” cried Downing.
“I can do no more. You know whether I can
keep it.”
“Enough Go home ! Ponder upon all you
have heard. Ponder upon the great fact that God,
who commanded children to love and honor their
parents, issued no commandment to parents to love
their children, so impossible seemed it to him who
so loved his Son, that parental tenderness could be
wanting. It is the first great instinct of nature,
Master Downing,-the holiest and best. Think
twice, therefore, before you outrage the tie.”
Satisfied that these high-sounding words would
sink deep into the bewildered spirit he had been
endeavoring to mislead, the new master of the
Hall, when he saw the study door close upon his
victim, replaced the precious documents which had
served as implements to his malice, in their former
safe-keeping, with a chuckle of exultation and glare
of triumphant scorn, such as used to irradiate the
features of Edmund Kean after his subjugation of
the “gentle Lady Anne.”
He foresaw that his purpose was accomplished.
CHAPTER X.
“S'il ne fallait que s'abandonner en toute liberté aux
instincts de son coeur, pour revenir ensuite a son devoir et
retrouver intacts tous les biens qu'on a perdus, cela se-
rait trop simple et trop facile.”—Jules JANIN.
. The break of day that succeeded this storm
interview, was one of those soft, misty, autumnăl
mornings, when nature, like other decaying beau-
ties, appears to cover her face with a veil to conceal
its infirmity of feature.
Creeping mists obscured the lowlands; and the
aeclivities of Warling-wood, deeply tinged with
their autumnal hue, could only be perceived at
intervals as the wreaths of vapor passed onward
along the valley. So still was the quiet landscape,
that you 300med to hear the dropping of every
yellow leaf that fell death-stricken to the ground.
Only the Hams and their alder-bushes retained the
dank, dark unnatural verdure, produced by the
overflowings of the little stream.
Before the leaden sky was more than half
enlightened, the poor old clerk had already issued
from his cottage; his heavy spirit in sad accordance
with the depressing closeness of the weather.
With his spade upon his shoulder, as if for the
garden work which for some time past he had
resumed sufficiently to supply himself with the
necessaries of the life, though never for the pride
and pleasure of former years, he reached the wicket
gate opening to the lane.
Pausing there a moment, he looked to the right
and left, as if to ascertain that no eye was upon
him, ere he closed it after him and proceeded with
steps more hurried than his usual drooping pace,
towards the bottom of the lane; where the muddy
ooze gradually terminated in a sprinkling of ver-
dure deeponing into the green margin of the
stream. Poor old man!—His foot was on the
Hams again; on the Hams from which, for more
than five years past, he had refrained as from a
place of torment.
Flapping his faded straw hat still lower over his
eyes, and looking, neither hither nor thither, he
took his way along the path towards F ; at
that season of the year so spongy with the rise of
the waters, that every print of his heavy foot
seemed to sink into the soil. He perceived it not,
however. His downcast looks were bent upon the
grassy way before him; and even that he saw not,
for the mist before his eyes. He did not so much
as hear the rippling of the stream, where, at a
turn of its channel, the gravel thrown up by the
trout formed a sort of dam, against which the
waters chaſed and murmured. . His senses were
vºy absorbed in the inward workings of his
SOUll.
On reaching an alder bush, somewhat larger
than the rest, at the foot of which lay a white
stone, placed there perhaps as a mark, the old
man paused suddenly, raised his hat from his fore-
head, wiped the cold moisture from his brow; and
having stared wistfully round, to assure himself
that, though the morning had now fully dawned,
he was still in solitary possession of the valley, he
turned suddenly to the left; and, putting aside the
underwood fringing like a natural boundary the
abrupt rise of Warling-wood, pushed upwards
along a run, or pathway, so overgrown and entan-
gled that, even though the leaves had partially
fallen from the trees, the person ascending to the
ridge of the hill by that narrow way, was undiscov-
j. from the level below.
Some fifty or sixty feet above the Hams, along
the slanting ascent, ran a ledge a few feet wide,
produced either by a landslip, or, according to the
often mumbled assertion of poor Sir Clement, by
the remains of an old Roman military road ; an
antiquarian crotchet that signified little, since the
y lapse of centuries had covered it with underwood
like the rest, so as to render the track undiscerni-
ble, unless when groping on the spot.
Thither it was, however, that the old clerk was
wending his way. Had he been questioned con-
cerning his business there, his answer would have
been, that he came to dig up, for transplantation to
his garden, a few roots of the wild lilies,that grew
abundantly near the spot. But constant reference
to the fragment of a letter which he took from his
pocket, on which seemed traced a plan or map,
indicated some ulterior object. .
As he wound his way upwards with the spade
2 /
TEMPTAtion and AtoneMENT.
597
resting on his shoulder, the oppressive mistiness of
the atmosphere, warm with the exhalations of the
teeming earth and the decaying vegetation on its
surface, compelled him to rest himself for a mo-
ment. Or perhaps he paused only to ascertain
that the rustlings he heard around him, though not
a breath was stirring, were produced only by the
ſlitting of the birds among the sharp, glossy leaves
of the underwood of Spanish chestnut; as they
ſlew, piping to each other, from bush to bush, in
the sweet melancholy whistle that sounds like a sad
farewell to the declining year.
After a moment's breathing-time, the poor old
man resumed his way. But just as he attained
the spot he was desirous to reach, again he stopped
suddenly; and this time, with heaving breast and
distended eyes. Horror overcame his mind on dis-
cerning through the mist, and at the very juncture
recently pointed out by a letter from New York,
the figure of a person engaged in the very office he
was come to perform. -
The bushy copsewood interposed like a screen
between them. The hazy atmosphere perplexed
his at all times imperfect vision. But as well as
he could satisfy himself, a white figure was stoop-
ing over a cavity that might have served for an
infant's grave, on the very spot where he knew the
clothes of his unhappy son to have been deposited.
Nothing doubting that the visitation was super-
natural—an apparition indicatory—(which 4)—of
divine wrath or divine protection, the hair stood up
on the old man’s head, and he was about to fall on
his knees in reverence; when, lo! startled by his
movements, the figure hitherto stooping, stood
upright; and he beheld one whom he instantly
recognized as Esther Harman, his niece. d
Still, his mind was so perturbed, his recollections
of the girl whom he had beheld but twice or thrice
since she grew to woman's estate, were so faint—
and above all, the wasted shadowy creature before
him bore such slight affinity to the well-conditioned
maiden so loved of Luke, and, unhappily, so loved
also of his brother—that poor Downing might be
forgiven if, for a moment, he fondly imagined that
he beheld the disembodied Spirit of his sister's
daughter; who, being in service in another coun-
ty, had perhaps died; and returned after death to
haunt the spot so fatal to her earthly happiness.
But poor Esther possessed a far clearer mind
than her uncle. No sooner did she catch a glimpse
of him striving against the branches of the copse,
than she understood at once his purpose there, and
his terror lest that purpose should be discovered.
“Uncle!” said she, advancing hastily towards
him, “we have not a minute to lose. People will
be about, uncle, and neither of us must be seen
here. The shreds that remain of what you came
to destroy, are already under ground. I was fill-
ing in the earth over them. . Help me, uncle, help
me. When quite covered in, I will replace the
moss and sticks over the place exactly as I found
them.” º º
But to excite the same apt promptitude in the
old man, with which the danger of him she loved
had inspired her own gentle nature, was not so
easy. Poor Downing kept gazing on her, bewil-
dered, and holding her hand in his—as if trying to
remember—or perhaps trying to forget.
“Lose no time, dear uncle,” persisted the poor
girl, .# away her hand, and taking from the
trembling hold of the old man the spade he was
now scarcely capable of using.
“What do you want with me, Hetty What
is it you are going to do? I came here to dig up
roots for my garden,” said he, at length, in such
manifest confusion of mind, that, without further
hesitation, she addressed herself anew to her task,
and using, the sharp, narrow garden-spade of her
uncle in place of her clumsy hoe with which, as
the only instrument at her disposal, she had scraped
rather than dug her way into the fibrous earth,
fortunately softened by the October rains, the
cavity was now speedily filled in again. The
moisture fell from her brow as she worked. But
when the earth was carefully levelled, she spread
over it the moss and decayed leaves and broken
twigs, with the art or instinct of a bird constructing
a nest for its young.
“You would not notice the spot now, would
you, uncle ‘’’ said she, pausing a moment, with
tearful eyes and cheeks crimsoned by exertion, to
survey her work. Then finding his face over-
spread by a vacant and idiotic smile, she took him
by the arm to lead him away from the place.
“Stay a moment!” said she, stopping suddenly
as they were hurrying down to the }. through
the crashing branches. And though her arms
ached with a pain beyond weariness, from her
previous labors, she put her ſoot once more to the
spade, and dug up several knots of lily roots, by
way of pretext for their presence there in case of
any unlucky encounter.
Not a word, however, escaped her lips. She
resolved to defer to some future moment, when he
was more himself, her explanations to her uncle.
With the spade and hoe hung over his shoulder,
and his neice by his side, bearing a few clumps of
lily roots, secured with moss and osier withys, he
was now tottering mechanically along the water-
side back to the cottage; absorbed in vague bewil-
derment of mind, in which predominated terrible
reminiscences of the past, such as seemed to tinge
with blood the green herbage under his feet, as
when, after long gazing at the sun, crimson spots
appear to arise on every object that meets our eyes.
n, utter silence they traversed the Hams.
Worlds of thought and emotion struggled in the
minds of both, so that talk was impossible ; and
without obstruction, they attained the spot where
the oozings of the lane, discharging themselves into
the stream, for a moment defiled its fair margin.
Gladly did they turn into the causeway where
their presence would excite no surprise; and there
it was that Esther Harman found courage to
speak.
“I was coming to visit you this morning,
uncle,” said she, in a broken voice, “even if we
had not met in Warling-wood. I wanted to see
you. I wanted to tell you that I had heard from
him. A ship letter. He is well. It was a hint
from him that urged me to the duty you ſound me
executing.”
“Bide a bit, lass,” muttered the old man, open-
ing the wicket, leading into his garden, “bide a
bit, till you are safe under my own roof, Esther,
before you talk of such things.”
Before they reached the cottage, John Downing
flung aside into the bushes, as if weary of their
weight, the tools he had been carrying. But it
was only at the door-sill that Esther deposited the
lily roots she had mechanically brought back with
her all the way to Hartington. *
Her uncle was the first to enter the house,
which, according to the custom of that 'primitive
village, was left on the latch; and the exclama-
tion of horror-struck surprise with which he
-
598
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
started back on the threshold, prepared her for
some unusual circumstance.
On following him into the kitchen, the first
object that met her eyes was a hard-featured,
middle-aged stranger, attired in the deepest mourn-
ing, who seemed so thoroughly at home, that poor
Esther's amazement was almost as great as that of
her uncle. Of Sir Mark Colston, she had never
even heard. But the external appearance of this
early visiter seemed to indicate that he was a cler-
gyman. Since she last visited Hartington, Mr.
Wigswell had probably been gathered to his pre-
decessors, and was replaced by the harsh-looking
individual before her. He did not keep her long in
suspense. º
“We are both of us early risers, it appears,
Master Downing,” said he, “like most people who
have aught stirring in their heads or hearts to
lighten their slumber. To-day, it seems, you have
been beforehand with me.”
“I went out betimes to meet my niece,” said
the clork, who, by the very shock of finding his
enemy thus established under his roof, had re-
covered his self-possession. And Esther, judging
from this evasive reply on the part of -a man so
upright as her uncle, that the stranger was one to
whom he was forced to deſer, and whose knowl-
edge of his real errand would be injurious, took
her cue from his reserve, and prepared to answer
whatevor question might be addressed her by the
individual who was staring her out of countenance
with little ceremony or decency.
But Sir Mark Colston was no asker of questions.
He was of the order of spirits who are accustomed
to give the law, rather than receive it.
“I came hither, Master Dºwning,” said he,
after a momentary pause, durfig which Esther
would have retired and left them together, but for
a sign from her uncle—“I came hither to inform
you of what escaped my memory last night, that
the New York packet sails on Saturday next; and
that, before that time, your mind must be fully
made up.” -
“Before that time, sir, I will wait upon you,”
was the reply of the old man, whose feelings were
still deeply moved by his recent expedition. “In
the meanwhile, I do not well see what we have to
say to each other.”
“Less, certainly, than of each other!” retorted
his visitor; adding, more forbearingly, after obtain-
ing a more perfect view of the sweet face of Esther
Harman by the removal of her bonnet, “but on
whatever other points we may disagree, Master
Downing, there is surely no reason why, as land-
lord and tenant, we should live on ungracious
torms.” *.
“You are mistaken, sir. I am an independent
man. This cottage is copyhold. This cottage
and thc four nearest it arc built on what was once
church land, and pay a pepper-corn rent to the
ractor. No, no, I have nothing to do with the
Colston family—nothing to do with the Hartington
property.”
“Then I am a less lucky man than I thought
myself,” retorted Sir Mark, with another admiring
glance towards Esther. “I was in hopes that the
visitor you had risen so early this morning to wel-
come, was at least going to reside under a roof that
called me master.”
Even this sally obtained not a civil word in reply
from old Downing, who, wenry as he was, kept
sturdily afoot, rather than afford a pretext to his
tormentor for resuming the seat from which, at
their entrance, he had risen with the spontaneous
deference paid by even the coarsest natures to the
presence of youth and beauty.
“I should have spared myself the walk from the
Hall, had I been aware that I was not likely to
find you alone,” continued the baronet, perceiving
that there existed no tendency to accommodation on
the part of one whom it was so essential to concili.
ate. He even judged it better to expedito his
departure, lest the old clerk should be incited to an
open rupture in presence of his niece; and mortify-
ing enough it was to the man at the head of the
Hartington estates, that not a single point of
advantage presented itself by which he could
impress the people before him with a sense of his
superiority.
“Aha!” cried he, however, in an exulting voice,
the moment he reached the threshold, and saw thc
lily roots lying beside the door. “You have been
to Warling-wood this morning? A strange spot,
Master Downing,” continued he, fixing his eyes
significantly on the instantaneously blanched face
of the old clerk, “a strange spot, surely, ſor you
to select for your horticultural experiments' Were
these roots taken, pray, from the spot where * 9
“They were dug up by me, sir, to place in
my uncle's garden,” interposed Esther, coming
promptly to the assistance of her uncle. “I am
fond of flowers, sir—very fond—as fond as he
is.”
“In that case,” rejoined Sir Mark, touching his
hat slightly, in token of leave-taking, “you must
come and visit the garden at the Hall. The flowers
and plants there are quite as much at your disposal,
and I trust a little freer from melancholy association
than the weeds you have been at the trouble of
transplanting from a spot, to say the least of it, so
unlucky as Warling-wood.”
“Shut the door, Hetty 1" cried the old man,
tottering back into the cottage and sinking upon
the settle, the moment his guest disappeared
through the garden-gate into the lane. “Shut it
after him, lest he should be tempted to return.
Shut it, child, and bolt it !” continued he, with
almost hysterical violence. And Esther could
appreciate the restraint her uncle must have been
exercising over himself in the stranger's presence,
from the violence with which his emotions now
burst forth.
Heavy sobs, broken by incoherent ciaculations,
escaped his heaving breast.
“The wretch—the ruffian!” cried he. “He
to speak disrespectfully of my poor boy!—He to
triumph over Luke'—He to threaten —He to
exult! And to be obliged to listen to him, Esther,
and stand by without an angry word between my
lips, while he was darting his looks into yours, and
taking the measure of your shape with his hateful
eyes. What would your cousin have said, Hetty,
could he have seen him —and I said nothing ! I
uttered never a word Like a poor, convicted
wretch I sat by, prepared to meet with submission
whatever insult he might be pleased to offer to me
and mine !” --
“Do not distress yourself in this way, uncle,”
pleaded the poor girl. “The gentleman, whoever
he may be, spoke you fairly, and seemed to mean
you no harm.”
“Means me no harm 1" muttered poor Downing,
with a haggard look.
“People who have undergone much trouble, get
to look upon everybody as an enemy,” persisted
Esther.
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
599
“If you were acting this morning, my dear child,
under orders from your poor cousin Luke,” rejoined
the old man, “you cannot but be aware that his
anxiety of late has arisen from the threatenings
of a man who is bent upon bringing him to jus-
tice.”
“Bringing him to justice?” interrupted Esther
Harman, turning as pale as death. “No, uncle!
I knew nothing of the kind; I guessed nothing of
the kind. Since the poor fellow landed in America,
he has written to me from time to time, telling me
only that he was well and thriving ; but never why
he had quitted England, or whether he ever intended
to return to it again. At first, indeed, I offered to
join him, as soon as the labor of my own hands
afforded me means for the voyage. For then I
fancied him poor, and that my assistance and pres-
ence might be a comfort to him. But as soon as
I found how much you had done for my cousin, and
how greatly he was prospering, I ceased to make
further plans or further offers, fancying that, after
all, his trip to America had been a mere speculation
—an affair of money-making, the unlooked-for suc-
cess of which had perhaps made him look above
mo–perhaps forget me—perhaps forget himself.”
“Poor fellowſ poor Luke l’ murmured his
father, in scarcely audible accents.
“And so I took what comfort I could, uncle, and
determined to trouble him no more,” added poor
Esther, in a still more desponding voice; “though,
in spite of all I could do, he was still uppermost in
my thoughts—that is, he was all my thoughts—
all my object—all my very life—he has been,
God knows, ever since we were children together,
threading daisies on the Norcroft meadows.
worked the less hard, indeed, from the time I knew
it was all of no use; and that, hoard what earnings
I might, they were never to take me to him ; But
a short while ago, there came a letter by post, not
like the rest, sad, and short, and cold, but like a
leave-taking letter, telling all—all that is in the
heart, because there is no further use in conceal-
ment. In that letter, uncle, he explained why he
had never asked me to join him, why he had ceased
to remind me of my promise to be his wife; because,
prosper as he might, a great peril was always sus-
pended over him; and that never, never would he
ëxpose me to the shame which might at any moment
overtake him and darken his remaining days.”
“Ay, at any moment—at any moment''' mut-
tered the unhappy old man. S. . . .
“He even told me the cause of all this trouble,
uncle,” added Esther, in a faint voice, “and ver
terrible was it to me to learn for truth what I had
so often guessed and guessed till my heart ached
again. But from all he said of his feelings and his
reasons for abstaining from making me his wife, I
determined instantly to set out for America, and
join him. The money I first collected is still
untouched. For though I had given up all thoughts
of the voyage, I should have taken shame to my-
self to have used a shilling of it for any other pur-
pose.” * . . . * *
“Poor girl!—good girl (?’ moaned the father of
Luke.
“And next week, uncle, I shall embark at Liver-
ool. You will not betray me to my brother?
o, no, you will not betray me. Since my poor
mother's death, I have not held myself accountable
for my doings to any at Norcroft; where I was
forced to hear my cousin spoken of in terms that
made my blood freeze in my veins.” §
“You are going—you, a young and delicate girl,
cxxxvii. Living AGE. VoI. XI. 38
y not essential to her happiness.
are literally going to join him in America?” fal-
tered the astonished clerk.
“Since it was humbleness and not pride which
made him forbear to ask me,” added Esther in a
lower voice, “why should I hesitate? From
something in his letter, however, a fear he expressed
that you might have wanted courage to execute a
grevious commission with which he had charged
you, I thought it better, before I sailed from Eng-
land forever, to visit this place, to visit Warling-
wood. From the way in which you found me
occupied this morning, you can understand my pur-
ose. . It is fulfilled. Thank God, it is fulfilled.
hank God, I had strength of heart to seek out that
horrible place. For it was not too late, uncle. It
was necessary that one of us should reach the spot.
And now that my task is done, I can go in peace.
Unless, (since you say that the man who was here,
just now, is the bitter enemy of Luke,) unless the
sight of the lilies should have awakened his suspi-
cions—all is now safe.” i
“Esther!”, said old Downing, removing his
trembling hand from before his face and placing it
in that of his niece. “Esther, you are a good
girl—a good and faithful girl ' You must take
me with you. If I can mannage to quit this place
by stealth, so as to meet you at Bristol * 3
“You can—you can ſ” interrupted his niece,
anticipating with joy what was to follow.
“In that case, my poor child, I will go with you
to America.”
. CHAPTER XI.
This warld's wealth, when I think on
Its pride and a' the lave o't,
Fie, ſie, on silly coward man,
That he'should be the slave o't.
Oh! why should ſate such pleasure take
Life's dearest bands untwining,
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining ! BURNs.
WHILE these painful scenes were passing in the
quiet village of Hartington, the amiable family so
singularly frustrated in their expectations of inherit-
ance, were nearly as much to be pitied as Esthor
and her uncle. -
The first, if not the only care of the two girls.
was their mother. At her age, the sudden loss of
nearly two thirds of her income was a loss indeed.
The prudence of Mrs. Colston's habits of life dur-
ing the first years of her widowhood, aſſorded
sufficient proof that the splendors of affluence were
But the indulgences
of the last ten had now become habitual ; and hard
indeed was it to be forced to reduce her cstablish-
ment, discard her attached servants, renounce her
comfortable abode, and the carriage which her
increasing infirmities rendered almost a necessary
of life. To secure all these enjoyments to their
kind mother by a proper settlement, the girls had
kept single during their uncle's lifetime; and now,
it was impossible not to regret their over-solicitude.
For in the event of the marriage of either, Sir
Clement would unquestionably have bestowed a
dowery such as might have aſſorded some compon-
sation for the eventual loss of the estate.
On every side, their prospects were gloomy.
Tho comfort of their mother's declining years was
destroyed ; nor would either of them listen to the
generous eagerness with which a home was offered
to her both by Colonel Larpent, and Sir Henry
Fletcher.
“Remember the fable of the old man and the
600
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
bundle of sticks,” said Cecilia, when the latter
pleaded for the immediate fulfilment of their engage-
ment. “To strengthen each other, we must
remain together. §. mamma must not be
deserted in her change of fortunes by the children
to whom she has devoted her life.”
“Do I ask you to desert her!” was the earnest
rejoinder. “No, no! I would not have you lose
sight of her, dearest Cissy, for a single day. You
must persuade her and Sophia to reside with us.
There is room enough for you all, in my rambling
uld barrack of a house at Newtown Fletcher. I can-
not, indeed, pretend to lodge Mrs. Colston so well,
or make her so comfortable, as she has been in her
charming house in Bruton Street. But she is sure
of the rough and ready hospitality of an Irish
hearth ; and, while you rule over both, my own
dearest, as their lady and mistress, I cannot fancy
that the old lady will be very unhappy under my
rooſ. Besides, she will enjoy what you and yours
seem to prize beyond many a more brilliant privilege
—the power of doing good. My people and place
have been sadly neglected, Cissy. I shall not be
able to spare you to look after them half so much as
they require; and it would be indeed an act of
humanity were Mrs. Colston and Sophia to super-
intend the schools I am building, and carry out a
hundredth part of the plans you had formed for
Hartington?”
Cecilia Colston was gratified, but not convinced.
At her mother's time of life, it was essential that
she should be independent; and both daughters
fully coincided in her project of retiring to the coun-
try, after disposing of the lease and furniture of her
London house.
But when the moment came for quitting it, all
three appeared to feel, for the first time, the hard-
ness of the fate that had befallen them. Not a
room in the house, scarcely an article of furniture,
but was endeared to the girls by association with
some moment or incident of their happy courtships.
It was not the good taste and elegance of the
establishment, (which had so readily secured a
tenant eager to purchase everything as it stood,)
that moved their regret. But there was something
of desecration in leaving to the enjoyment of stran-
gers, those pleasant drawing-rooms where their
young lives had passed so happily; and where each
in succession had found her girlish happiness con-
pleted, by a declaration of attachment from the man
she loved.
A small cottage residence on the border of Hert-
fordshire, had been engaged by Mrs. Colston, till a
complete settlement was effected in their affairs.
For, though neither Aldridge nor Mr. Boscawen,
her London lawyer, afforded much encouragement
to commence the amicable suit suggested in the
first instance, the cost of which would be a heavy
burthen on her reduced income, Colonel Larpent
saw things with more sanguine eyes. On two
points he was firm as a rock; viz., his determination
to overcome Miss Colston's disinterested scruples
about becoming his wife, and his advice to resist to
the utmost the pretensions of one, who, with the
perspicacity of a shrewd mind and honest heart, he
had never doubted to be an impostor.
“In offering to Mrs. Colston the means of carry-
ing on the suit,” said he to Sophia, after endeavor-
ing to stimulate anew the courage of the family, “I
am incurring no risk; so do not, I entreat, renew
your praises of my generosity. On the contrary, I
am merely securing a noble fortune to my wife.
For my wife you are, and must be With your
equitable principles, you cannot act so unfairly by
me as withdraw your plighted word, merely because
your mother is forced for a time to reduce her
establishment.”
“You must make allowance for our being at
present a little stunned by the blow that has befallen
us,” replied Sophia. “It requires something more
than philosophy to enable one to meet with com-
posure so sudden an overturn of all the projects of
one's life. For years past, all our thought has
been what we were to do for mamma on the death
of Sir Clement, and how her comfort and happiness
were to be best secured. Not one of the old scr-
vants but had a pension in prospect. And to see all
this suddenly extinguished ' 'To feel that, instead
of being able to assist her, and reward the others,
we are about to become a burthen to her '''
“That, at least, is your own fault,” interrupted
the colonel. “You well know how eagerly both
Cecilia and yourself are waited for in homes of
your own!”
“And would my wounded pride be soothed,
think you, by becoming a burthen on you?” cried
Sophia, with a vivid blush; “on you, dear Charles,
who have already three children to provide for.”
“Ah, there it is ''' cried the blunt soldier.
“Half the misery of the business, if not the whole,
is a case of wounded pride. Matters might have
been a thousand times worse. Mrs. Colston, with
nearly a thousand a year, has surely enough for the
common comforts of life. Yourself and your sister
carry with you into the families into which you are
about to marry, (yes, dearest, in spite of all your
remonstrances and denials, I say again, about to
marry,) the endowments of youth, beauty, virtue,
talent, and family connexion. Nothing wanting,
you see, but money; which, when you fancied it
your own, you prized so lightly, that you have
taught me to measure its value as you then did. If
you continue to dwell thus bitterly on your loss, I
shall, in fact, begin to fancy your former high-
inindedness assumed.”
These suggestions tended to brighten with a
smile the dejected countenance of Sophia. But
they did not blind her to the fact, that to bestow
her hand on the noble-minded soldier, would bo a
serious injury to his children; and she persisted so
bravely in her refusal, that, unwilling to mistrust
the steadfastness of her affection, Colonel Larpent
began to attribute her resolution to a conviction that,
at some future time, her fortune would be restored
to her, and all her former projects realized. If such
the cause of her hesitation, it was his own fault;
for it was he who had inspired her with faith in the
tenability of her claims.
In the vague hope of being able to destroy the
work of his hands, he hurried to consult Mr.
Boscawen, the family lawyer, to whom the care of
their interests was intrusted; and eagerly endeav-
ored to enlist his advice against the commence-
ment of the amicable suit he had hitherto so warmly
advocated.
The prim solicitor looked a little surprised at a
change so sudden. . But º seen Colonel Lar-
pent in company with his fair clients throughout the
interviews to which their extraordinary dilemma had
given rise, and concluded him to be one of their
nearest relations, he did not hesitate to confide to
him the exact state of the case.
“Some weeks have occurred,” said he, “since
I had any communication on the subject from the
Miss Colstons; and I am consequently in hopes that
the propositions which I was then employed to trans-
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
601
*
mit to them, were the means of altering their views
concerning the lawsuit.”
An exclamation of “propositions,” was with
some difficulty repressed on the lips of the blunt
soldier; for nothing of the kind had been confided
to him by Mrs. Colston or her daughters; and he
was unwilling that Boscawen (whom he supposed
to be apprized of the terms on which he stood in the
family) should suppose that reserves, in matters of
pecuniary interest, existed between himself and
Sophia.
“Little as I foresaw such a compromise at the
commencement of this untoward affair,” resumed
the lawyer, “I cannot but admit that the marriage
proposed by Sir Mark, affords the only probable
chance of securing any share or portion of the Col-
ston estates to the daughters of the late colonel.
Peace-making is not exactly the office of my profes-
sion,” continued he with a grim Smile; “nor am
I inclined to lose the thousands which such proceed-
ings as those suggested by yourself to the young
ladies, would have put into my pocket. Still, sir,
candor forces me to admit that nothing can be more
liberal than the intentions entertained by Sir Mark.
In the event of Miss Colston's acceptance of his
hand, he bestows a marriage-portion of thirty thou-
sand pounds on her sister; and on the old lady, an
annuity of five hundred per annum. Admit that
nothing can be handsomer. I doubt, indeed,
whether the late Sir Clement would in his lifetime
have done as much.”
“Nothing, indeed, can be handsomer,” mechan-
ically repeated his astounded auditor. “And, as
you observe, a lawsuit under such circumstances is
out of the question.”
He scarcely knew what he was saying. He
scarcely knew in what manner lie made his exit out
of the chamber of Boscawen and Hatch, and with
his hat over his eyes, stumbled down the worn and
dirty stone staircasº leading from their dreary den
to Lincoln's Inn fields. The amazement which had
fallen on the mind of Sophia on Sir Mark Colston's
sudden inbreak at Hartington Hall, was in fact
scafely more bewildering than that of poor Larpent,
as he jumped into the first hackney coach that pre-
sented itself, conscious that his perturbation of mind
rendered him no object for the streets.
To be forced to resign her, after three years of
unqualified love and confidence-resign her, at a
moment when he had fancied her more than ever
his own;–when he had fancied his aſſection a neces-
sary and a sufficient consolation for her loss of for-
tune! And above all, to resign her with contempt
and loathing in his heart!
His whole view of human nature was changed.
If the noble-minded Sophia Colston had succumbed
to pecuniary temptation, who was to stand upright!
If the candid Sophia Colston had stooped to deceive
by false pretences the man who so implicitly trusted
to her, what woman was henceforward to be
believed? So plausibly, too, as she had disguised
her flagitious intentions, under a pretence of gener-
ous consideration for his interests! So speciously
as the whole family had hurried their departure for
the country, in order to be out of the way of remon-
strance or reproach, on the public announcement of
their wretched compromise with the man they had
proclaimed an impostor and swindler'
* No wonder the distracted man rushed home for
the solitary indulgence of his indignation. At Col.
Larpent's age, for he was on the verge of forty, and
more than one silvery thread was intermingled with
his rich brown hair, the affections of the heart
are neither lightly bestowed, nor easily rcsumed.
His passion was not the impetuous but transitory
passion of a boy. His love for Sophia was all the
stronger for reverence by which it was sobered ;
like a lamp that burns brightest and longest, when
the flame is not allowed to rise too high.-And
forced to abjure not only all hope of making her his
wife, but all power of remembering her with affec-
tion, his future life became a blank. His children
—the children she had adopted as her own—the
children whom he had ceased to consider motherless
since she had called them hers, came running to
meet him; and as he looked at their bright eyes
and thoughtless smiles, and reflected how grievous
a change had been wrought in their destinies, he
was forced to lift the youngest little girl in his arms,
and conceal his face amid her flowing curls, that his
gathering tears inight fall unnoticed. What was
to become of them? What was to become of him *
Winter having been absorbed by the negotiations
between the two branches of the Colston family, the
spring was already come, to afford a fair pretext,
where pretext was wanting, for removal from town;
and Colonel Larpent, who was leading a London
life, only to favor his daily visits to Bruton Street,
felt that it would be impossible to remain there after
a shock which had rendered him a second time as
much a widower as the loss of his amiable wife
four years before. He must instantly leave town—
he must instantly leave England. There was not
a spot in the kingdom sufficiently far from her to
enable him to breathe in peace.
As to these three little helpless creatures, whose
buoyant spirits would be insupportable, he would
leave them at the rectory with their grandmother.
From the moment of her daughter's death, indeed,
Mrs. Wigswell would fain have adopted them :
and never were the old people so happy as when
they could get their grandchildren into the country
for a long visit.
The following morning, therefore, he escorted
them, under the care of their faithful old nurse, to
Hartington. It was necessary he should explain to
the fond grandmother, by whom his preference for
Sophia had been first encouraged, that all engage-
ment between them was at an end; and, a little to
his indignation, the old lady, who had measured the
merit of his future wife a little too much by the
weight of her strong box, attributing his cliange of
purpose to prudential motives, warmly seconded his
project of going abroad.
“His being out of the way at such a time would
get over a thousand little unpleasantnesses. Since
he had been so wise as to consider his children's
prospects before his own inclinations, Miss Colston
would no doubt follow his example during his ab-
sence, and make a comfortable settlement for life.”
Colonel Larpent turned away with a sickening
heart. Old and young were against him. No one
saw cause for regret or blame in a decision by which
his happiness was marred for life.
He almost regretted that he had not sent down
the children to Hartington with their nurse, unac-
companied. But he had wanted to see the place
again, before he quitted England. It was very dear
to him, very sacred. There were deposited the
remains of that lost Eliza who, on her deathbed,
had recommended him to renew, at some future
time, for the sake of his infants, the happy domes-
tic life they had enjoyed together. And there had
commenced his perception of the excellence of the
high-minded girl, who had at length consented to
become his wife.
602
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
Everything had then favored his courtship. The
old lady at the rectory contrived to have him staying
with her, whenever Mrs. Colston and her daughters
were on a visit to Sir Clement; nor was there a
spot in the fine old park, or a drive in the adjacent
woods, but was hallowed by recollections of Sophia.
Often and often had they strolled together into
the village, devising plans of future improvement;
how the cheerful green was to be respected, the
horse-pond embanked, the lane widened and
drained; and school-houses and alms-houses erected
oil the site of the sawpit opposite the Black Lion.
And while the colonel examined with the eye of a
practised engineer the capabilities of the lane and
the Hams, more than once had they paused at old
Downing's cottage, on pretence of begging one of
his choice carnations; but in reality, to bestow a
ſew kindly words on the poor old man, whose fam-
ily misfortunes rendered him an object of compassion
at the Hall.
Very grievous was it to revolve these recollec-
tions in his mind, now that he was visiting Harting-
ton without one cheering hope. Spring was bud-
ding from every bough. The orchards were white
with blossoms, the hedges fragrant with violets, the
gaudy flowers of the crown imperial ſlaunting in the
cottage gardens, the meadows clothed with the
emerald green of their first verdure. Everything
was sweet, and gay, and vivid. The young leaves
of the lime trees on the green already quivered in
the breeze. The beauty of the year was expanding
in every point of the landscape.
As soon as the good rector had sunk into his
cvening doze, and his lady retired to install her
grandchildren in their nursery, Colonel Larpent
accordingly sauntered out into the village, to pause
at every well-remembered spot consecrated by mem-
ºries of the past.
After pausing in the church-yard to peruse, as
if for the first time, the marble tablet inserted in the
old sandstone wall of the church, “Sacred to the
memory of Eliza, the beloved wife of Lieutenant
Colonel Larpent of the 5th Dragoon Guards,” and
containing a just tribute to her virtues—he turned
with a swelling heart into the narrow gravel path
leading to the lane ; secretly reproaching himself
for having too well obeyed her injunctions; fancy-
ing, perhaps, his present misery the penalty of his
faithlessness to the dead.
With his eyelids swollen with unshed tears, he
did not care to retraverse the village. Turning,
therefore, towards the Hams, between the high
hawthorn hedges now almost in full leaf, he was
passing without notice old Downing's garden, full
of the last time he had visited the spot, on the plea
of begging for Sophia a flower from a far-famed
inacrophylla rose-tree, (a present brought by Luke
from the gardens at Ashburnham, for years the
pride and glory of the poor old clerk,) when the
sound of angry voices in the garden caused him to
turn his eyes towards the cottage. -
The persons disputing together were strangers
to him; nor, unless old Downing had died or been
superseded in his office during the period he was
so deeply engrossed by the affairs of the Colston
family, could he account for their presence on the
spot: the man being somewhat his own senior, and
far too showily dressed either for that age or the
place he was visiting; while the girl who was
addressing him, was attired in humble mourning,
but of striking grace and beauty. From the color
of her hair and character of her general appearance,
Colonel Larpent inferred that she was habitually
pale, and habitually reserved; and that the flush
streaming on her cheek, and the vivacity apparent
in her words, were produced by some unusual mo-
tive of excitement.
Impossible not to connect these demonstrations
with the unsatisfactory looking individual who was
hurrying with unmeasured steps down the pathway;
while the poor young girl, with dilated eyes and
heaving bosom, stood firm upon the threshold of the
cottage, as if determined to guard it from intrusion. .
Had Colonel Larpent been aware of the relation
in which she stood to his father-in-law's faithful
servant, John Downing, he would have instantly
stopped, and offered his services as the redresser of
her grievances, whatever they might be. But he
believed these people to be new comers in the vil-
lage; and with the instinctive reserve of a shy Eng-
lishman, averse to intruding into the affairs of stran-
gers, hurried onwards to the Hams—leaving the
lovers—or husband and wife—or whoever or what-
ever John Downing's successors might be, to resume
their quarrel at leisure. r
How little did he surmise, as he set foot on the
velvet herbage of the Hams, and saw the water-
weeds crested with their April bloom, waving with
every ripple of the stream, how little did he sur-
mise that the man whom he was secretly character-
izing as a “vulgar fellow,” was the one on whom,
in the course of the last four-and-twenty hours, he
had been lavishing such a variety of still bitterer
epithets' -
On his return home, to share the frugal parson-
age supper, and express his final wishes concerning
the children, (for he was to cross the country by
Romney to Dover at an early hour the following
morning,) Mrs. Wigswell, who had hailed him on
his arrival that afternoon with an exclamation that
never did she sce a man so altered in appearance in
so short a time, became of opinion that his evening
walk must have done him worlds of harm—so much
paler was he than before.
He was beginning to feel seriously anxious con-
cerning his health; and having furnished her with
the address of the banker at Lausanne to whom she
was to forward her letters, and of the man of busi-
ness to whom she was to refer in greater emergen-
cies, Colonel Larpent became so embarrassed by
her questions, that he tried to divert her attention
from himself by talking of the village and its
changes.
“Yes! you must admit that Sir Mark is not
behindhand with his improvements,” rejoined the
rector's lady. “As my husband truly says, there
cannot be a stronger proof of his confidence in his
right, than the readiness with which he is expend-
ing such sums of money on the estate.”
“The roads are certainly in a very different state
from what I left them,” replied the colonel listlessly;
“and I understand that the dilapidated park palings
are to be replaced by a substantial stone wall.”
“Of four miles in extent. A fine time for the
masons !” rejoined Mrs. Wigswell. “But there
are workmen employed on the property in every
direction.” -
“And do you find this man a personal acquisi-
tion?” demanded her son-in-law, with painful inter-
est in the question. w
“Thero is not, of course, the person in the three
kingdoms who, to my husband, could replace poor
old Sir Clement?” was Mrs. Wigswell's evasive
reply. r º
“’Still, you sce nearly as much of this Sir Mark
as of the late baronet!”
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
603
“He has not been wanting in attention to us,”
replied the old lady. “But perhaps I am difficult
about manners and appearance; you, my dear
colonel, and the Colston family, having assisted to
Ymake me so. For I admit that—But it is foolish
to find fault with such trifles, where the main point
is as it should be. Sir Mark Colston is a pious,
benevolent, and considerate man; and the cut of his
coat and tones of his voice ought consequently to
meet with indulgence.” -
“I am sorry that you cannot speak more flatter-
ingly of him,” persisted the colonel; “I was in
hopes you would have found him a pleasant neigh-
bor.”
“Nothing and no one could have made it pleas-
ant to poor Wigswell to visit at the Hall,” replied
the old lady. “I don't say, however, but that it
might have been pleasanter than it is... I am afraid
that the circumstances of Sir Mark in Carly life,
gave him a taste for low company. , My husband
complains that a strange set of people are *:::
about him. But perhaps things may mend. He
talks of marrying. He seems anarious to marry.
Sir Mark himself told me that his only motive for
hurrying his improvements at the old place, was
his desire that Lady Colston might find all complete
on her arrival.”
“And did he state who Lady Colston was to
be?” faltered the colonel, still paler than before.
“I asked him; for he spoke so jocosely as to
encourage the question ; and he told me, laughing
all the while, that it was a great secret; that i had
seen the lady, that the match would probably startle
me a little; but that he hoped I should prove a
friend to his wife. I am to blame, however, "for
alluding to the subject,” said the old lady, checking
horself; “for I remember he made it his earnest
request that I would mention it to no living soul.”
The colonel felt as if his very breath were fail-
ing. To divert Mrs. Wigswell's observation from
his emotion, he tried to talk of old Downing.
“Was the old clerk released from his unhappy
life, or had he only retired from office tº
“If you were able to delay your departure for a
day or two,” replied the old lady, “you would hear
him officiate on Sunday, as clearly and steadily as
ever.”
“And who, then, is the young woman that in-
habits his cottage! He had no daughter, I think!”
said the colonel. * * -
“A niece has been on a visit to him, the winter
through, poor old man; for it was too trying, under
all the circumstances, to spend the long evenings
alone. Not, however, that John Downing seems
much the better for Esther's visit; being more
broken within the last three months, than by all
his family misfortunes: One seldom sees him out
of doors now. One seldom sees him but at church.
He and my husband are both of them ten years
older since the death of poor Sir Clement. One
never knew, my dear colonel, till the poor old gen-
tleman was taken away, what consequence he was
of to the happiness of all at Hartington.”
Colonel Larpent, anxious to retire early to rest
that he might be up in time to cross the marshes
towards Dover before the sailing of the Calais
packet, was content to let the subject drop ; and
*
when he bestowed his last kiss and blessing on his
sleeping children, in the twilight of the following
morning, the other inmates of the parsonage were
also asleep. The post-chaise was brought to the
stable gate. Not a creature was stirring in the
village, except the cock that was strutting and
crowing before the Black Lion, as if chanting the
praises of the man whose money had filled up the
ruts and removed the standing pools from its favor-
ite beat, to create the * road along which the
traveller was bowling. It was not for some days
afterwards—it was not till the hurry, noise, and
inconvenience of embarkation in a steam-packet,
landing at the custom-house, passports, and com-
missionnaires had subsided, and he found himself
a fugitive from the native country he was beginning
to abhor, at the tearing rate of the malle poste, that
the singular scene in Downing's garden occurred to
the recollection of Colonel Larpent. -
The presence of that pleasing-looking young
woman had been explained. She was the niece
and inmate of the old clerk. She was the Fsther
Harman of whom he had previously heard mention,
as the sweetheart of one of Downing's unfortu-
nate sons. But who was the man º' Who was
the coarse-looking—harsh-spoken-gaudily-dressed
man! the man to whom the girl had exclaimed as
he hurried half-sullenly, and half-defyingly down
the footpath, “You have persecuted us enough
You have prevented our going to America! But
if justice is to be had in this world, you shall not
haunt us, in this way, like an evil spirit, to hunt
the old man into his grave '''
What could this mean? Who was the fellow
that had excited the poor girl to such an outbreak!
Since they were not husband and wife, (a connexion
which the instinct of his sex seemed to have sug-
gested as an excuse for any amount of brutality,)
the colonel began to fear that all was not as it should
be in Downing's cottage. 4.
At length, the notion darted into his mind that
the man he had seen under circumstances so dis-
graceful, might perhaps be Sir Mark Colston—the
future husband of his Sophia,
Colonel Larpent had heard him described as coarse
and vulgar; and though it was to be expected that
the new proprietor of Hartington would be attired
in a suit of sables, Sir Mark was not the man, espe-
cially if a wooer, to concede more than the exact
three months of mourning due to the memory of a
kinsman. º
He now began to blame himself for not having
interfered between the angry girl and her crest-fall-
en visiter; and above all, for not having more
closely cross-questioned Mrs. Wigswell. There
was unquestionably some mystery connected with
the couple thus strangely brought together.
Nothing more favorable than travel to the devel-
opment of reverie. Before Colonel Larpent reached
Lausanne, he had framed so many hundred romances
connecting together the various branches of the Col-
ston family and John Downing's cottage, that it
was not wonderful he should think it worth while
to despatch a private and confidential letter to his
old acquaintance, Aldridge, the Lewes attorney, sug-
gesting private inquiries concerning the parties.
604
TEMPTATION AND ATON EMENT,
CHAPTER XII.
She lies upon her pillow, pale
And i. º, her §:
Or.wakeneth with a patient smile
And striveth not to weep.
Pnocton.
Meanwhile the removal of Mrs. Colston and
her daughters to their new residence, was attended
with fewer vexations than had been anticipated by
any member of the family. To quit a large Lon-
don house for a small one, is a mortifying thing.
But to remove from London to the country, under
any possible circumstances, creates so many novel
interests and ensures so many refreshing enjºy-
ments, as to afford little leisure for regret. The
spring was opening so deliciously, and the small
but well-planted gardens at Langley Bank were so
bright with lilacs, and so peopled with nightingales,
that the two girls, who had been long weaned from
country º could scarcely contain their de-
light. It was such a relief to escape from the
cfoss-questioning of their fashionable circle—from
the condolences of pretended friends—from the im-
potent advice of busy-bodies'
But, above all, #. of them were sustained,
throughout the changes created by their change of
fortunes, by the certainty of being unchangeably
beloved. The reverse of fortune they had experi-
enced, had stimulated rather than relaxed the court-
ship of those to whom, in their brighter days, they
had been a little too, apt to play the tyrant; and
both Sir Henry Fletcher and Colonel Larpent were
to come down and visit them, the moment they felt
sufficiently settled in their new abode.
“Not that there is the least chance of Fletcher's
waiting for that,” whispered Cissy to her sister, as
they were strolling together through the shrubber-
ies, the evening after their arrival in Hertfordshire.
“His impetuous temper will never submit to wait
till he is summoned. We shall be sure to have him
at Langley before anything is in its place, or we
have a room ready to receive him. And there is
really some excuse for a person's hurrying out of
town in such weather. Summer has come before
its time.”
Sophia replied by a sober discussion of the capa-
bilities of the cottage, and the possibility of adapt-
ing the few favorite articles of furniture they had
retained, to their present wants. But though not
altogether prepared to enlarge upon the lover-like
impetuosity of Colonel Larpent, (who was ten years
older than the affianced husband of Cecilia,) she
felt convinced that many days would not elapse be-
fore he also found his way into Hertfordshire. A
little disappointed that he had not accompanied Sir
Henry to Bruton Street, to see them off, she attrib-
uted his absence to his better knowledge of the
world, than his wild Irish brother-in-law. Already
a family man, he knew by experience the inconven-
ience of having strangers present in the hurry of
leaving town for a journey; above all, of leaving,
as they were doing, a house they were to see no
In Olſe.
Still, as the days passed on, and everything was
arranged in their cheerful drawing-room, dining-
room, and study, as though Langley Bank had
known no other inmates than its present tenants,
flowers disposed about the house, and Rover estab-
lished on the hearth-rug with the most dogged
sense of proprietorship, even Sophia began to
think that Colonel Larpent, if he did not come,
might at least write to explain the cause of his ab-
1 381CC,
-useful but indispensable.
For Sir Henry Fletcher was there. The joyous
warm-hearted Fletcher was nearly as much at home
there as Rover. He had helped to move the fur-
niture. He had helped to place the flowers. He
had even helped to mow the lawn. It was even
he who had found out a corner in the drawing-room
for Mrs. Colston's arm-chair and work-lable, secure
from any influx of draughts, after all the rest of
the party had given up the point. But for him,
they should have disbelieved the possibility of their
little meadow and orchard affording pasturage for a
couple of cows, in addition to the pony which was
to draw their mother's pony-chaise. #. for him,
they should never have devised the partnership-ac-
count with a neighboring farmer, for facilitating
the transit of their letters to and from the post.
Sir Henry had, in short, made himself not only
An Irish education, he
pretended, had accustomed him to make shifts; and
he claimed to be the best person in the world for
knowing how to do without anything and everything
it contained, so long as those he loved shared his
deprivations.
is cheerful spirits, in short, converted every
inconvenience into an enjoyment; and before the
expiration of a week, he had so wrought upon the
affections of the whole family, as to obtain the old
lady's intervention with Cecilia to relent, in his
favor. All was now settled. Before the close of
the month, their wedding was to be quietly and
privately solemnized in the parish church ; and
before the end of the summer, Mrs. Colston and
Sophia, in spite of the delight they were already
beginning to take in the cottage, were to join them
at Newtown Fletcher, to spend the autumn months.
Still no Colonel Larpent' At first his absence
and silence were freely discussed among them;
Mrs. Colston fearing he might be ill—Sophia, that
some of the children were indisposed; and the hap-
py lovers convinced that he was busied in prepara-
tion for the same felicity that awaited themselves.
But as the weeks passed on, they ceased to talk of
him, tried not to look anxious when the letter bag
was placed upon the table, and endeavored to
appear full of faith, when Sophia, in adverting to
her solitary evening walks with Rover, described
them as in the opposite direction from the London
road.
But when alone together, Sir Henry and Cecilia
argued over the matter without reserve ; the latter
asserting her fears that her sister's dignified reserve
had wounded the over-susceptible nature of the
colonel; the former, pshawing away all allusion to
Larpent's sensibility, and declaring him to be a
cold-blooded fellow.
“He may not have fancied himself formally
invited by my mother. He may perhaps feel
affronted,” pleaded Cecilia, who was sincerely at-
tached to her amiable and gentlemanly brother-in-
law.
“Affronted hang him. Is this a moment for
forms and ceremonies?” cried the impetuous Sir
Henry. “He ought either to have carried the walls
by assault, as I did; or written to explain what
kept him away.”
“Depend on it he would have done so but for
some accident—some unfortunate misunderstand-
ing,” urged Cecilia. “I know him. I feel sure
of him. There does not exist a more honorable or
high-principled man.”
“Or a colder hearted.”
“No, no! Will you never believe that people
feel as they ought, because they are a little less
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
605
wrong-headed than yourself! Believe me, Larpent
is as truly attached to Sophia as a man can be ; and
you would do me a real kindness and favor by set-
ting off to London, to ascertain what has befallen
him.”
“Set off to London' when here, by your side,
my own dearest, I can just as readily supply the
answer! The illness that has befallen him is sim-
ply the malady common to his years, an ague-fit of
prudence.”
“You mean, then, that I am to prepare myself
for finding you, ten years hence, ungrateful and un-
principled? Quite right to shake your head! You
would do better to hide your face. But if you ex-
pect me to forgive your illiberality, my dear Fletch-
er, off with you to London, and do my spiriting
gently.”
Sir Henry obeyed, though not very gently; for
he grumbled sadly at going ; and the day follow-
ing his arrival in town, a hurried letter communi-
cated the startling intelligence that Colonel Larpent
had left town, that he was supposed to have even
quitted England. . His house was let for a year;
his family removed into the country.
The blow was borne by Sophia Colston as she
was in the habit of bearing everything, with the
best of sense and the best of feeling. But Cissy
was less patient; and when Sir Henry, after two
days' absence, which he bemoaned as though it
were two months, returned to the cottage, she
seemed disposed to resent upon him the scandalous
conduct of Colonel Larpent. In the warmth of her
indignation in behalf of herill-used sister, she could
not forgive poor Fletcher for belonging to the same
sex as the fugitive. -
“Don’t be unjust 1” cried he, “Don’t quarrel
with me for what is no fault of mine ; or quarrel
with Larpent for what is only half a fault of his.
Your sister broke off the match. He obeyed her
but too implicitly. . What would you have said to
me, pray, had I resisted your orders to hurry off
to London, when I wanted so much to remain
here 4.''
“It is cruel to laugh at me. The cases, Heaven
knows, are not parallel; and you, who love So-
phia as a sister, ought to feel as indignant as I
do.”
“And cannot you see, my darling, that I am
trying to make the best of a bad business! Were
I to meet Larpent again, it would cost me some
forbearance to abstain from knocking him down.
But nothing should induce me to exchange a word
with him again. To tell you the truth, (for how
can I keep back anything from you, even though
perhaps I ought to have my tongue burnt for blab-
iing,) to tell you the truth, dear Cissy, I am far
more disgusted than yourself by the colonel's con-
duct; for I find that, previous to making up his
mind to sneak out of the business, he had an inter-
view with Boscawen, in order to ascertain, defini-
tively, whether the smallest chance existed of your
recovery of the estate.”
“Edough, enough "cried Cecilia, stopping her
ears. “For mercy's sake never let me hear his
name again : That a woman so every way supe-
rior as Sophia should have squandered her affec-
tions on so pitiful a creature '''
“You would have stopped your ears in far
reater indignation, my dear girl,” rejoined Sir
#. “had you been present while I was cross-
questioning old Boscawen, and giving him his
instructions about the settlements. Will you be-
lieve that he persists in regretting the hastiness
with which Sophia declined the overtures of Sir
Mark! Concerning her preference for Larpent,
he seems to know nothing; and, under all the cir-
cumstances, it was not for me to enlighten his
mind. But he protests that, throughout his nego-
tiations with the fellow at Hartington, nothing can
have been more gentlemanly, liberal, or respectful
than his conduct. All Sir Mark now seems to de-
sire is, that you should regard him as a kinsman,
who has done no more than, maintain his just
rights, as any other man would have done. Ánd
Boscawen declares that his proposals for the hand
of Sophia, were actuated quite as much by the de-
sire of compensation to some part of your father's
family, as by the ambition of a man who, by his
peculiar circumstances, has been kept out of the
sphere of society to which he is entitled, to replace
himself in it by an union with a well-bred, well-
connected, and well-conditioned wife.”
“You really seem as if you were pleading his
cause,” inurmured Cecilia.
“I am repeating only the words of old Boscawen,
who appears to have a sort of fatherly interest in
your affairs, and cannot bear that you should be
wholly ousted out of the Hartington property.
Moreover, dearest Cissy, I am just now so mar-
wellously in conceit with matrimony, that I cannot
help saying I think Sophy would be happier
with the power of doing good on an extended
scale, than as the repining single woman in
narrow circumstances, into which she must sub-
side, when, in the course of nature, her mother is
removed.”
“But, since you have promised that she shall
reside with us?”
“Quite a different thing from residing in a house
of her own, with half-a-dozen thousand a year to
expend in making people happy. Children of her
own, tenants of her own, poor of her own, would
serve to develop the prodigious bump of benevo-
lence with which that excellent head of hers seems
to be encumbered.” -
Cecilia heaved a heavy sigh. Now that her
vulgar cousin was out of sight, she was almost
afraid that Sir Harry's view of the case was
Just.
“I am not afraid you should attribute my change
of opinion to covetousness of the dowery promised
by the new baronet,” added Sir Henry, laughing,
“ or I should think it right to apprize you that, if
Sophy became his wife fifty times over, I would
accept nothing at his hands. We have enough to
live and be happy on, Cissy, without pledging our
independence to any one.”
This assurance was rewarded with one of Cecil-
ia's sweetest smiles. But it was a smile that soon
gave way to a careful expression, when she came
to reflect on the saddened years in store for her
dear sister. She, too, began almost to regret that
the nature of Sophia's engagements to the time-serv-
ing Larpent, had been such as to prevent her giving
even a moment's consideration to the proposals of
Sir Mark Colston. Though his exterior was un-
pleasing, his conduct aſſorded evidence of the most
amiable disposition; and it was thenceforward in-
cluded in her secret list of grievances against the
treacherous colonel, that he had been the means of
reventing. Sophia from assuming at Hartington
#. that place to which she was so well entitled,
and to which she would have rendered such ample
iustice.
Though the correspondence of the Colstons with
Hartington Rectory was now modified by the awk-
606
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
wardness of any allusion to Colonel Larpent,
Mrs. Wigswell, believing that the engagement of
her widowed son-in-law had been broken off by
mutual desire, felt no scruple in describing her joy
at being in possession of her grandchildren for a
twelve month to come; and believing also that
nothing would afford greater consolation to the two
kind-hearted girls than to hear of the prosperity of
a spot they loved so well, the old lady's letters were
filled with accounts of the improvements effected by
Sir Mark, and the benefits he was conferring on the
village.
ºrgotten and superseded everywhere !”
faintly escaped the lips of poor Sophia. But a
moment afterwards, the troubled element resumed
its usual pure serenity; and she asked forgiveness
of Heaven if, in a single bitter moment, she had
overlooked the happiness of the greatest number,
in her solitary cares.
Meanwhile the preparations for Cecilia’s wedding
were nearly completed. The simple trousseau pre-
paring for her, was already sent home; and Sophia
could but feel that the greatest of her remaining
comforts was about to be withdrawn. How should
she exist during so many solitary hours at Langley,
when her sister was gone? For Mrs. Colston who,
thanks to the agitations of the last year, had pro-
gressed ten in age and infirmities, was now in
the habit of dozing away her evenings; and her
É. daughter felt that her frame of mind was no
onger such as to render it either pleasant or profit-
able to fall back upon her own reflections. Miss
Colston sometimes thought she should be happier
if officiating as governess to the children of that
beloved Charles to whom she had found the cruel
courage to refuse her hand.
Of those children, so long adopted as her own,
she was perpetually thinking; perpetually wonder-
ing what they were about, and dreading lest they
should be worried by the over-solicitude of their
grandmother. They had not proved ungrateful.
They had not deserted her. There was no rea-
. that she should withdraw her affections from
eſ?!.
At Hartington Rectory, however, the little crea-
tures were enjoying themselves with a zest for
country pleasures, known only to children whose
walks have been long restricted to the dreary, sooty,
flowerless monotony of a London Square, or the
formal parade of the parks. Grandmama's garden
and grandpapa's village had always constituted
their Eden; and now that there was no prudent
father at hand to control the ramblings of the nurses,
they were perpetually exploring, the green lanes
of the neigh . or bringing home garlands of
wild-flowers from Warling-wood. Nowhere were
the honeysuckles, in which they delighted, so abun-
dant; and the silver bells of the lilies of the valley
were succeeded by a profusion of wild strawberries,
with which it was the delight of the little girls to
fill their baskets for the breakfast-table of Mr. and
Mrs. Wigswell.
It was in one of these expeditions they made ac-
quaintance with John Downing's niece. With
feelings very different from those which directed the
steps of those happy and innocent creatures along
the Hamš, and into the entangled recesses of the
wood, did Esther, day after day, and as if by me-
chanical impulse, wander towards that fatal haunt:
fancying, perhaps, that her prayers would ascend
more surely thence to Heaven, than from under the
ill-fated roof of the cottage.
On the very spot from whence an evil eye had
watched the fatal encounter between her cousins,
did she love to sit—wan, weary, heartbroken; the
tears stealing down her face whenever the unu-
sual sweetness of the atmosphere reminded her
that summer was come again ; that years of sorrow
were waving their leaden wings triumphantly over
her head; and that she was farther than ever from
all hope of reunion with him for whose sake alone
those years had been hitherto endured without a
murmur. Sometimes her quiet sorrow burst forth
into moans and ejaculations. The day for patience is
past. The disappointments she had undergone, the
persecutions by which they had been imbittered, had
rendered her flºº. f her arch-enemy of the
Hall had chanced to encounter her in that lonely
spot, he had twice as much to fear from the meet-
ing as the half-distracted Esther.
or with him originated her present despair.
True to his word, her uncle had prepared every
thing for their departure for New York. With
well-contrived precautions, all had been prearranged.
A letter was º for the good pastor, acquaint-
ing him that his poor old clerk, desirous of having
his eyes closed by his surviving son, and unwilling
to discompose his ſortitude by a solemn parting with
his benefactor and friends of half a century, had
preferred a furtive departure from the village. To
his venerable comrade, Jukes the wheelwright, he
bequeathed in this letter his household possessions:
and having collected in a bundle the necessaries for
their journey, and stowed away in the poor old
man's pocket-book all that remained to him of
worldly pelf, they were literally in the act of quit-
ting the cottage, on their way to the London road
where public conveyances were attainable, when a
shadow darkened the threshold, and Sir Mark Cols-
ton stood before them.
“You surely do not suppose, good Master Down-
ing,” said he, “that I could think of allowing you
to quit this place, to quit England, without taking
leave of one so much interested in your fortunes as
myself!”
“My uncle is about to accompany me home, to
visit my brothers,” interposed Esther Harman,
perceiving that the old man was incapable of articu-
lating a word.
“So young, so fair, so false,” cried Sir Mark,
still aſſecting a sportive vein. “Your uncle knows
better, my pretty Esther, than to offer a visit to
your brothers, who, I find, have long turned their
backs on everything bearing the name of Downing.
You see I am well informed. From the moment I
saw your face, my sweet Hetty, and determined
that you and no other should be the lady of Hart-
ington Hall, I made it my business to inquire chap-
ter and verse of the history of the Downing and
Harman families. Not a syllable has escaped me.
I know all. And knowing all, you will understand
that, on the eve of the sailing of the New York
packet, I take especial care to prevent your risking,
without my knowledge, so long a voyage. Night
and day my eye is upon this house, and my hand
extended over its inmates. Take off your bonnet,
therefore, my good girl, and replace your uncle's
Sunday coat in the chest. No travelling for either
of you at present?”
. Entreaties—prayers—tears—all were unavail.
ing.
“The hour you quit Hartington, and a day before
you are able to reach your destination,” said Sir
Mark, “the secret of Luko Downing will be in
government keeping, the same ship that takes yout
to America, shall convey also the denouncement of
TEMPTATION. AND ATONEMENT.
607
his guilt. I cannot afford to lose you as neigh-
bors,” continued he, with a grim smile, on hearing
muttered curses escape the lips of the helpless old
man. “The parish of Hartington must not be de-
prived of its active and excellent clerk; and still
less can I bear to give up the hope of some day or
other overcoming the repugnance of a girl, whom I
can forgive for fancying herself too pretty for a hard-
favored cross-grained fellow like myself. Don't
turn away so pettishly, Esther! You shall be my
wife yet; or Luke Donovan's neck will pay for your
coy perversity.” *
Esther Harman, even amid her tears, felt almost
thankful for the brutality of his courtship; since
without reference to her uncle or cousin, it justified
the hatred with which she was beginning to regard
him. But when, hour after hour, and day after
day, these threats and these sarcasms were renewed,
her spirits sank under the ordeal, she grew peevish,
nervous, and hysterical. Her poor old uncle was
too thoroughly miserable to admit of her leaving
him alone to his misfortunes; or she would have
uitted the village to seek service elsewhere. And
§. Mark, feeling his advantage, pursued it with
unmanly cruelty.
It was the first object of his heart to obtain her
for a wife. By a marriage with Miss Colston, he
had hoped to possess himself legitimately of the
family estate. But this being impossible, he trusted
by †. himself with John Downing's niece to
secure the old man’s secrecy and connivance. In
either case, his matrimonial views were instigated
by interested motives. But he was far from insen-
sible to the youth and personal attraction of Esther
Harman, and moreover fancied that, by selecting a
wife from her class of life, he was not only securing
popularity in the village, but inflicting a deadly
mortification on the proud cousin by whom his suit
had been so insolently rejected.
Every day, therefore, increased his impetuosity
as a suitor. Presents from the Hall were constantly
despatched to the humble homestead of the clerk;
and though flowers and fruit, and fish and fowl,
were as constantly returned, there was no possibil-
ity of evading the visits of the lord of the manor,
who came with the most honorable intentions, and
liberal proposals.
His visits became longer and longer, and his
wooing more and more ſervent; not alone because
every hour spent in her company served to demon-
strate the excellent qualities and personal charms
of the young girl who had made so deep an impres-
sion on his rugged heart; but because he ſancied,
from the sullenness of resignation to which she was
gradually giving way, that her mind was more dis-
posed to compliance. º
Impossible for him to surmise that, on the con-
trary, her altered manner arose from having un-
burdencil her feelings to her cousin. She had
written to Laurence $º. She had told him
all;-all her struggles—all her sufferings—all her
despair; obscurely hinting at the precautions by
which she had made all safe at Warling-wood;
and dwelling impressively on her hopes that he
would devise some means of rescuing them from
the tyranny which was rendering his father's last
ears on earth, a state of penance and torment.
After her letter was despatched, she felt easier.
With a woman's implicit confidence in the omnipo-
tence of the object of her love, Esther fancied that
it needed only to appeal to the judgment of Luke,
to obtain redress. He would devise means of
freeing them from these terrible thraldoms. She
had not even hesitated to advert to the assiduities
of which she was the object; convinced that, if he
still loved her, jealousy would supply the expe-
dients which even his sense of filial duty might
perhaps fail to suggest.
Tormented, however, as she was, suffering as
she was, hopeless as she was, nothing would have
induced poor Esther to pour out her feelings upon
paper, could she have conceived half the anguish
that simple narrative was fated to excite in the
soul of the banished man. Too well aware of the
peril and helplessness of his own position, what
was to become of those dear ones who were
writhing in the grasp of his enemy; what—what
was to become of them? In reply to the letter he
had addressed to Sir Mark Colston, concerning the
terms exacted from him, he had received an inex-
plicit intimation that his secret was safe, so long as
he induced his father to exercise the same custody
over some mystery equitlly momentous, which was
deposited in his keeping. But how was poor Luka
to exact this of the good old man ; ignorant as he
was to what extent the concession might compromise
his character and safety In his correspondence
with the terrible man by whom he was menaced,
the ill-fated exile felt as if fighting a deadly duel in
the dark. A word more or less might peril his
life—a word more or less might be fatal to the hap-
piness of those who were far dearer.
Amid the arduous duties of the post he was now
filling, these anxieties incessantly recurred ; imbit-
tering the whole peace of his life, and invalidating
all his efforts. K curse was upon him . It was
in vain he strove to live, and labor, and prosper.
The stigma once incurred was ineffaceable.
One day, after a sleepless night, one day when,
in a state rather resembling clairvoyance than
reverie, produced by the reperusal of his English
letters, he had seemed to behold the fair form of
Esther—his kinswoman—his cousin—his child-
hood's companion—struggling in the embraces of
a ruffian against whom his poor old father had no
longer strength to defend her—he determined, at
any risk, at any cost, to visit England and defy the
worst. , Had not Esther assured him that every
trace of that dire event was, by her prudent care,
completely removed! And was it likely that the
county magistracy, in spite of the length of its
ears, would listen to the unsupported testimony of
one who had no motive to adduce for the silence
by which he had hitherto defeated the ends of jus-
tice? :
He would hazard the trial. It appeared das-
tardly to resign to their fate a feeble old man and
j' young girl, while he was sunning him. Se:
curely in the prosperities of life. . Having obtained
leave of absence from his duties, and publicly
announced the necessity of visiting his friends in
Europe, Laurence Donovan realized a sufficient
sum for the furtherance of his projects, and em-
barked for his native country.
As he set foot upon the deck of the vessel that
was destined to convey Caesar and his fortunes, his
heart almost failed him. . While still surrounded
by a host of leave-taking friends, who were loading
him with commissions for England and offers of
service during his absence, a still small voice ap-
peared to whisper in his ear—“An eye for an eye
—a tooth for a tooth ! It is written that “mischief
shall hunt the violent man.’”
.*
608
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
CHAPTER XIII.
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs. He trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swollen that met him ; his bold head
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd,
As stooping to relieve him. It was chance
He came alive to land.
No, no!—He's gonel
2 Shakspean E.
WINTER was drawing on again. By degrees,
the children at the rectory were forced to abandon
their ramblings into Warling-wood. The Hams
were too damp for their little feet. But there was
little to regret in their favorite haunt. The last
blackberry was gone. Nothing that took their
fancy remained, save the redberries of the orchis,
upstarting like polished” coral ‘from among the
tawny fallen leaves; or the robins, with their
breasts of rival redness and gem-like eyes, piping
on the naked boughs. But these they heard better
and saw as well among the hollies and Portugal
laurels of their grandfather's overgrown shrub-
bery.
#. time, even this home-circuit became impossi-
ble to the little creatures. The weather set in with
boisterous violence. Considerable mischief was
done to the new works of Sir Mark Colston, by a
series of gales almost * to a hurricane ;
and though the situation of Hartington, twenty
miles from the coast, aſſorded no personal interest
in the shipping department, sad rumors crossed the
jºy of numerous wrecks, attended with loss of
lić.
The state of the weather served to prolong, by a
week or so, the hopes and fears of Esther Harman,
when the period arrived for the return of the mail
which she hoped would bring an answer from New
York. But at length she was forced to give up all
expectation. The storms lulled again, the winds
were favorable, and still no letter | Nothing left
for it but to look forward with still more trembling
anxiety to the packet of the ensuing month : for at
that period, steam navigation had not rendered the
vast Atlantic a mere channel. A great gulf still
divided the two worlds, and long intervals inter-
rupted the communication. At all, events, the
delay promised greater certainty that the important
letter would have reached its destination and been
duly answered.
Little enough was there at Hartington to distract
poor Esther's attention from these solicitudes.
Scarcely one of the old clerk's neighbors but had
done their best to be hospitable and kind to his
niece. But her troubles were too deep-seated to
be accessible to such consolations; and though, in
return for their cordialities, she endeavored to give
her attention when Jukes the wheelwright and his
wife, and a few more, who, in spite of all Sir Mark
Colston's activity and beneficence, had never ceased
to regret the disappointment of the two mild, gra-
cious young ladies, who, in the time of old Sir
Clement, had come among them now and then
like a sunshiny day in winter, to brighten the tenor
of their dreariness, tried to entertain her with the
news they had gathered at the parsonage; how their
favorite, Miss Cecilia, was now Lady Fletcher,
with a grand castle of her own, in which her
mother and sister were staying with her in Ireland;
and how the old nurse of Colonel Larpent's beauti-
ful children, still hoped and prayed that, some day
or other, the poor little things might be so fortn-
nate as to obtain Miss Sophia for a mother-in-law.
But it was diſficult to bestow more than a vague
smile upon their gossip. To her all this was a
matter of no moment. Her heart was absorbed in
a destiny thousands of miles distant from Harting-
ton.
But that it was so absorbed, she could scarcely
have failed to notice the change which her firm-
ness, or some other motive, had wrought in the
conduct of her persecutor at Hartington Hall. In-
stead of threatening and bullying, as during the
early part of her visit to her uncle, Sir Mark
Colston was becoming almost gentle, almost sub-
dued. The influence of her serenity was working
wonders on his coarse nature. Though seldom
neglecting an opportunity of assuring her that his
desire was unabated to raise her from her lowly
estate to the highest grade in the country round, he
no longer intruded into the cottage during the ab-
sence of the clerk; and by the deference with
which he was beginning to treat that fair young
girl, there was some reason to infer that his passion
was sobering into aſſection, and that his protesta-
tions were sincere. --
For, though he had ceased to importune with
visits, he was usually to be ſound wandering about
the neighborhood of the cottage. The little Lar
pents scarcely ever returned from their morning
walk, without having to tell that they had met
“the gentleman what belonged to the great house,”
in or near Church-lane. He appeared to have de-
serted his own fine domain, and taken up a post of
observation near the Hams. Morning, mid-day,
evening, he still haunted the spot. So is it ever
with lovers; to whom even the atmosphere
breathed by the object of their attachment, has a
charm of its own.
No one molested him in his beat. Few besides
those prattling children ever approached the cot-
tage to exchange words of greeting with “pretty
Esther,” or beg for bunches of rosemary to burn
in their nursery. The lad employed by the post-
office to deliver the letters of the village, came not
near it; those of John Downing being left till
called for, (by way of precaution,) at the neighbor-
ing market-town of F . Even such a thing
as a newspaper never crossed the threshold. At
the time the papers were filled with accounts of the
famous Hartington murder, John Downing had con-
ceived a horror of these missives of intelligence.
Since that day, indeed, he had scarcely cast his
eyes on printed paper, save the one volume that
gathers new grace from affliction.
One day, it was on the eve of the last Sabbath
of the year, as the poor old clerk was conferrin
with his superior in the vestry, touching a dole |
money and distribution of bread to the poor of the
parish, which, by the beneficence of Sir Mark
Colston had taken place in the church on Christmas
day—“By the bye, Downing, I have a letter for
you in my pocket,” said Mr. Wigswell, “which
came by the post this morning, enclosed to ‘the
rector of Hartington,’ with a request that I would
inquire whether any person of your name resided in
my p. ; and if not, to return it to a magistrate
of Cornwall, who forwards his address. But I
fancy the letter has found its way to the right
owner'’ continued the rector, on seeing John
Downing change color when, after adjusting his
spectacles, he proceeded to open it, and glance over
1tS Contents. i.
“It has, sir!” replied the old man, faintly.
And, hastily refolding it, he dropped it into his
TeMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
609
pocket, as if for future pcrusal in private; the name
of Laurence Donovan having inct his eyes in the
first few lines of the letter.
In kindness to his emotion, the good rector in-
s:"ntly abbreviated his business of the day; and
made ame pretext to quit the church, in order that
the clerk might proceed to his own home, for the
perusal of his strange correspondence.
. . When he reached the cottage, Esther was for-
tunately from home. IIe thought it fortunate at
least; well knowing how seldom she quitted the
cottage, unless on some errand of benevolence, and
little surmising that she had been intercepted in
her melancholy ramble to Warling-wood, the first
she had ventured for weeks, by the man she most
detested upon earth ; who, whenever he found his
assiduities ill-received, never ſailed to inquire, by
way of vengeance, whether “she was as fond as
ever of digging for lily roots at right angles with
the great alder-tree of the Hams?”
Relieved by her absence, the old man hastily
bolted the door of the cottage, drew his arm-chair
towards the casement, carefully wiped his spec-
tacles in preparation; then, after once or , twice
laying down the letter upon his knee, as if more
afraid than eager to master its contents, he cast
his eyes once more upon that unknown hand-
writing. -
The signature was new to him. But the writer
considerately commenced his communication with,
“Though a personal stranger to you, I am under
the necessity of addressing you, in discharge of a
duty distressing to me, and likely to inflict far
severer pain on yourself. As a minister of the
gospel, sir, I pray that God's grace may be with
you when you peruse these lines, which come to
acquaint you that your son, Laurence Donovan, is
no more.” †
It was enough. John Downing neither shed a
tear nor moaned a moan. Laying down the letter
upon his knee, he closed his old eyes for a few min-
utes, as in the act of mental devotion. º
Strengthened by that secret communing with the
Dispenser of his destinies, he took courage to read
on. It would be some solace to learn that the son
in whom his soul delighted had died a death of
peace—an honorable death. Knowing nothing of
the warning despatched to him by Esther, he
believed him to have departed this life at New
York. †
“I can understand,” resumed the writer of the
letter, “that the blow will fall the heavier upon you
at a moment when you were hourly expecting the
arrival in England of your unfortunate son. But
such was the decree of the Almighty, and His will
be done •,
“The details are as follows :-
“On the 17th of last month, during the hurricane
which visited the whole of the Western coast, sev-
eral vessels were lost off that portion belonging to
my parish. No less than nine lives were sacrificed;
among them, four º: belonging to the Kestrel
mail-packet from New York, in which your son
was a passenger. The wreck of this unfortunate
vessel was attended with the most afflicting circum-
stances; for it occurred in open day, under a state
of weather that rendered assistance impossible. An
attempt was made to put out the life-boat, but with-
out success. In such a sea as was running against
one of the most dangerous points of our perilous
coast, no boat could live; and at 3 P. M., the ship
went to pieces. Two mariners saved themselves
by floating upon spars. Another of the crew was
scen making the most courageous endeavors to at-
tain the shore by swimming. But, alas! within
half a furlong of the beach, we lost sight of him in
the surf; and a bruised and bleeding body was all
that reached land.
“I was present, sir, at this heart-rending scene;
and can attest that no means were left untried to
restore animation, though without even a hope of
success. I also officiated at the interment of your
son, in my own churchyard, with all, the decency
becoming his situation in life; for the body was
instantly recognized by one of the sailors whose life
was spared on this sad occasion, as that of Mr.
Laurence Donovan, a respectable merchant of New
York, and passenger on board the Kestrel.
“Guided by this information, I despatched a let-
ter to the United States by return of mail, to the
address supplied me, to apprize the family or friends
of the deceased of his unfortunate end. I also ad-
vertised in The Times newspaper that a trunk had
been washed on shore, bearing his name engraved on
a brass plate; and requested any friends Mr. Don-
ovan might have in England to come forward and
claim it.
“The customary time having expired without
notice being taken of this advertisement, it appeared
necessary to break open the trunk, for farther
information concerning the owner; in order that, in
the settlement of its annual accounts, the parish
might be reimbursed for the cost of a funeral suit-
able with the fortune of a man in independent cir-
Culſil Stºll 106S.
“The first thing, sir, that presented itself in a
letter-case contained in the trunk, was a paper in-
scribed, “My Will;" which, being broken open yes-
terday by myself, as a county magistrate, in pres-
ence of an attorney-at-law, proved to be signed
“Luke Downing, alias Laurence Donovan.” The
instrument in question purports to bequeath the
entire property of the testator in the United States,
to his father John Downing of Hartington, in the
county of Sussex, with other legacies and instruc-
tions on which I need not now insist. But I lose
no time in profiting by the information thus
afforded, to address you for the purpose of dis-
closing the severe family misfortune, of which, by
Some unaccountable circumstance, you appear to
be still ignorant.
“It only remains for me to add, that the personal
property of your deceased son is now in my cus-
tody; and will be given up to you, after the usual
forms for the establishment of your right and title
to the same. On return of an answer to this letter,
the Will shall be forwarded through the hands of
the Rev. Edward Wigswell, by
“Your obedient servant,
“Joseph TREMoylan.
“Rector of St. Carron’s.”
The old man read through the letter a second
time, from first to last, before it produced any clear
impression on his mind. Comparatively illiterate,
and having vegetated through life without stirring
further from Hartington than once in his days to
the county town, he could not readily bring home
to himself the possibility that the son he believed to
be alive and well in America, should be lying in
Fnglish earth. There must be some mistake. It
could not be his Laurence Donovan. It could not
be his idolized Luke. It could not be the child
consigned to him by his poor wife upon her death-
610
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
bed, who had died so terrible a death. A happy
doubt, but for which, perhaps, the shock of that
dire intelligence might have proved fatal; for when
by degrees the reality and certitude of his son's
identity with the shipwrecked stranger dawned
upon his mind, his faculties seemed one by one to
forsake him.
He sat, as if transfixed to stone; trying to think,
trying to feel; but thought and sensibility escaping
him as the waters of a stream through our vainly
clasping hands. He could not bring the past before
him, he could not bring the present, he could not
bring the future, so as to be cognizant, to its full
extent, of the loss he had undergone. By degrees,
the passion of his grief became as that of the dis-
tracted Lear. Terrible shiles convulsed his rough
features, as, like the persecuted king, he exclaimed,
“O fool! I shall go mad.”
But though reason was tottering on her throne,
there was sense enough remaining to instigate a
fearful resolution. He felt conscious of his infirm-
ity; conscious that the power to will and to do
might soon be denied him. He had been tried to
the uttermost. Nothing was left for him to suffer.
He was entitled to his release. But, in order to
die in peace, a heavy load must be removed from
his mind.
With this impression strong upon him, he arose,
(as David when he shook off the ashes of his afflic-
tion, after the death of his child,) and girded up his
loins and stood erect upon the earth. Before the
return of Esther, pale and dispirited, from her walk,
he had laid by the fatal letter in fast keeping. He
could not bear to disturb her tranquillity by knowl-
edge of its contents. The sight of her sorrow
would be harder to bear than his own ; and were he
now to unnerve himself, he might perhaps go down
to the grave.unrelieved of his burthen.
Had Esther returned from her walk in cheerful
spirits, the shock of seeing her smile at a moment
when the last prop had been removed from her
feeble destinies, would probably have excited such
a struggle in her uncle's mind as to elicit the truth.
But the poor girl entered the cottage with her eyes
seared and bloodshot with weeping ; and when she
flung aside her bonnet with a petulance how dif-
ferent from her usual placid deportment, the dis-
hevelled hair fell in long tresses from beneath, as
though disturbed by previous disarrangement. Her
breathing was still impeded as by some ill-repressed
emotion. .*
While the old man stood staring upon her in stu-
efied silence, she snatched a cup of water to her
ips, and drank as if to restore her courage, rather
than allay her thirst.
“Uncle !” ſaltered she, before he could suffi-
ciently recover himself to address her, “dear uncle,
}. must not take it unkindly of me if—” But,
having reached thus far, she stopped short, and burst
Into tears.
“Would that I were dead!” continued she, in a
paroxysm of grief, in answer to the questions and
caresses with which the heartbroken old man
endeavored to soothe her. “I have never done
harm or harshness to living soul,” ſaltered she,
while her hand trembled in the rough clasp of his,
“yet every one and every thing combine against
me. I ought to have a home at Norcroft; but the
cruelty, of my brothers rendered it impossible to
abide thercia. I ought to have a refuge with one
who is far away; but the persecutions of an enemy
prevent my reaching his arms. Even here, uncle,
where your affection affords me shelter, even here
am I hunted even unto death by a wretch whom I
abhor as befits the plighted wife of Luke and your
adopted child. I hate him, uncle—I hate him—I
hate him!” reiterated the poor girl, with almost
maniacal violence; “and if you knew how he
besets and follows me, and mixes up his loat' ome
courtship with dreadful threatenings concerting you
and my poor cousin, you would hate and despise him.
as I do.”
John Downing replied by pressing her hand
caressingly to the burning lids that were closed over
his throbbing eyeballs.
“And so, uncle, as I said before, you must not
take it amiss if I quit Hartington, and try to get my
living in some honest service, out of reach of Sir
Mark Colston.”
“What has he done to thee, child, to put thee so
beside thyself!” demanded her uncle, in a voice so
hoarse that, though she saw his lips move, she could
scarcely believe it to be his own. -
“For the last month,” said Esther, “never have
I stirred from the house, but he was on the watch
to follow me; so that comfort myself by a walk on
the Hams, I dared not. For there, we should have
been alone, and without a check upon his presuming
words or actions. Often, therefore, have I been
forced into the village when all I wanted was quiet
and solitude. And still, even there, he followed
me; and if I stopped to exchange a word with a
neighbor in answer to inquiries after your health,
there was he, to play the spy upon me; every
one thinking me mightily honored to be courted
by one of his fortune, and I, all the while,
shuddering to be even accosted by one of his
nature ???
“They do not know him, Esther, as we do,”
pleaded the old man, in extenuation of his neigh-
bors.
“But to-day, uncle, this afternoon—I could not,
somehow or other, resist my wish to visit Warling-
wood. When I am walking there, it seems as if
Luke were by my side.” º
Involuntarily poor Downing dropped her hand,
and clasped his own over his aching temples.
“And so,” she continued, “having looked about
me to be secure that Sir Mark was not at hand, that
no one was followigg me—I stole along the Hams,
as though for some blameful action. And the
stream being swollen and rushing along over the
gravel, I could not, for its noise, hear footsteps behind
me, till I felt an arm round my waist, and turning
short round, found myself face to face with that
man—that fiend.”
“That ruſſian "muttered the indignant clerk.
“You may guess whether I told him what was
passing in my mind! For my whole heart was on
my lips. It seemed indeed, at that moment, as
though he’had suddenly lost all power of injuring
Luke, or thwarting us; and as if by the will of
God, my very tongue was loosed ''”
Poor Downing shuddered as he listened. Was
she already apprized of the loss that had befallen
them.
“On which, uncle,” continued Esther, “he too
gave way to his passion; and while he insisted on
knowing whether some letter or other had not
reached the cottage, to encourage me to show my:
self such a termagant, he stamped on the ground
for rage, and griped my arms till the blood started,
A hard matter had I to withdraw myself from him
and flee hither out of his way; satisfied, that he
would not follow me across the threshold. But
again I beseech you, uncle, do not reproach me if
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT. *
611
I hasten to take shelter where he can no loger molest
me!” . # *
“It shall not need, my poor child !” said poor
Downing, gravely interrupting her. ... “It shall not
need. e has done thee the last ill turn, Esther
he will do thee in this world.”
Then, seeing that the solemnity of his manner
overawed the poor girl, he kissed her affectionately
on the forehead; and in a voice which he strove
to render as his usual voice, bade her hasten to sup
and retire to rest ; for that he had much summing
up of parish accounts for the close of the year,
and wanted quietness for the task.
“I must set my house in order,” said he, with
a grim smile, aſter having barred the door and
shutters, while Esther was trimming up the hearth
as for a long watch. “But take no further thought
for thine enemy, Esther. He hath bruised our
head : we shall yet bruise his heel.”
CHAPTER XIV.
All is gone—save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice.
'T is sweet and low—’t is sad and lone--
And biddeth us love the thing that's flown.
BARRY Con Nwall.
The morning dawned chilly and stragglingly.
Heavy mists came drifting across even the feeble
light of that winter's day. The atmosphere was
bitter. The same gusts that drove the clouds
across the dreary sky, beat at intervals against the
casement of John Bºi. cottage, like volleys
of rain. The very earth seemed colder than usual
under foot. He felt it so at least. For it was the
first day he had waked to the recollection that it
covered the heads of all who had been dear to him
in this world. * * * * * *
He arrayed himself, however, steadily in his Sun-
day suit, his appropriate suit of black; and by de-
grees, as the dimness dispersed from his mind, occa-
ioned by the few hours of unnatural sleep in which,
after watching through the night, for the arrange-
ment of his worldly concerns, he had been so fortu-
nate as to lose all recollection of his sufferings;
instead of becoming more sensitive to the blow that
had fallen on him and the trials that still awaited
him, the old man grew more and more composed.
He was nearer to God. Nothing now interposed
between him and his salvation. Time was growing
shorter and shorter . so short, that all the ills it
could bring, all the humiliations it, cºuld inflict,
were as a speck of sand compared with those bound-
less shores of eternity on which he was about to
anchor.
By the time John Downing had placed his hand
a moment in that of his niece, and thanked her for
her care of his morning meal, he was nearly as
well prepared to fulfil his duties of the day, as on
any other Sabbath of the year.
The state of the weather forbade all loitering by
the way. No person met him as he walked slowly
up the lane, leaving Esther to close the house and
fºllow him to morning service ; so that there was
nothing to disturb the pious penitence in which he
mentally reproached himself with his former abject
dread of the revilement of his neighbors. But if
he had dared to put the love and approbation of this
world in competition with the approval of his own
conscience,—his conscience, the whispered voice of
his Maker, heavy had been his punishment, even
in this world.
It was remembered afterwards, by one of old
Jukes' grandchildren, who was idling near the
porch, that John Downing, instead of crossing the
churchyard, angle-wise, as had been his wont ever
since the head of his son Jack was laid with that
of his faithful wife, as if expressly to avoid the
spot, went calmly towards it, and stood for a
moment with lº eyes beside the green mound.
Perhaps the old man conceived that in his prayer to
Heaven to “forgive him his trespasses,” he could
not be near enough to those through whose suffer-
ings it had been appointed him to suffer; or perhaps
he might be thinking how soon the feet of the living
would tread over his weary frame, under that with-
ered sod.
When he crossed the porch, the sexton was toll-
ing in, and the church three parts full. All the
usual congregation of Hartington was assembled '
save a few of the very old, and very suffering
unable to confront the boisterous inclemency of the
weather. But the rough breezes caused the warm
blood of the young only to circulate the more
freely.
Christmas is a cheering time in country life; a
time when the bounties of the rich are dispensed to
the poor in compensation of the niggardliness of
nature; a time when the joyous are more glad, and
even the sorrowful attempt to be joyous; and the
country folks came plodding in to their devotions,
by two and three, with faces brightened by exercise,
and spirits lightened by the prospect of communion
with that great Being in whose sight all men are
brethren. *
The elder of the little Larpents was sitting with
a demure face beside the knee of its proud grand-
mother, waiting for the shuffling of feet and clap-
ing to of doors to subside, ere the service began.
n the old chancel-pew facing the pulpit, stood Sir
Mark Colston, resting with one hand on the carved
oaken knob which terminated its antique cornice,
(the curtains of green serge behind which poor old
Sir Clement used to screen his humble devotions,
having been removed as unsightly;) the other being
fast clenched by his side, as he watched the quiet
entrance of Esther Harman, taking her slow and
downcast way to a bench under the reading desk,
her customary seat. -
Since their interview of the preceding evening, he
had scarcely ceased from secret execrations against
that unhappy girl. For, half-maddened by his in-
solent brutality, she had spoken out;-all her loath-
ing—all her contempt—all her desire that his per-
secution of the unfortunate Luke and his family,
might be repaid fourfold on his own head. . The
desire of vengeance against her was rankling in the
dark depths of his heart; and but that they were
assembled together in the house of God, his wrath
had not even then been suspended.
The service began. The venerable rector, whose
bleared eyes and tremulous voice might perhaps
have been objects of sarcasm or pity in a strange
place, possessed, the ear, heart, and confidence
of a parish to which he was endeared by a min-
istry of half a century; during, which not an un-
just action or grasping, proceeding, could be laid
to his charge. He had preached the doctrines of
Christ in integrity, simplicity, and peace; and
stranger still, had practised, what he preached.
They listened therefore to his words with twice
the deference they would have shown to a younger,
more eloqu nt, but perhaps less well-affectioned
IIlºiſł. i
Touched as the aged are apt to be by associations
f
(512
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
connected with the closing of another year, his
voice was more tremulous than usual. That of his
poor clerk, on the contrary, was firm in giving out
the responses; and if the face of John Downing was
deathly white, so white that it was difficult to dis-
cern where the hoary hair was scattered on his wan
temples, such of his neighbors as noticed the change
in his appearance, attributed it to the nipping influ-
ence of the weather. For at threescoró years and
ten, the first frosts of the year search out the very
marrow of the bones. ***, -
It was afterwards recalled to mind by the good
pastor, that, on retiring into the vestry at the close
of morning prayer, he found the decanter of spring-
water provided for him there summer and winter,
in service time, drained nearly dry; and as not a
drop of it had moistened his own lips, he knew that,
after assisting him with his gown previous to the
communion service, the poor clerk must have had
recourse to it, to refresh his parched lips for the ter-
rible act of expiation he was about to perform.
I'or, lo! when every eye was bent upon the vener-
able clerk, to hear him give out from the reading
desk the second psalm ; to the stupefaction of all
present, John Downing uplifted his voice, beseech-
ing pardon and indulgence for the scandal he was
about to occasion; and entreating them “to look
upon him as a sinner about to render an account to
God of the wickedness he had committed, who was
desirous first to clear his conscience by making
atonement in this world; humbling himself in the
sight of those by whom he was unduly respected,
..and redressing a great wrong, in which he had con-
nived.”
But that he spoke so calmly as well as so fer-
yently, many of the congregation would have appre-
hended that a sudden ſit of insanity had attacked
the poor old clerk. But the affecting mildness of
his voice and sadness of his aspect, pleaded in his
favor. No one whispered that his reason was
troubled. No one ventured to interrupt him. All
sat aghast; the sympathy of the many being with
one so long known, so severely tried, so generally
regarded.
“May it please the Almighty, by whom I have
been so sorely visited,” continued the old man.
“so to prosper my confession that it may prove a
warning to others, when, tempted like me, like me
they are about to fall !”
At that moment, Sir Mark Colston, who had
glided from his pew during the murmur that suc-
ceeded the opening of Downing's address, perceived
on reaching the church doors that, previous to the
communion service, they had been carefully closed
and locked. Nothing remained for him therefore
but to slink back to his place; or conceal himself
in the shadow of the porch, like an infected sheep
of the flock. But attention had been already drawn
towards him by his movement; and putting his
usual bold face upon the matter, he stalked back
into his pew.
“By my connivance,” continued the clerk, before
he had reached his place, “the registers of this par-
ish were mutilated to favor the claims of an impos-
tor. Nay, unbeknown to me, though by reason of
my carelessness, a forged key was provided by the
man calling himself Sir Mark Colston; in order
that the coffins of the Colston family might be
attainable, and by reason of a false plate affixed to
one of them, an unjust claim be established. In
proof of the truth of my words, let the vault be
opened. When the coffins are verified by the
burial certificates, that of Sir Robert Colston, who
died in 1714, will be found wanting; and the coffin
bearing the name of Elinor, the wife of Mark Col-
ston, will be found to contain the body of a man.”
At this assertion, an irrepressible outcry and coil-
fusion arose in the church, under cover of which,
the so-called Sir Mark Colston made his way into
the vestry, from whence the infirm old pastor was
preparing to emerge, supposing that the psalm was
concluding, and wholly unconscious of what was
passing.
But to render Mr. Wigswell cognizant of what
was going on, was no such easy matter. Exceed-
ing deafness rendered the murmurs and ejaculations
of the congregation inaudible to him; and on being
hurried forward into the church by the irate object
of Downing's denunciations, to oppose his authority
against further violation of the sanctity of the place,
the first word that reached him was the stern and
firm asseveration of the clerk that the man beside
him was a rogue and impostor, and the daughters
of the late Colonel Colston, the rightful heirs of the
late baronet, his friend
“My brethren—restrain your feelings There
must be an end of this. The house of God is no
place for so indecent a discussion,” faltered Mr.
Wigswell from the pulpit, into which he had has-
tily ascended for the resumption of his authority, if
not for the discharge of his functions. But the
clamor of the congregation prevented his faint voice
from being audible. Even that of the infuriated
impostor was heard with diſficulty when, raging
like a tiger at bay, he proclaimed that the man to
whose slanders they were giving ear was unworthy
of credit, having himself connived with his younger
son in the murder of his elder brother.
By a strange revulsion of feeling, the horror pro-
duced by this accusation, reduced to silence the
frantic outcries provoked by Downing's confessions.
On a sudden, the tempest was still. A pin might
have been heard to drop in the church. But in
the midst arose once more the old man's voice,
calm, sad, but unsubdued.
“I was prepared for this act of vengeance;”
said he, “and am content, my brethren, to appeal
to your own hearts whether so foul a crime be pos-
sible even among the worst of human beings. My
. Luke is before the judgment-seat of God; who
tnows that the stain of blood might be on his hand,
but never that of blood-guiltiness on his soul. I,
too, am going to my account; and with the grave
opening before me, am resolved to stand no longer
before my neighbors in the light of an honest and
upright man, when the confession of my fault may
prove the means of restoring the injured to their
rights.” k
Further recrimination would probably have bec
elicited from Mark Colston, and further remon-
strances from the rector, but that the greater part
of the congregation were now crowding round the
insensible form of poor Esther; who, on hearing
the sudden and terrible announcement of her bereave-
ment, had fallen prostrate on the pavement. When
raised from the ground, her deathlike paleness and
total insensibility created a belief among the persons
nearest to her that she had been killed by the fall.
Happy had it been so for what was to be her
portion now 7 When conveyed back with difficulty
to the cottage, and medical aid at length procured
and a vein opened, better for her peace of mind that
she had remained unconscious of what was passing
around her. For the rigor of the law had seized
upon her poor old uncle. For public example's
sake, he had been given into custody by the rector;
TEMPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
613
erhaps, to afford grounds for the detention of Sir
. Colston, till the arrival of Colonel Garrett, for
whom an express was hastily despatched.
“Tell him that he must hasten, or it will be too
late 1" said Downing, on learning that his deposi-
tion must be taken down before a magistrate.
“The bowl is broken at the cistern—the cords are
loosed. My life is as a tale that is told.”
Though shocked and grieved that on the Sabbath
day there should be an uproar among the people,
Mr. Wigswell, aware that from the absence of the
Colstons in Ireland, the care of their interests was
in his hands, hastened also to obtain the interven-
tion of their country solicitor; and before night,
after due examination of the parties, Colonel Gar-
rett, by the advice of Mr. Aldridge, had signed a
warrant by which Mark Essenden Colston, com-
monly called Sir Mark Colston, stood committed to
the county gaol for sacrilege. The more urgent
point of his misdemeanors was such it was difficult
to place within the reach of criminal law.
Against John Downing, the accusation was of a
nature to entitle the magistrate to accept bail;
which was instantly offered by Jukes the wheel-
wright and one of the substantial farmers of Hart-
ington.
“Thanks, my old friends and neighbors!” fal-
tered the old man, who needed no learned leech to
tell him that the shock he had received was begin-
ning to suspend the vital current in his frame.
“My torment is not for long. But I would fain
give up the ghost under my own roof, with my
head upon my own pillow. When I am gone, be
kind to the poor girl.”
With the aid of Aldridge, he lost no time in
bequeathing to his unfortunate niece, the handsome
independence to which he had become entitled as
heir at-law to his son. But when, three days after-
wards, his prediction was verified by a peaceful
departure from this life, a deathbed chºred by the
act of atonement, which by the grace of God he had
been enabled to fulfil, and the certainty that he was
about to be reunited to all he had loved on earth in
that better land “where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest”—Esther, who,
even in her brokenheartedness, found strength to
minister to his last moments and close his careworn
eyes, heard, without so much as surprise, that she
was now as rich as she was lovely. . For her, joy,
grief, or wonder, were atº end. All—all was a
flank. She had loved and lived in vain.
When, in process of time, the hiatus in the par-
ish register was admitted to proof, and the neéessity
of violating the sacred abode of the dead (by open-
ing the Colston coffins) forestalled by an ample con-
fession on the part of the daring impostor, who
trusted to purchase, by these means, the mercy of
the family concerning the restitution of the sums
appropriated to his use ; the first act of Sophia Col:
ston and her sister, after the legal recognition of
their rights as co-heiresses at law to the late Sir
Clement, was to offer an asylum at the Hall to the
poor bereaved girl, the history of whose troubles
was so singularly intermingled with their own.
It was an act of womanly mercy on the part of
those, the native goodness of whose hearts was still
further improved by a short, but painful probation.
But that probation was already at an end. Scarcely
was the venerable head of the old clerk laid in the
grave beside his ill-fated wife and sºn, when, sum-
moned by her solicitors from Ireland to Hartington
hall, Miss Colston's first interview with Aldridge
placed in her possession the letter forwarded by
Colonel Larpent from Lausanne; in which he im-
plored him to sift to the utmost the character and
conduct of the pretended Sir Mark Colston—“since
he was likely to have in his keeping the happiness
of the most beloved of women, yes—still the most
beloved—though the persuasions of her friends had
induced her to dismiss him from her regard, in order
to reconsolidate the worldly interests of the fam-
ily.”
'Miss Colston was consequently now as happy as
Cecilia. Sir Henry Fletcher, indeed, persisted in
protesting the contrary;-“being,” (as he said,)
“bound to believe all that was asserted by his dar-
ling little wife, who declared herself to be the hap-
piest woman in the world.”
In how short a time afterwards Colonel Larpent
arrived in England, on the summons of a generous
letter from Sophia, explaining away the miserable
misunderstanding that had arisen between them, it
is unnecessary to inquire. But from the day of his
appearance at Hartington, even Sir Henry was
forced to admit that “honors were divided.” And
he was content to give up his share, as he never
failed to add, “since Larpent, to whom he had
always been sincerely attached, had, after all,
turned up a trump.”
The wedding was solemnized with a degree of
joy, which, unlike the joy usually attendant on wed-
dings, had not a drawback. The worthless man
in whose veins some drops of Colston blood was
flowing, was luckily expiating by a few months'
imprisonment in the county gaol, the act of sacri-
lege committed in Hartington church; and by a
generous provision made for him by the heiresses,
on condition of his settling for life in the colonies
and following up his profession under the name of
his mother, all future difficulties were removed, and
the necessity for legal proceedings superseded.
Well was it for Colonel Larpent and his éhil-
dren that the untimely fate of the unfortunate Luke
Donovan brought their perplexities to so early a
crisis. For the good old rector was not long in
following to the grave the faithful old friend with
whom he had crept through life, and the faithful
servant by whose diligent ministry his own had
been lightened. The shock of so many startling
events probably accelerated his end ; for within six
months of the decease of John Downing, a new
rector ascended the pulpit in Hartington church.
It was no small comfort to the widow, on her
final removal from the rectory, to know that her
flºº. were safe in their happy home at the
all ; a home where she was at all times welcome,
and cheered by the congenial society of the worthy
mother of the new Mrs. Larpent. *
Of the present flourishing state of Hartington,
let the reader, if possible, go and judge for himself.
He will find it one of the most thriving and beauti-
ful of those charming villages, of which Sussex is
so justly proud; and the improvements effected
under the new dynasty are not, like those com:
menced by the villanous Sir Mark, intended to pro-
pitiate the ill opinion of the world and disfavor of
the parish, but matters of conscientious discretion.
Among the changes, however, which attract the
eye of the traveller, is one for which Hartington is
not indebted to the generosity of the lady of the
manor. On the church lands, sloping towards the
stream, stand a row of neat almshouses, endowed
for the use of twelve aged persons of the parish;
each having its little garden, and wearing the air
of neatness and cheerfulness, peculiar to the chari-
table institutions of modern times. The foundation
614
TEMIPTATION AND ATONEMENT.
bears the name of Downing. But it was executed
by a pious and humble individual, interred in Hart-
ington churchyard, fast by the graves of the Down-
ing family; but, by her own desire, without so
much as a headstone to mark the spot. *
The two Harmans, who are still alive, (and still
brutal,) did their utmost to invalidate the will by
which their poor sister created this endowment, on
pretence that, since her misfortunes, she had become
infirm of intellect. But Aldridge, by whom the
document was drawn out, had made all fas; ; and
the whole village united in hailing the day when,
with the consent of the ecclesiastical courts, the ill-
fated cottage of the Downings was thrown down,
that the foundations of the new charity might be
laid on the spot.
On the day of the inauguration of poor Esther's
pensioners, Hartington green was deserted. The
whole population thronged to the Hams; admitting
that the blot upon their village archives was thor-
oughly effaced; old and young uniting in a prayer .
that the Almighty would pity the Temptation of the
old, man whose gray hairs were in the grave, and
accept the proffered Atonement.
THE MOLE AND ITS ENCAMPMENT,
If we had a spade I would lay bare its little hab-
itation, and show such a wonderful encampment
as you have rarely witnessed: chambers, and gal-
leries, and long, winding passages, which lead in
all directions, and, when opened, look not unlike
the old puzzle which is called “The Plan of
Troy.” The earth, as you may tell by placing
your foot upon it, is very strong and solid, for it
has been well pressed and well beaten by the mole
while making it. At the bottom of this hillock
there is a gallery, almost as round as a ring, and
there is a smaller one also above it, of the same
form; and, to get from one gallery to the other,
it has made itself five passages, which go upwards.
Is not that something like a house, think you, with
ſive staircases which lead to the upper story! It
has also a chamber lower down than the lowest
gallery which I have described; and there is also
another hole at the bottom of the chamber, which,
after, running down for a few inches, rises up again,
and opens into a passage or high road, if we may
so call it, of the encampment. But when in this
lº it can turn back again and enter the circu-
ar gallery at the bottom, which I have before
described, and take its choice of any of the nine
streets which branch out from this lower passage.
You might wonder for what purpose it wanted such
a number of roads and galleries, looking so many
different ways; but when I tell you that this is its
chase, or forest, or hunting-ground, and that it
' ranges here and there, tip this passage and down
that, searching for earth-worms and insects, you
will see at once the use of these numerous avenues,
and the chance it has of obtaining larger quantities
of food through having such extensive grounds to
range in. But there is a larger run, which natu-
ralists call the high road, and along this he passes
many times in the course of the day, to visit his
several hunting-grounds, which branch out every
way; and I can tell you necessity causes the moles
to be very polite to each other, for only one at a
time can pass along this common high road, which
seems to belong to the whole community of moles;
so that, if two chance to meet, one is compelled to
retire into one of the side passages until the other
passes; and sometimes this causes a fight, and
then, of course, the weakest goes to the wall.
But, although they thus quarrel about the posses-
sion of the road, each seems to pay great respect to
his neighbor's enclosure, one never taking posses-
sion of the hunting-ground another has made. It
is in this common highway where the molecatchers
place tho traps, as they know he has to pass it
many times in the course of the day to see what
game there is in his preserve. You must not
always expect to find its nest under a molehill, for
it is oftener placed at the end of three or four pas-
.*
sages, at some distance from the encampment,
when, if you are fortunate enough to light upon the
right spot, you may sometimes dig out four or five
young ones in summer. It is a thirsty animal,
requiring much drink, and the high road, which I
have mentioned as being used by the whole com-
munity, is sure to lead to a common run, which
opens out near some ditch or pond; but when
water is far distant they will sink a well of their own,
and dig downward and downward until they come to
water. In pursuing a worm it will sometimes follow
it to the surface of the earth,devourit, and return back
again into its burrow. It always looks fat, and has
a sharp tapering nose, well adapted for turning u
the earth; its eyes are very small. The fur is º
as silk, and bright as welvet; its color is a deep
black ; its feet are furnished with sharp nails, with
which it scoops and digs away the earth, throwing
the loosened dirt behind as it progresses with its
work, and which it afterwards carries up and forms
into those hillocks which we so commonly see. In
winter, when the earth is frozen hard, and its hunt-
ing-ground is cold and useless, and produces no
food, it will dig a deep hole straight down, in order
to reach the worms that have taken shelter there
from the cold. You little dreamed that such a
curious animal, and such a wonderful structure,
were to be found under this little hillock, which to
look upon, saving for the few wild ſlowers which
cover it, appears an object of no interest.—The
Boy's Summer Book.
ILLNEss of THE PoET MooRE.—We have received
from London a private letter, dated Thursday, from
which, with much regret, we give the following
paragraph —“I lament to have to tell you of the
rapidly declining health of Ireland's most honored
poet. The sun of life is fast setting, and it is feared
. liis dissolution is near at hand.”—“Ballinasloe
far.” *
Jews IN GERMANY.—A letter from Posen, dated
the 17th October, mentions that an association formed
in that place, under the patronage of the King of
Prussia, for establishing Jewish colonies, has pur-
chased land to the value of 25,000l. The number
of Jews who have demanded permission to be re-
ceived is about 3,300; several of whom have some
funds of their own.
PRIVATE letters from Vienna leave no doubt that
the Duc de Bordeaux was married, on the 5th instant,
to the Princess Maria Theresa Beatrice, sister to the
reigning Duke of Modena. The princess numbers
among her charms 300,000,000 francs, or twelvg
millions sterling ! It is rumored that the Duke of
Modena's second sister is betrothed to the second
son of Don Carlos. The Duke of Modena is the
only sovereign of Europe who has not deigned to
recognize “the dynasty of July”—Louis Philippe.
THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. S
615
CIIAPTER XXXIV.
AND now is Snipeton widowed. Yes; with a
living wife, damned to worst widowhood. It would
have worn and tortured the spirit within him some-
times to wander from the desk to the churchyard,
and there look down upon Clarissa's grave. To
have read, and read with dreamy, vacant eyes, the
fow ombstone syllables that sum up—solemnly
brief—the hopes, and fears, and wrongs, and
wretchedness; the pleasant thoughts and aching
weariness that breath begins and ends. “Clarissa,
wife of Ebenezer Snipeton, died —.” Words to
dim a husband's eyes; to carry heaviness to the
heart; to numb the soul; and for a time to make
the lone man, with his foot at the treasure-holding
grave, feel the whole world drifted from him, and
he left landed on the little spot he looks on. And
then breaks small, mournful music from those
words; pleasant, hopeful sounds, that will mingle
her name with his; that will make him own the
dear, the still incorporate dead. The flesh of his
flesh, the bone of his bone, is lapsed into the dis:
grace of death; it is becoming the nourishment of
grass: and still his heart yearns to the changing
form; still it is a part of him; and his tender
thoughts may, with the coffined dead, love to renew
the bridal vow the dead absolves him of. And
Snipeton, his wife in her winding-sheet, might so
have solemnized a second wedlock. For surely
there are such nuptials. Yes; second marriages
of the grave between the quick and the dead, with
God and his angels the sole witnesses.
And Snipeton was denied such consolation. His
widowhood permitted no such sccond troth. Liv-
ing to the world, his wife was dead to him; yet
ty
though dead, not severed.—There was the horror;
there, the foul condition of disgraced wedlock; the
flesh was still of his flesh, cancerous, ulcerous;
with a life in it to torture him. By day, that flesh
of his flesh would wear him; by night, with time
and darkness lying like a weight upon him, would
be to him as a fiend that would cling to him ; that
would touch his lips; that would murmur in his
gar. And let him writhe, and struggle, and with a
strong man's strong will determine to put away
that close tormentor, it would In Ot be. The flesh
was still of his flesh, alike incorporate in guilt and
truth. tº is
But Snipeton is still a happy man. As yet he
knows not of his misery ; dreams not of the deso-
ntion that, in an hour or sº. shall blast him at his
hresholdſ IIe is still at his desk; happy in his
day-dream; his imagination running. QYºr, as in
º moments of half-thrift, half-idleness, it
was wont to do, upon the paper on his desk before
him.—Imagination, complete and circling; and
making that dim sanctuary of dirty Plutus a glis-
tening palace . . The pen—the ragged stump, that
in his hand had worked as surely as Italian steel,
striking through a heart or so, but drawing no
blood-the pen, as it had been plucked from the
winged heel of the thief's god, Mercury, worked
strange sorcery; crept and, scratched about the
paper, conjuring glories there, that made the old
iman sternly smile ; even as an enchanter smiles at
the instant handiwork of all obedient fiends. Read-
er, look upon the magic that, cunningly exercised
by the Snipetons of the world, fills it with beauty;
béhold the jottings of the black art that, simple as
they look, hold, like the knotted ropes of Lap-
land witches, a power invincible. IIere they are:
faithfully copied from that piece of paper; the tab-
cxxxvii. Living AGE. VoI. xi. 39
g
let of old Snipeton's dearest thoughts, divinest aspi-
rations:—
“...c70,000 "–“ £85,700 °–“ £90,000"—
“f 100,000"—“.E 150,000 °–“ £1,000,000 !”
In this way did Snipeton—in pleasant, thrifty idle-
ness—pour out his heart; dallying with hope, and
giving to the unuttered wish a certain sum in black
and white; running up the figures as a rapturous
singer climbs the gamut, touching the highest heaven
of music to his own delight, and the wonder of the
applauding world.
In this manner would Snipeton take pastime with
his spirit. In this manner was the paper on his
desk writ and over-writ with promised sums that, it
was his hope, his day-dream, would surely somo
day bless him. And the numerals ever rose with
his spirits. When very dumpish—with the world
going all wrong with him—he would write himself
down a pauper; in bitterness of heart loving to cm-
large upon his beggary, as thus: 000,000,000,000.
But to-day he had ridden with Clarissa; she had
looked so lovely and so loving; he was so reassured
of her affection ; could promise to himself such
honeyed days and nights that, dreaming over this;
smiling at her flushed face; and with half-closed
eyes, and curving mouth, gazing in fancy at her
dancing plume—he somehow took the pen between
his fingers, and made himself a paradise out of
arithmetic.—Thus he laid out his garden of Eden,
circling it with rivers of running gold ! How tho
paradise smiled upon paper How the trees, clus-
tered with ruddy bearing, rose up ; how odorous
the ſlowers—and what a breath of immortality
came fluttering to his cheek! Snipeton had
Written—
“:C1,000,000;”
and then he sank gently back in his chair, and
softly drew his breath as he looked upon what
should be his, foreshadowed by his hopes.
Now, at the very moment—yes, by Satan’s best
chronometer—at the very moment, Clarissa was
lifted from her horse, placed in a carriage, and
whirled away from home and husband. And he
saw not her face of terror—heard not her shriek
for help. How could he Good man! was he
not in paradise! Let us not break in upon him.
No; for a while, blind and innocent, we will leave
him there.
The reader may remember that Mr. Capstick was
threatened with an ignominious dismissal from the
British senate, as having, it was alleged, bought an
honor that, like chastity, is too precious to be sold.
The misanthropic member for Liquorish, in his
deep contempt of all human dealings, took little
heed of the petition against him; whilst Tangle
called it an ugly business, as though in truth he
secretly rejoiced in such uncomeliness. Snipeton,
too, looked grave ; and then, as .# heart from
the depth of his pocket, said he would “fight the
young profligate to his last guinea;” (and when the
weapons are gold, how bloody oft the battle !)
Whereupon Capstick relented a little in his savage
thoughts; believing that pure patriotism did exist
in human nature, and had one dwelling-place at
least in the heart of Mr. Snipeton. *
“Turn you out of parliament, sir; they might
chuck you out o' the window, sir, for what he'd
care, if it warn’t for his spite. I’ve told you that
all along, and you won't see it,” said Bright Jem.
“I am sorry, Jem, that in your declining years
for there's no disguising it, James—you're getting
616
THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
old and earthy—cracking Ilko dry clay, Jem,”—said
Capstick.
“I don't want to hide the cracks,” answered
Jem; “why should I? No; I'm not afraid to
look time in the face, and tell him to do his worst.
lſe never could spile inuch, that's one comfort.”
“I am sorry, nevertheless, that you have not a
little charity. If I don't think well of anybody
myself, that's no reason you should n’t; on the
contrary, it is slightly an impertinence in you to
interfere with what I’ve been used to consider
my own privilege.” Thus, with dignity, spoke
Capstick.
“All I know is this—and I’m sure of it—if Mrs.
Snipeton had as big a wart upon her nose as her
husband, you'd never have been member for Liquor-
ish,” said Jem, with new emphasis.
“Really, Mr. Aniseed ”—for Capstick became
very lofty indeed—“I cannot perceive how Mrs.
Snipeton's wart—that is, if she'd had one—could
in any way interfere with my scat in parliament.”
“In this manner,” said Jem ; laying one hand
flat upon the other. “In this manner. If she'd
had a wart upon her nose, young St. James, when
he went to borrow money of her husband, would
have behaved himself like a honest young gentle-
man; wouldn’t have written letters, and tried to
send presents, and so forth, till old Snipeton—poor
old fellow ! for though he was a fool to marry such
a young beauty, there's no knowing how any on us
may be tempted ”— *
“You and I are safe, I think, James?” said Cap-
stick, with a smile.
“I think so; but don't let's be persump-
tious. However, that's no reason we should n't
pity the unfortinate,” said Jem. “Well, old
Snipeton would n’t have been forced to send his
young wife into the country, where his young lord-
ship went after her—I’ve heard all about it. And
then Snipeton would n't ha’ been jealous of the
oung gentleman, and then you'd have been at the
Tub, happy with the pigs and the geese, as if they
was your own flesh and blood; and you'd still ha'
been an independent country, gentleman, walking
about in your own garden, and talking, as you used
to do, to your own trees and flowers, that minded
łº 'm bound for it—more than anybody in the
house o' parliament will do.”
“Don’t you be too sure of that, Mr. Aniseed.
When the minister hears my speech”—
“Well, I only hope my dream of last night
won't come true. I dreamt you'd , made your
speech, and as soon as you'd made it, I thought
ou was changed into a garden roller, and the min-
ister, as you call him, did nothing but turn you
round º round. Howsomever, that's nothing to
do with what I was saying—saving your presence,
I don't like you to be made a tool on.” -
“A tool, Mr. Aniseed ' A tool—define, if you
please, for this is serious. What tool " and Cap-
stick frowned. - * ,
“Well, I don't know what sort of tool they send
to parliament; but, if you’ll be so good, just feel
here.” Saying this, Jem took off his hat, and
turning himself, presented the back part of his head
to the touch of Capstick.
“Bless my heart! Dear me—a very dreadful
wound ! ... My poor fellow—good Jem”—and Cap-
stick, put his arm upon Jem's neck, and with a
troubled look, cried—“Who was the atrocious
miscreant!—eh -the scoundrelſ” i
“Oh no ; he did n’t mean nothing. You see, it
was last night, while I was waiting for you till the
house was up. Taking a quiet pint and a pipe
among the other servants, some on 'em begun to
talk about bribery and corruption; and did n’t they
sit there and pull their masters to pieces; I should
think a little more than they pulled one another to
bits inside. Well, your name come up, and all
about the petition; and somebody said you’d be
turned out; condemned like a stale salmon at Bil-
lingsgate. I did n't say nothing to this; till Ralph
Gum—the saucy warmint, though he 's my own
flesh and blood; that is, as far as marriage can
make it”—
“Marriage can do a good deal that way,” said
Capstick, smiling pensively.
“Till Ralph §.”. was waiting for the mar-
quis—cried out, “What! Capstick, the muſin-ma-
ker 1’’’
“I do not forget the muſins,” said Capstick,
meekly. “On the contrary; in parliament I shall
be proud to stand upon them.” ,
“But he said more than that: “Why, he's a
thing we'll turn out neck and heels; he 's only a
tool " ?”
“Oh, a tool (” cried Capstick, “I am a tool,
am I? Very well: a tool . What said you to
this 1°'
“Nothing—only this. He was sitting next to
me, and I said—' You saucy monkey, hold your
tongue, or learn better manners'—and with this, in
the softest way in the world, I broke my pipe over
his head : whereupon, the marquis’ coachman and
footmen all swore you was a tool, and nothing but
a tool—and they would n't see their livery insulted,
and—I forget how it ended, but there was a chang-
ing of pewter-pots, and somehow or other this”—
and Jem passed his hand over his bruised head—
“this is one on 'em.”
For a few minutes Capstick remained silent. At
length he said, determinedly—“Jem, I feel that it
would be some satisfaction to me to see this Mrs.
Snipeton.” --
“What for?” asked Jem, in his simplicity.
“Why—well—I don't know ; but if she is really
what people say, there can be no harm in looking
on a beautiful woman.”
“Well, I don't know—but ſor certain, they'd
never do no harm, if they never was looked upon,”
said Jem. *
“Jem, you ought to know me by this time;
ought to know that since Mrs. Capstick died I
look upon beauty as no more than a painted pic-
ture.”
“Well, that's all right enough, so long as we
don't ask the pictures to walk out of their frames,”
answered Jem. “But, sir, in this parliament mat-
ter—and I’d sooner die than tell a lie to you, in
the same way as I think it my bound duty to tell
you all the truth, though you do sometimes call me
James and Mr. Aniseed, instead of Jem for doing
it—in this parliament matter, master"—and Jem
paused, and looked mournfully at Capstick.
“Out with it,” said the member for Liquorish.
“After the hustings, surely I can bear anything.
Speak.”
“Well, then, and you'll not be offended ! But
if ever there was a tool in parliament, master-
now, don't be hurt—you are a tool, and nothing
better than a tool. There! When they were
flinging pewter-pots about last night, I didn't
choose to own as much ; now, when we're 0.
gether, I must say it. Member for Liquorish!
THE HISTORY OF ST.
GILES AND ST. JAMES.
617
La, bless you! as I said afore, you’re member
for Spite and Revenge, and all sorts of wicked-
ness.”
“I certainly will see Mrs. Snipeton,” said
Capstick, “and to-morrow, Jem : yes, to-mor-
row.” a
In pursuit of this determination, Mr. Capstick—
with no forewarning of his intended visit to the
master of the house-opened the garden gate, and
proceeded up the path to the cottage, followed by
Bright Jem; who in his heart was hugely pleased
at the unceremonious manner in which his master
stalked, like a sheriff's officer, into the sanctuary
of wedded love, or what is more, of wedded jeal-
ousy; calm, authoritative, self-contained, as though
he came to take possession of the dove-cote. Even
Dorothy Vale was startled by the abrupt intrusion:
and looking from the door, and rubbing her arms
with quickened energy, begged to know “what
they wanted there?” . Ere, however, Capstick
could descend to make due answer, Becky ran from
the door, with many a voluble “dear heart 1" and
“who 'd ha’ thought it!” and “is your honor
well ?” -
“Very well, my maid; very well,” said Cap-
stick. “I should like to see Mrs. Snipeton.”
“La now, what ill luck,” cried Becky, “she's
gone out a horseback with master; but she won't
be long, if you'll only be so good as to walk in,
and wait a little while; she's such a sweet lady,
she'll be glad to see you.”
Dorothy said nothing ; but hugging and rubbing
her arms, looked sidelong at the new maid; looked
at her, as one, whose glib tongue had in one min-
ute talked away her place ; for assuredly did Dor-
othy, even in her dim vision, see Becky with her
bundle trundled from the house, as soon as Mr.
Snipeton should learn the treason of his hand-
maid.
“I’ll walk about the garden till they come
back,” said Capstick: “I’m fond of flowers; very
fond.” -
“They won't come back together; for master's
gone to funnun; but the young man, the new ser-
vant”— -
“Ha! the young man that took you from St.
Mary Axe,” said Jem; and Becky nodded and
colored. º
“Both of you new together; it seems,” observed
Capstick, meaning nothing; though Becky, color-
ing still deeper, thought she saw a world of signifi-
cance in the careless words of the member of par-
liament. But then it was a member of parliament
who spoke; and there must be something in every
syllable he uttered. That he should couple her-
self and St. Giles was very odd; quite a proof that
he knew more than most people.
Capstick had lounged up the garden, Dorothy
marvelling at his ease; whilst, Jem held, short
discourse with Becky. “And he's a good hon-
est young man, eh? Well, he looks like it,” said
Jem. -
“I never goes by looks, I don't,”, said Becky.
“Talking about looks, how is that dark young man
you knocked in the gutter! Your nevey, sir, isn't
he 1 How is he?” º
“Why, I may say, my dear, he's in the gutter
still, and there let him be, But as for your fellow-
servant, I think”—said Jem—“I think he's an
honest young fellow.”
“I'should break my heart do you know—I mean
—I should be so sorry—in course I should—if he
was n’t. He's so good-tempered; so quiet-spoken;
so willing to give a helping-hand to anybody. And
yet for all this; somehow or t'other, he doesn't
seem himself. One minute he'll be merry as a
sultan; and afore you can speak, his face will go
all into a shadow. Can't be happy, I think.”
“Prhaps not,” said Jem : “I was n’t myself
when I was about his time of life. Perhaps, Becky,
perhaps he 's in love.” *
“Don’t know, I’m sure; how should I?” said
Becky, turning short upon her heel; whilst Jem
followed his master, at length resolved to narrate
to him the history of St. Giles. Again and again
Jem had attempted it; and then stopt, huddling up
the story as best he could. For the new dignity
of Capstick had made him—as Jem sometimes
thought—cold and cautious; and after all, it might
not be proper to bring together a returned transport
and a member of parliament. The garden was
winding and large; but Jem could not well miss
his master, inasmuch as the orator was heard very
loudly declaiming ; and Jem, following the sound,
speedily came up with Capstick, who, with his hat
upon the ground, his right arm outstretched, and
his left tucked under his left coat-tail, was vehe-
mently calling upon “the attention and the com-
mon-sense, if he was not too bold in asking such a
favor,” of a triple row of tall hollyhocks, repre-
senting for the time the members of the house of
commons, and unconsciously playing their parts
with great fidelity, by nodding—nodding at every
sentence that fell from the honorable orator.
“There is nothing like exercising the lungs in the
pure air,” said Capstick, slightly confused; and
picking up his hat, and falling into his usual man-
ner.
“I think I should know what it was,” said Jem,
“calling coaches in a November fog; jest like hal-
looing through wet blankets.”
“Demosthenes—you never heard of him—but
that 's no matter: Demosthenes,” said Capstick,
“used to speak to the sea.”
“Well; he’d the best on it in one way,” said
Jem ; “the fishes could n’t contradict him. But
surely, now—upon your word, sir—you don't really
mean to make a speech in parliament!” Capstick's
eye glistened.—“You do? Lord help you! when,
sir—when º'
“Why, Jem, I can't answer for myself. Per-
haps, to-night—perhaps, to-morrow. If I'm pro-
voked, Jem.”
“Provoked, sir! Who's to provoke you, if
you're determined to sit with your mouth shut!”
said Jem.
“The truth is, Jem, I had resolved to sit a
whole session, and not say a syllable. But I shall
be aggravated to speak, I know I shall. The fact
is, I did think I should be abashed—knocked clean
down—by the tremendous wisdom before, behind
me, on all sides of me. Now-it is n't so, Jem,”
and Capstick looked big. “I did think my great
difficulty would be to speak; whereas, hearing
what I do hear, the difficulty for me is to hold m
tongue. In this way—I feel it—I shall be made
an orator of against my will. By the way, Jom,
talking of oratory, just sit down in that arbor, and
fancy yourself the house of commons.” º
“’Could n't do it sir.” Capstick imperatively
waved his arm. “Well, then—there, sir,” said
Jem ; and he seated himself bolt upright in a
honeysuckle bower, and took off his hat, and
smoothed down his few speckled hairs; and put on
a face of gravity.
| “That won't do at all,” cried Capstick, “I
'618
GILES AND ST. JAMES.
THE HISTORY OF ST.
is
ust want to try a little speech; and that's not a bit
#. the house of commons. No ; roll yourself
about ; and now whistle a little bit; and now put
on your hat; and now throw your legs upon the
seat; and, above all, seem to be doing anything
but listening to me.' If you seem to attend to what
I say, you'll put me out at once. Not at all par-
liamentary, Jem.”
“Shall I shuffle my legs, and drum my fingers
upon the table Will that do t” cried Jem.
“Pretty well; that will be something,” an-
8wered Capstick.
“Or I tell you what, sir—if, while you was
making your oration, I was to play upon this Jew's-
harp"—and Jem produced that harmonious iron
from his waistcoat pocket—“would that be parlia-
mº and noisy enough 4”
“We'll try the Jew's-harp,” replied Capstick,
“for I have heard much worse noises since I sat
for Liquorish. Wait a minute”—for Jem began to
preludize—“and let me explain. The motion I
am going to make, Jem, is to shorten the time in
the pillory.” Jem shook his head hopelessly.
“According to the law, as at present operating,
the time of the pillory is one hour. Now, I
don't want to be called a revolutionist, Jem ; I
don't want to array all the respectability and all the
property of the laud against me-”
“Don’t, sir, don't, if you love your precious
peace of mind, don't think of it,” cried Jem.
“Therefore, I do not at present intend to move
the total abolition of the pillory,” said Capstick.
“You’d be stoned in the streets, if you did.
People will bear a good deal, sir; but they won't
have their rights interfered with in that manner.
Do take care of yourself, pray do. I should n’t
like to see you in the tower,” said Jem, with gen-
uine tenderness. “Let the pillory alone, sir;
touch that, and folks will swear you're going to
lay your hands upon the golden crown next; for
it ’s wonderful what they do mix up with the
crown, sometimes, to be sure.” *.
“Fear not, Jem. I shall respect the wholesome
prejudices of my countrymen ; and therefore shall
only move that the time in the pillory shall hence-
forth be reduced from one hour to half. That’s
gentle, I think!” 3-
Jem stroked his chin—shook his head. “I
know what they 'll call it, sir; interfering with
the liberty of the subject. No, they’ll say—our
forefathers, and their fathers afore 'em, all stood
an hour, and why should n’t we ?”
“I’m prepared for a little opposition, Jem ; but,
just fancy yourself the house, while I speak my
speech. {º. as much noise, and be as inattentive
as possible, and then I shall get on.” Jem
obediently buzzed—buzzed with his Jew's-harp,
shambled with his feet, rocked himself backwards
and forwards; and, to the extent of his genius, en-
deavored to multiply himself into a very full house.
Capstick took off his hat—held forth his right
arm as before, with the supplementary addition of
a piece of paper in his hand, and again with his other
arm supported his left coat-tail. “Sir,” said
Capstick, looking as full as he could at Jem, who
rocked and shifted every minute—“‘Sir, it was an
observation of a Roman emperor—’”
“Which one " asked Jem.
“That's immaterial,” answered Capstick: “A
uestion that will certainly not be asked in debate.
}. a Roman emperor as something strong to
begin with- of a Roman emperor that Qui facit
per alium’”—
, ,
“Hallo!” cried Jem, holding the Jew's-harp
wide away from his mouth ; “what 's that—
Latin 1'.'
“Latin,” answered Capstick.
“Well—my stars!”—said Jem—“I never
knowed that wou knowed Latin.”
“Nor did I, Jem,” replied Capstick smilingly.
“But I don’t know how it is ; when a man once
gets into parliament, Latin seems to come upon
him as a matter of course. Now go on with your
Jew's-harp, and make as much noise as you like,
but don't speak to me. *T is n’t parliamentary.
Now then,” and Capstick resumed the senator-
“‘it was an observation of a Roman emperor’ ”—
“If you please, sir, I’ve laid some bread and
cheese and ale in the parlor,” said Becky, break-
ing in upon the debate. “It’s a hot day, sir, and
I thought you might be tired.”
“Humph : Well—I don't know. What,
Jem”—asked Capstick, smacking his lips—“what
do you propose ?”
“Why,” answered Jem, rising, “I propose that
the house do now adjourn.”
Capstick returned the paper to his pocket, and
taking up his hat, said—“I second the motion.”
After a very short pause, he added—“And it is
adjourned accordingly.” Whereupon, he and Jem
turned to follow Becky, who had run on before
them, down another path. In less than a minute,
however, a shriek rang through the garden.
“Why, that's the gal' she's hurt, surely,”
cried Jem.
“Pooh, nonsense,” said Capstick, quickening
his pace, “it’s nothing ; taken a frog for a croco-
dile—or something of the sort. Women love to
squall; it shows their weakness. It can't bo
anything—”
“Oh, sir—sir—sir—” cried Becky, flying up the
garden, and rushing to Capstick—“they 've stole
her—carried her off—my dear, dear missus !”
“Carried off! Mrs. Snipeton—the lady”—ex-
claimed Capstick.
“Stole her away by force—oh, my poor master
—oh, my dear missus—the young man will tell you
all—master's heart will break—my sweet lady!”
And Becky, with flowing tears, wrung her hands,
and was as one possessed.
§ { Wig. Fh—what is all this?” said Cap-
stick to St. Giles, who looked pale and stupified.
“ Fellow, what’s this?”
“I’ll tell you all about it, sir”—said St. Giles,
hastily. “The lady's horse was swifter than
mine—I could no how keep up with her. And
when we turned out of Highgate we”—here St.
Giles turned deathly pale, and his feet sliding from
under him, he fell to the earth.
“He 's dead—he's dead,” cried Becky, falling
upon her knees at his side, and lifting up his head,
when her hands were instantly covered with blood,
drawn by the cudgel of Blast. On this she re.
newed her screams; renewed her exclamations o
despair. “He was dead—murdered.”
At this minute old Snipeton ran, reeling up tho
path. Dorothy Vale, more by her chalk-like face,
than with her tongue, had revealed the mischief to
her master. “Missus was gone—carried off-the
man was up the garden.” His life—nothing bº
his life—should satisfy the cheated husband.
Snipeton rushed to the group; and when he sº"
St. Giles prostrate, insensible; the old man, grinº
ing his teeth, howled his curses, and, in wery iſº
tence, worked his handslike a demon balked of h"
revenge. iº d -
A SON TO HIS FATHER,
619
A SON TO HIS FATHER.
We think the Beauty Book of this year very far
from the least meritorious of its series. It has sev-
eral very graceful vers de société; some pretty and
interesting stories; fragments of real poetry; and
one or two papers of interest beyond the hour.
We have not often read, in the same space, a tale
so powerfully and unaffectedly told as that which,
with the signature of Z., appears intended to illus-
trate the evils of the old system of capital punish-
ment. To understand what we shall extract, it is
only necessary to premise that a banker of formal
and not popular manners, but of strict and exact
integrity and most unblemished character, has been
robbed, with supposed aggravated circumstances of
personal violence, by a young man who had been
several years a clerk in his bank, and was suddenly
dismissed on account of some trifling failure in I
punctuality. . He prosecutes to conviction; and a
few days before the execution receives the follow-
ing letter. It seems to us full of a beauty very
rare in compositions of this kind. There is no
violent effort. There is no convulsive strain. The
pathos is manly, direct, and simple.
“Sir, It is with many conflicting feelings that I
now address you, and I can scarcely hope that you
will condescend to peruse a letter from a condemned
felon like me. Justice has been your plea—justice
also actuates me. I acknowledge that I have sinned
against my God, my country, and yourself, in com-
mitting one of the crimes for which I am about to
suffer, for the robbery was planned by me; of
intent to murder I am as innocent as the child
unborn. But, sir, I am not the only guilty one—it
is to your sin that I owe my existence; and from
this venial offence of yours, which has long since
been forgotten. by yourself and by the world, have
sprung all the crimes I ever have committed. '
“At the period of your marriage you parted
from my mother, believing that you amply compen-
sated for all her wrongs by the gift of one hundred
pounds, exacting from her a solemn promise that
you should never hear from her again—a promise
which, as you well know, she never violated, nor
did she reveal your name to me until she was upon
her death-bed. *
e. At her desire I solemnly pledged myself that
the secret should never pass my lips, except, under
very extraordinary circumstances, I, should feel
compelled to make it known to yourself. I was at
this time fifteen years of age, and had hitherto been
supported and decently educated by my mother's
exertions; but she had nothing to leave me beyond
a few pounds in ready money, which were little
more than sufficient to defray the expenses of her
funeral.
“I had loved my mother tenderly, and on her
decease felt myself to be one of the most desolate
creatures upon earth. Lowly as my station appeared
to be, I felt inconceivably pained at the thoughts of
my disgraceful birth, and that the name which I
bore was not my lawful one, (my mother having
passed as a widow.) for pride was the inheritance
which I received from you. Nevertheless, I had
an indescribable longing to see my other earthly
parent. I thought, perhaps, you possessed some
of my mother's tenderness, and that if I could find
out where you were living, and could sometimes
look at you unobserved, I should not feel utterly
alone in the world.
“Full of these thoughts I packed up my little
all, and walked from — to London, a distance of
nearly forty miles. Having always borne an excel-
lent character in my own neighborhood, I carried
with me several respectable letters of recommenda-
tion, and in a few days succeeded in getting employ-
ment in a retail bookseller's shop.
“One object now solely occupied my mind—that
of seeing you ; yet I feared to make any inquiries
about, or even to mention your name, lest my
motive might be suspected. By reference to the
London Directory, I found out what I imagined to
be your town residence, and every evening I paced
up and down before your house in the hope of
getting even one glimpse of you, for my very heart
yearned within me to see you. º * .
“After the lapse of some months I discovered
that you left town at four o'clock in the afternoon,
and as I was rarely sent messages, or had any
opportunity of going to the city during the morning,
was almost inclined to give up my pursuit in
despair, when an apparently accidental circumstance,
which I need not now recall to your recollection,
placed me in your employment.
“I entered your office with a throbbing heart
and an almost fevered brain, but the stern dignity
of your deportment chilled my blood, and I was
soon hopeless of ever ºf your affections. My
youthful dream had fled. I felt that I could not
love you; yet I resolved to be useful to you, and to
discharge all my duties faithfully. I wished to
gain your confidence, and, as it were, to compel
you to respect the outcast who fed upon the crumbs
which ſell from your table. I sometimes thought
upon the subject until my heart was ready to burst.
During the four years spent in your office my con-
duct was faultless towards you; nor was I to blame
for the neglect of duty which caused us to separate.
That neglect proceeded from your legitimate son;
but when he did not come forward to clear me, I
scorned to clear myself. gº
“From the moment we parted my mind became
imbued with feelings of the deepest despair. Hav-
ing unjustly lost that confidence which I had labored
for years to gain, I became firmly persuaded that I
should never again succeed in any undertaking. I
felt myself to be as the son of the bondwoman who
was to be cast out, but my fate to be harder than
that of Ishmael, for I had no mother to accompany
me and to watch over my wanderings. I believed
that henceforth my hand should be against every
man, and every man's hand against me. g
“I walked the whole day without feeling need
of bodily sustenance. Towards night, as I instinc-
tively bent my steps towards my lodgings, I met
with an old acquaintance, who had for a few
months been my fellow-clerk in your office. He
asked me to turn with him; I did so, although I
had long known him to be a young man of loose
habits. He brought me to a gambling-house, and
asked me to enter and try my fortune. I com-
plied unresistingly, and had at first what are called
a few lucky hits. My attention was arrested, and
my mind strongly excited. I remained there two
days and nights, and thenceforward became the
companion of gamblers and sharpers. When suc-
cessful in obtaining money, I drowned care in all
manner of riotous living, and at other times I was
reduced to the very brink of starvation. It was at
one of those periods of desperation, when every
resource had failed with myself and my companions,
that we plaimed the robbery for which I am now
about to suffer. I suggested your house, recollect-
ing a box in the office where a considerable sum of
ready money for private expenses was usually kept;
º
620
*
STRAY LEAves, BY
and I offered my services upon condition that we
should go unarmed, for, guilty as I was, I shuddered
at the thoughts of shedding blood, and I calculated
upon the old housekeeper only being in the house
as usual. The idea that you would sleep in town
that fatal night did not enter my head, for I had
never known you to do so before. The blow which
rou received as you entered the office with a light
in your hand, I again most solemnly protest was
not given by me; it was given by one of my guilty
companions as he made his escape, and it was for
your sake that I did not follow him. I remained
behind to raise you up, and, if necessary, to call for
help; for at that moment every selfish feeling was
lost in my intense anxiety for your restoration.
Once more I loved you as my father; I pressed you
to my heart, and I resolved the instant your recol-
lection returned to tell you who I was, and to cast
myself upon your mercy. But you opened your
eyes only to identify me as the watchman entered,
and I was carried off as a murderer, literally stained
with your blood, which had flowed upon me from
the wound you had received in your fall, and which
I had torn off my neckcloth to bind up.
“I have made innumerable efforts to obtain an
interview with you, but could not succeed; and a
regard for truth and for your reputation, which
amid’ all my wanderings I had never wholly lost,
prevented me from . in a third person.
“My life is now forfeited; no effort of yours can
save it. Why then do I make this disclosure? Is
it prompted by revenge! I hope it is not; but that
it may be a means of awakening in your mind the
repentance which I trust I have experienced. My
only hope is that of the thief on the cross. Much
human feeling appears to pervade this letter, for
which I implore forgiveness. It has been written
at long and distressing intervals, and I cannot now
revise it.
“I enclose you a letter in my mother's hand-
writing, and a book which you gave her, in order
that you may be convinced that no impostor addresses
you. I know not what to subscribe myself, but
that which I am,
“A ConDEMNED FELON.”
STRAY LEAVES, BY A SUFFolk Rector.
Judging from internal evidence, we should not
have ascribed this volume to a clergyman, much
less to a rector.” There is nothing about it to
suggest the classic, the university, or even the
diffuse though measured and scholarly style of a
divine. The only professional trait is rather medi-
cal than clerical; and consists of that imposing
sort of confidence which physicians, or men claim-
ing to be physicians, exhibit at pleasure-towns,
º people congregate without any defined posi-
tion, and those get the foremost place who, like
young Cibber in the Dunciad, take it.
Stray Leaves from - a Freemason's Note-book
smacks a good deal more of the practised littérateur
than of the parish-rector. The leading points of a
subject are seized; incidents which the writer has
seen, or anecdotes which he may have heard, are
cleverly pressed into his service, and turned to
account, so as to give a dramatic air to the narra-
tive; the style is rapid and forcible, but rather
strained than natural. Whenever the author
undertakes a story, his characters and incidents are
exaggerated, in the manner of a person accustomed
* It reminds us of some sketches in the Boston Atlas.
—Liv. Age.
A SUFFOLK RECTOR.
to sacrifice truth and probability to a coarse effect;
and he does not succeed in impressing the reader
with his accuracy; so that his anecdotes when
professing to be matters of fact are not received
with implicit confidence. It is probable that he has
heard them, not invented them; it is possible that
they may be true; but a strong doubt lurks in the
mind as to whether the writer received them in the
way he represents, which of course raises misgiv-
ings as to the authenticity of the stories themselves,
The volume, as may be inferred from the title, is
a set of miscellaneous papers. Except a few tales,
they are substantially reminiscences by the author;
sometimes consisting of a series of anecdotes of an
individual, of whom the writer professes a personal
knowledge—as, “Sir William Webb Follett in
Early Life,” whose schoolfellow he represents
himself to have been ; others, like that of “Can-
ning in Retirement,” are bits of biography, but
resting on no authority, and, with the doubtful
impression we have already spoken of, they do not
produce the effect which as mere literary efforts
they ought to attain. There are a few essays—as
the “Half-a-dozen Words about the Poor,”-
specious, but not very practical; and a few tales
distinguished by clever force, but untruthful exag- .
geration. Several have already appeared in peri-
odical publications—as “The Foreign Sorceress
and the British Statesman,” a German sort of
story of Canning and Huskisson going to a Parisian
fortune-teller and having their deaths exactly repre-
sented. “The Measure Meted out to others
Measured to us again” appeared in Blackwood;
and it has the rapidity, startling effects, and clever
management of the narrative, which distinguish
the high-spiced tales of the author of the “Diary
of a late Physician,” with an equal disregard of
probability.
Assuming the truth of the following story of
Canning, it is not a bad one. The mimicry must
have been rich. *
“One peculiarity he possessed, which is but
partially known—his thorough remembrance of a
voice, and his ability of connecting it at any inter-
val of time with the party to whom it belonged.
More than one instance of this faculty is remem-
bered at Hinckley.
“He was dining with a large party at Mr.
Cheshyre's, the medical gentleman before referred
to, when a note was brought in and handed to the
host, with an intimation that the bearer begged to
see him for five minutes.
“Mr. C. left his party with reluctance, and was
absent some time. When he returned, he prefaced
his lengthy apologies by observing, he “had been
detained by one of the most remarkable men of the
day;’ that the gentleman “was by accident passing
through Hinckley, and could not pause on his
route; that he ‘purposed placing one of his family
under his (Mr. Cheshyre's) care;’ and that “he
(Mr. C.) was obliged to listen to all his arrange-
ments.”
“‘I will name him,' said Canning, gayly; “and
then drink his health.”
“‘The latter point may be very easily managed;
but the former will, I believe, baffle even your
acuteness, Mr. Canning.”
“This was said with some degree of tartness';
for among other affectations which the wealthy
quack indulged in was that of profound mystery
with respect to the most trivial occurrences.
“‘Your visitor, sir, was Wilberforce,’ said
JCanning, stoutly.
AGE OF EGYPT-ASTRONOMICAL PROFESSORSHIP--ITALY.
621
“‘How could you possibly discover that?' cried
his annoyed host. “We conversed with closed
doors—he sent in no card—as we parted, he spoke
but five words.”
“‘Of which I heard but two.’
“‘What were they?’
“‘Conventional arrangement,' said, Canning,
imitating Wilberforce's distinct pronunciation, and
dwelling on each separate syllable.”
Here are traits of Follett in boyhood. The
master of the school was the Lempriere of the
Classical Dictionary.
“Equally judicious was the doctor's estimate of
the late attorney-general. ‘Webb Follett is not
brilliant, but he is solid; he will not snatch, but
he will earn distinction. I shall not live to see it;
but it will be so.”
“Now, this conclusion was the more curious
because Follett was not one of those spirits who
hit peculiarly the doctor's taste. Follett, as a boy,
was rather slow. There is no use in denying it.
There was at school nothing dashing or brilliant
about him. His articulation in boyhood was thick;
and his demeanor somewhat sluggish. Now,
sharpness, quickness, and readiness, the doctor
delighted in. Again : Follet was not fond of clas-
sics; the doctor revelled in them. And yet he
appreciated his pupil and did him justice. In
proof of this, I well recollect that when one of the
under-masters (Osborne was the reverend gentle-
man's name) said to the doctor, after a hasty peru-
sal, " Webb Follett's verses, sir, want imagina-
tion,” the rejoinder instantly followed—“But, sir,
they possess—what many verses do not, sense !.
“There was one peculiarity about the late
attorney-general in boyhood, which, I am inclined
to think, accompanied him in after-life. He pos-
sessed the entire confidence of our little community.
The sentiment he inspired, generally was respect.
• Well that's Webb Follett's opinion,’ was a
dictum which settled many a boyish quarrel and
stilled many an angry difference. Perhaps this
might mainly be owing to his manner; for even in
boyhood he was calm, and graye, and self-pos-
sessed. There was a composedness about him
which no petty irritations could ruffle. Webb
Follett in a passion would have been a rare specta-
cle on the play-ground.'' º
The following anecdotes are attributed to the
Duke of Sussex, and are professed to be told to
the author during a visit to Newstead, by a “mid-
dle-aged, military-looking man.” They aro “curi-
ous if true.”
THE PRINCEss CHARLOTTE.
“The prince regent had little real affection for
his daughter. The fact is, he feared her! The
day after he learnt her demise, his comment on the
event to one of his intimates was this—"The nation
will lament her, but to me it is a relief!’”
THE DUKE OF well,INGTON AND LORD CASTLE-
REAGII.
“The regard which the duke felt for Lord Cas-
tlereagh was great, undissembled, and enduring to
the last. It puzzled most people. No one could
well account for it, because no two men had less in
common as to habits and character. The duke, all
soldierly frankness; the foreign secretary, steeped
in tracasserie, finesse, and diplomatic manoeuvres.
The duke speaks, and . seize at once his
meaning; Lord Castlereagh rounded sentence after
sentence, and you knew as much of his real bent
and object when he had finished as when he
began ' It shows, however, how deeply the duke
had studied the diplomatist, since he was the first
to notice Lord Castlereagh's aberration of intellect.
He mentioned it first to the king, and then to his
colleagues. His impression was deemed ill-
founded; so fixed, however, was it in the duke's
mind, that, some days before the event, he said to
a dependent of the minister—one of his secretaries,
if I mistake not—‘Watch his lordship carefully;
his mind is going.’”
THE LATE QUEEN CAROLINE.
“One and not the least curious feature in the
affair was, that the regent was kept fully informed,
by some unsuspected agent, of the daily life of his
unfortunate consort. He was in full possession of
all her movements. She never had a party but he
knew who composed it. She never took a jour-
ney without the route and the incidents of travel
being reported to him in detail. Every escapade
of hers was duly chronicled, and faithfully too; for
when proceedings were finally taken, the subordi-
nate law people—those who had the getting-up of
the case—found the king more au fait of the whole
business than they were themselves. “Amend that,’
said he, on one occasion ; “you are wrong as to
time. The date of that transaction is so and so,”
—naming the day accurately; “and the parties
present were these ;’ and he repeated their names
one by one. Great pains were taken to ascertain
the king's informant; but in vain.” -
Some of the papers are defensive or illustrative
of masonic character and virtues, so far as these
may be unfolded to the uninitiated. The profits
of the book are to be devoted to the fund for the
H. “Asylum for the Aged and Decayed
reemason.”
The Age of Egypt.—“The massive temples and
obelisks covered with hieroglyphics, and the colossal
statues, which have already outlived three thousand
years, prove the high civilization of the kingdom, even
before the Jews had become a people, before the Greeks
had got an alphabet.”—Sharpe's Egypt.
New ASTRoNoMicAL Professorship.–The French
government is about to establish a new professorship
of Le Mecanique céleste for M. Le Verrier, whose math-
ºl calculations led to the discovery of the new
planet.
ITALY.—Affairs in Rome are assuming a strange
aspect of free activity. The first number of an
English weekly newspaper, called the Roman Adver-
tiser, had appeared, and a list is given of five other
new papers on the eve of publication. One, La Giu-
risprudenza, is intended to report criminal trials, which
have hitherto been conducted in Secret.
The embarrassed state of the public finances is one
of the difficulties which beset the career of the new
pontiff. But he addresses himself with vigor to the
task; and, finding that the evil cannot be met by the
abolition of sinceures and reductions in his own house-
hold, he has broached the project of an income-tax.
At the same time, the taxes on Salt and on corn
ground at the mill (most oppressive to the peasantry)
are to be abolished. -
Fanny Elssler has been at the Vatican. She was
presented to the Pope by Colonel Pfyffer, of the Swiss
Guard; and Pius blandly said, that “talent in every
department of human excellence was ever welcome
to his dominions,”
622
CORRESPONDENCE OF JOHN, Fourth Duke of BEDFord.
\
From the Examiner.
Correspondence of John, Fourth Duke of Bedford:
selected from the Originals at Woburn Abbey.
With an Introduction. By Lord John Russell.
Longman & Co.
Tiiis, the third and last volume of the Bedford
Cºrrespondence, deals with the last ten years of the
life of the duke, and the first ten of the reign of
George the Third. The Introduction by Lord
John Russell is more important and detailéd than
those which preceded the former volumes; and we
propose, with brief preface, to lay such extracts
from it before the reader, as appear to us-to contain
valuable illustrations of this much disputed though
not very creditable period of history.
Lord John Russell is too sagacious and sound a
critic to rate too highly the political or other virtues
of the time. He frankly admits the loose and dis-
cordant condition of that once great whig party
which, in the interval between Walpole's fall and
the death of George the Second, had to contend
with the “unbending ambition and sullen discon-
tent” of the elder Pitt. They were “divided from
each other by personal predilections, and not by
distinct lines of policy.” “Their quarrels and
their friendships were precarious and capricious.”
“There was no reason why any one statesman should
not join with any other statesman to whom he had
been the week before most opposed.” There was
no “great question in dispute, like the revolution
settlement, or the American war, or the French
war, upon which parties widely separated in opin-
ion could take their stand.” Än this is true ; and
we doubt if Lord John Russell has given it suffi-
cient weight in his severer judgments of the char-
acter and conduct of Pitt. Without undertaking
to say in what precise proportions the defects of
that great statesman, should be divided between his
ambition and his gout, we say that beyond all
question his virtues were rare and remarkable in
that age, and wholly peculiar to himself. “Had
the character of Mr. Pitt been more conciliatory,
his great qualitics might have rallied around him a
national party.” Not, we suspect, in the sense
intended by Lord John Russell. The men he has
himself so justly described were not the men for
any such project or alliance. The truth is that the
only approach to anything of a national party ever
made in those days, was really made by Pitt. If
he failed to consolidate it, it was because he stood
erect, while every one else was shuffling or crawl-
ing. Lord John Russell implies that he had no
fixed principles. He had no solid party attach-
ments; but there may be fixed principles indepen-
dent of these—such as the caring for a country and
a people. Pitt cared for both ; and it was because,
as we firmly believe, there was not another states-
man of the time who had the heart to think of
them or the courage to face them, that these
Thanes fell from him, and he failed in his later
designs. There was hardly a colleague or a rival
that did not ordinarily employ deceit, truckling,
and servility, as a part of that stock-in-trade which
it was Pitt's fixed principle to. disregard and de-
spise. Is such a man to be judged by the measure
of such associates? What says Lord John Russell
himself (and it is most happily said) of the fitness
of the time itself to supply even the means of
judgment on such a man “Neither did there
exist any large atmosphere of public opinion in
which politicians moved. In the confined space,
from which the air was excluded, the guinea and
the feather were of equal weight.” s
We can point out no other defect in Lord John
Russell’s able and most spirited introduction to the
contents of this volume, than that which we have
|indicated (and which was almost inseparable from
a natural desire to windicate his ancestor's memory)
of a tendency to overrate the value of peculiar
party and family combinations. We are not insen-
sible to the vast good which has been achieved by
such means on great occasions of our history; but
we think there have also been times, and that
Lord Chatham's was one of them, when those
party views and family organizations have substi-
tuted factitious duties for the higher moral and
national responsibilities. Certain it is, however,
that, if an intelligent and honest love of party may
be forgiven in any statesman—in the case of one
who, like Lord John Russell, has been one of its
noblest and most unswerving representatives in
modern history, and who by its means has achieved
public benefits and blessings of no ordinary nature,
it may win both admiration and forgiveness.
We proceed tº give the extracts we have prom-
ised. They will be found not only acute and
sagacious in their general estimates of character, as
well as versed in the nicest details of the political
history and correspondences of the period, but also,
as mere specimens of literary composition, correct,
finished, and powerful. The style loses none of its
weight in its brilliancy and ease.
Lord Bute's notable project on his pupil's acces-
sion to the throne, by which he proposed, as Bubb
Doddington has it, “to recover monarchy from the
inveterate usurpation of oligarchy,” is thus de-
scribed by Lord John Russell . f
“Lord Bute appears to have thought that he
could govern a constitutional monarchy, as a favor-
ite courtier might govern a despotic state, solely by
the will of the prince. He wished to glide upon
the scene without ostentation, and unfold gradually
his pretensions and his powers. But the execution
of such a scheme was dangerous, and might prove,
as it did prove, fatal to his creeping ambition. He
entertained a design of becoming secretary of state,
by making Lord Holderness pretend to quarrel with
his colleagues, and resign in apparent anger. Dut
this indirect and cowardly expedient was not rel-
ished even by Bubb Doddington, and served only
to show how unequal his mind was to his fortune.
The Duke of Newcastle therefore remained First
Lord of the Treasury, thwarted indeed by the un-
derhand cunning of the favorite, but in the apparent
possession of his former eminence. “There is
nothing new under the sun,” said Horace Walpole.
“Nor under the grandson,’ replied George Sel-
WWII. -
y Notwithstanding these outward signs, the Earl
of Bute had conceived, and successfully instilled
into his pupil, a new scheme of foreign and domes"
tic policy. In regard to the former, while he was
averse to a sudden abandonment of our continental
allies, and a relaxation of our maritime exertions,
he wished to calm down the warlike fervor of the
nation, and to secure the repose of Europe by an
honorable peace. -
“In respect to domestic affairs, he aimed at nº
less than the dissolution of party connexions, an
the supremacy of the king over the parliament-
‘Mettre le Roy hors do page,’ says Mr. Burke,
* became a sort of watchword.’ And it was CQR"
stantly in the mouths of all the runners of the
correspondence of John, FourTH DUKE of Bedford.
623
court that nothing could preserve the balance of the
constitution from being overturned by the rabble,
or by a faction of the nobility, but to free the sov-
ereign effectually from that ministerial tyranny
under which the º dignity had been oppressed
in the person of his filajesty's grandfather.”
In a later passage, the qualities of prudence and
caution requisite for the conduct of so refined a
scheme are inferred from the opening acts of the
young king's reign : g
“That the project df restoring to the crown that
absolute direction and control which Charles the
First and James the Second had been forced to
relinquish, and from which George the First, and
George the Second, hād, quietly abstained, was
entertained and attempted by George the Third,
can hardly be doubted:
“It must be owned, that the moment was in
many respects eminently auspicious to the execu-
tion of such a plan. The Stuarts, as Mr. Adolphus
remarks, had fallen into contempt ; and the whig
families were no longer necessary to guard the
parliamentary title of the house of Hanover. Let
us add to this, that the whigs were themselves
broken into sections, separately weak, and too
iealous of each other to combine. The Duke of
ewcastle, the ancient chief of the party, had low-
ered himself by folly, and his party by corruption.
Lord Holland was hated, and could not stand alone ;
Mr. Pitt was haughty and self-willed, and had
broken his connexion with the other whig chiefs;
the Duke of Bedford, in his eagerness for peace,
had acted with and under Lord Bute. Nor was
the king deficient in the prudence and caution
requisite for the conduct of a refined scheme. .
. “A trifling incident which occurred on his acces-
sion, showed the power he had acquired over his
countenance and manner. He had arranged before-
hand with one of his grandfather's attendants, that
a particular message or note should signify to him
the death of George the Second. The note was
brought to him when he was riding. He showed
no emotion; but observing that his horse was
lame, turned his head homewards; when he got
off his horse, he told the groom in a whisper that
he had said the horse was lame, and desired that
he might not be contradicted:, . - -
“A trying temptation exhibited the king to his
subjects in a most favorable light. His two prede:
cessors arriving at the throne at a mature age, had
given the example of a court where immorality
was combined with monotony, and vice reigned
together with dulness. The young prince was not
insensible to the charms of beauty. His attentions
to Lady Sarah Lennox were soon remarked, and
there can be little doubt that her uncle, Lord Hol-
land, entertained hopes of an alliance of the house
of Richmond with the throne. But these symp-
toms of a growing passion were speedily arrested;
grave reasons of state were allowed to prevail, and
a princess of Mecklenburg Strelitz was invited to
preside over a family, where a F. sovereign
gave an example to his subjects 9 moral purity.
“Such a prince was well fitted to acquire an as-
cendant over a people attached to the domestic
virtues, and unaccustomed to self-denial on the
throne.” . º º
Nevertheless wo. may doubt if so considerable
and confessed a proficiency in hypocrisy and false-
hood may fairly be ranked with the domestic virtues
and self-denials, or offer to a people the right kind
of example of moral purity. Lord John Russell
thinks it necessary to remark, in the course of his
essay, that it has been the fate of George the Third
to have his faults greatly exaggerated; but, desir-
ing to be an honest historian, he cannot refrain, in
a later passage, from adding his own high authority
not the less weighty for its courteous phrase, to the
bitter chronicle of those faults. Translate “re-
serve” into its plainer word, and add to it “in-
trigue,” “foolish prejudices,” “want of charity,”
“brooding sullenness,” “antipathies,” “obstina-
cy,” and “narrow intellect;” and there is wanting
no single trait of that most unlovely character,
which it is the preposterous office of the Adolphuses
of history to hold forth as a pattern of the public
and private virtues. -
“”. The child was father to the man.” The same
facility in imbibing foolish prejudices; the same
obstimacy in adhering to them; the same want of
frankness in his intercourse with men, and the
same want of charity in his religious principles;
the same strength of memory for those who offended
him, and the same brooding sullenness against
those who opposed his will, which had been ob-
scrved in the boy, were manifest in the king
Thus it happened that for several years he made
the punishment of Wilkes a darling project of his
government; that when that mock patriot grew
tired of brawling, the subjection of America be-
came the prevailing object of the royal policy; and
that, at a later period, the exclusion of the Irish
people from the privileges of the constitution, ab-
sorbed his narrow intellect and grew into a passion.
Thus, too, it happened, that on the occasion of the
repeal of the Stamp Act, in 1767, and on the pro-
posal of Mr. Fox's India bill in 1784, the ostensible
ministers of the crown were treated with reserve
and dissimulation ; while the lords of the bed-
chamber and the party of the king's friends re-
ceived their private instructions to oppose the
measure to which the royal sanction had apparently
been given. The treatment of Lord Grenville and
Lord Grey, in 1807, on the subject of the Roman
Catholics, was marked by similar reserve, and not
very dissimilar intrigues. Thus too it happened
that statesmen of great weight in parliament were
for many years excluded from the king's councils
by the obstinacy of personal resentment, or the
antipathies of an uncharitable temper.” .
A few sentences which follow these, in summing
up the effects of even a partial success of this inau-
spicious system, and speculating on what its more
prolonged results might have been, contain thoughts
which, coming from Lord John Russell, will be read
with peculiar interest in reference to late transac-
tlons :
“The will of a prince of the most ordinary un-
derstanding, of the most confined education, and of
the most unhappy opinions, was made to prevail
over the enlightened views of Lord Chatham, Lord
Rockingham, Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Pitt.
One of the great distinctions of a free country, that
of being governed by its ablest men, was at several
periods of this reign entirely lost. The utmost
confusion prevailed for the first ten years of this
inauspicious system. Nothing indeed but the mag-
nitude of the danger which the country incurred at
the end of the American and the commencement of
the French wars, prevented George the Third from
ruling the country by the Jenkinsons and the Ad-
dingtons, and excluding the greatest of his subjects
altogether from the councils of the state.
“Party has no doubt its evils; but all the cvils
of party put together would be scarcely a grain in
the balance, when compared to the dissolution of
624
CORRESPONDENCE OF JOHN, FourTH DUKE OF Bedford.
honorable friendships, the pursuit of selfish ends,
the want of concert in council, the absence of a set-
tled policy in foreign affairs, the corruption of sep-
arate statesmen, the caprices of an intriguing court,
which the extinction of party connexion has
º and would again bring upon this country.
“I have gone over the story of those times, be-
cause it appears to me they are full of instruction
and of warning.”
We shall not here discuss the much-vexed ques-
tion of the reviled peace of '63. Lord John Russell
seems less disposed heartily to defend his ancestor's
share in it, than any other transaction of his public
career. But upon incidental points he clears away
some doubt; and, in reference to the immediate
cause of Pitt's resignation (the war with Spain) not
having been the main ground of difference between
him and the majority of the cabinet, has a remark
which will probably be twisted into the service of
matters under present discussion. Great have been
the changes in public feeling since the Duke of
Bedford's time; so great, that the promotor of a just
war would be, now-a-days, much more in danger
of being stoned than the negotiator of an unjust
peace;—and, looking at this condition of popular
feeling, we may fairly congratulate ourselves, with-
out entering into the old dispute as between a Bute
and a Chatham, on possessing a prime minister
to whom the “most prudent policy” scems prefer-
able to “the most daring,” in everything which
concerns the good understanding of England and
France.
“He had avowed that, in his opinion, no peace
ought to be concluded with France, until she con-
sented to give up the fishery of Newfoundland, the
chief nursery of her seamen. The Duke of Bed-
ford, on the other hand, persuaded Lord Bute and
the Duke of Newcastle that it was neither reason-
able nor practicable to deprive France of the means
of supplying her navy with seamen, by the encour-
agement and maintenance of her fisheries. The
}. of Mr. Pitt was the most daring—that of the
uke of Bedford the most prudent. With the one
course, joined to the haughty language of Mr. Pitt,
nothing but the most complete destruction of her
resources would have induced France to consent to
peace : with the other, England greatly augmented
her dominions, husbanded her resources, and gained
at the same time a character for moderation.
“When the treaty arrived in London, Lord
Granville, who after being the most turbulent, had
become the most complying member of the cabinet,
was sinking into the grave. Mr. Wood, the under
secretary, brought him the treaty of peace. “I
found him so languid,” says this gentleman, “that I
proposed postponing my business for another time;
but he insisted that I should stay, saying it could
not prolong his life to neglect his duty. He then
desired to hear the treaty read, to which he listened
with great attention, and recovered spirits enough
to declare the approbation of a dying statesman (I
use his own words) on the most glorious war and
the most honorable peace this nation ever saw.”
“But whatever might be the calm judgment of
a statesman, the power of Lord Bute received a
reat blow from the signature of the peace of Paris.
The conquering soldier could not bear to be stopped
in his career; a nation proud of its victories bore
with indignation the dismissal of the minister who
had organized success, and the restoration of any
art of its conquests to a defeated enemy. The
}. of Bedford was hissed in the streets of Lon-
don; Lord Bute was everywhere reviled, as if he
had sacrificed for his own advantage all the fruits
of victory and conquest.
This character of George Grenville may stand
even side by side with that by Mr. Macaulay :
“He was bold and resolutéain character, firm in
maintaining his opinions, and little, perhaps too
little, disposed to modify them for the sake of con-
cert, or to renounce them when shown to be im-
racticable. Without the large conceptions of Mr.
itt, he was equally removed from those lower
views of interest which had turned Mr. Fox aside
from the charge of the public weal to the care of
his private fortune. Forming to himself a rule
characteristic of his love of method, he resolved to
spend no more money in the periods he held office
than in those he was unsalaried, in order, as he
explained it, that he might be above the tempta-
tions of place for the saké of luxury or enjoyment.
His integrity was equal to that of Mr. Pitt. But
it must be owned that his severe attacks on the
prodigality of that minister brought to mind the
fact that for many years he sat silent as treasurer
of the navy, suffering profusion to go unrebuked.
His subsequent censure partook somewhat of an
‘envy of great Caesar.” He had been raised by
Lord Bute to a cabinet office during the prepara-
tions for peace ; had gone, from being secretary of
state, to the post of first lord of the admiralty, be-
cause he disapproved of some of the terms allowed
to France, and had declined to take the leading
part in defence of the treaty in the house of com-
mons against Mr. Pitt and his friends. His chief
fault was that for which Mr. Burke has noted him,
too great a reliance on the precedents on the file,
and too obstinate an adherence to plans of govern-
ment unwisely conceived and unfortunately pursued.
This failing, again, arose in great part from a want
of sympathy with the assertion of free principles,
where no book could be quoted for his guidance. .
He could denounce with vehemence any failure of
vigor, and glow with indignation against an exer-
tion of power not warranted by law. But where
the confines of legality and liberty had not been de-
fined, he sided with authority; and when a formal
decision had been made, he mistook the fiction of
parliamentary º for a reality of the Eng-
lish constitution. IIis style of speaking was solid,
argumentative, vigorous, but not exalted by fancy,
like that of Mr. Pitt, nor quick and dexterous, like
that of Mr. Fox, nor smooth and harmonious, like
that of Lord Mansfield. Such was the new first
lord of the treasury, and chancellor of the ex-
chequer.” -
Another happy sketch of the unhappy Chatham
administration, may remind us of the best touches
of the same admirable master:
“Then was formed that famous ministry of Lord
Chatham, in which Lord Chatham was a cipher; a
ministry which overturned his whole plan of poli-
cy; persecuted Wilkes till they had nearly raised
a rebellion in England; contradicted their supposed
chief in every step, and then contradicted and disa-
vowed each other; taxed America, with Mr. Con-
way in office, the repealer of the stamp act, and
still the nominal leader of the house of commons ;
entered into a conflict with the electors of Middle-
sex, against the opinion of Lord Camden, their
chancellor; and finally brought upon their heads
the voice of Lord Chatham's thunder, when he in
vain endeavored to compose the waves which his
own AFolus had lashed into fury.”
Every one knows the Duke of Bedford's cele-
brated interview with the king, which left his maj:
correspondence of John,
FOURTH IDUKE OF BEDFORD.
625
esty in convulsions, says, Junius ; in which the
duke was brutal, says Burke; in which he covered
the princess-mother with invectives, and threatened
Lord Bute with the block, says Horace Walpole.
Of this never-to-be-forgotten interview, Lord }.
Russell (from a letter of the duke to his son-in-
law, and a memorandum written at the time to the
same effect) supplies the following quiet, account,
which would seem to exhibit it, if in all respects
correct, as one of the most ludicrous of the mares'-
nests of history : . . .
“The Duke of Bedford, angry at the manifest
want of support from the court, asked for an audi-
ence of the king, before he left London for the
summer. The interview took place on the 12th of
June. The duke reminded his majesty of the
terms on which the ministry had consented to re-
sume their offices, and asked whether the promise
made to them had been kept; whether the reverse
was not the fact! whether Lord Bute had not been
favored, and the friends of the ministry discounte-
nanced! Finally, he besought the king ‘to per-
mit his authority and his favor to go together; and
if the last could not be given to his present minis-
ters, to transfer to others that authority which must
be useless in their hands, unless so strengthened.”
The king said little, except that he had not seen
Lord Bute.”
Of course Lord John Russell does not spare that
terrible libeller of his ancestor, who promises to
have the strange fate of continuing both anonymous
and immortal. Who can wonder that any writer
should have shrunk from avowing the infamy of
the scandals of Junius, whatever sacrifice of an-
other kind of fame it might imply? The hand may
be a delicate one, its rufiles of the finest lace, its
sword jewel-mounted and jewel-hilted; but if it
has been mainly used in a dark alley, and in secret
stabbings against life and honor, there are few who
would care to own it!
Lord John Russell thus introduces and describes
Junius: - º
“The war of parties was carried on during the last
century in a manner somewhat different from the
fashion of the present day. The houses of parlia-
ment did not allow their debates to be published.
The imperfect and garbled reports which appeared
in monthly miscellanies gave but a faint and distorted
reflection of the actual contest of debate. The lead-
ing parties in the state, in order to obtain the verdict
of the country, either wrote, or paid for, pamphlets
and periodical writings setting forth their principles
and their conduct. Sir Robert Walpole hired some
indifferent authors; Lord Bolingbroke wrote him-
self in the Craftsman;" Ralph set up a paper at
the desire of the Duke of Bedford ; Dr. Johnson
employed his pen in behalf of the ministry. . In
this state of things, an anonymous writer published
some letters under various signatures in the ‘Pub-
lic Advertiser.” At first, these letters were of the
usual description of such writings, bombastical and
empty, much abuse without any proof, and great
presumption without great talent; Lord Chatham
was the chief object of the writer's extravagant in-
vective, and Mr. Grenville the subject of his equally
extravagant praise. Thus we have Lord Chatham
described as “a man purely and perfectly bad,” and
then depicted as having “arrived at that moment at
which he might see himself within reach of the
great object, to which all the artifices, the intrigues,
the hypocrisy, and the impudence of his past life
were directed.” Then, after an account of his con-
duct we have : ‘These are but a few of the perni-
cious practices by which a traitor may be known,
by which a free people may be enslaved. But the
masterpiece of his treachery, and the surest of an-
swering all his purposes, would be, if possible, to
forment such discord between the mother country
and her colonies as may leave them both an easier
prey to his own dark machinations. With this
patriotic view, he will be ready to declare himself
the patron of sedition, and a zealous advocate for
rebellion.” Then, again, we have him portrayed
as “so black a villain ;’ and a comfortable reflec-
tion at the close, that although we have “no Tar-
peian rock,” “yet we have impeachments; and a
gibbet is not too honorable a situation for the car-
cass of a traitor.” Such was the style of the libel-
ler before he had learnt to point his arrows; such
was his respect for public services, and an honora-
ble old age. Presently more pains were taken;
the style became less inflated, and the matter less
absurd ; the author took the name of Junius, and
suddenly attracted general notice.
“I need hardly vindicate the Duke of Bedford
from the attacks of Junius. Lord Brougham, in his
‘Statesmen of the Reign of George the Third,' has
amply proved the baselessness of his calumnies.
But the whole fabric deserves to be pointed out as
a specimen of the taste and temper of those days.
Let it be first observed, that the favorite topics of
this writer were those from which a man of gener-
ous or even moderately good feelings would have
shrunk. If he writes to George the Third, he bit-
terly reproaches him with the supposed dishonor
of his mother. If he addresses the Duke of Graf.
ton, he reminds him jestingly of the inſidelity of his
wife. If he chooses the Duke of Bedford for his
butt, he brings to mind the sudden death of his only
son, and calls public attention to the measure and
mode of his private grief. To any writer moved
solely by regard for his country, these topics would
have been alien or distasteful. "But it seems to have
been the delight of this libeller to harrow the souls
of those who were prominent in public life; and
while he had not courage to fight with a sword in
the open daylight, he had too much malignity to
refrain from the use of the dagger, covered by a
mask, and protected by the obscurity of the night.
Nor can any excuse be found for this writer in the
warmth of his ardor for public liberty. His zeal
on that subject was wonderfully tempercd by discre-
tion. He viewed favorably the taxation of Amer-
ica, and dreaded as excessive innovation the disfrai:-
chisement of Gatton and Old Sarum. A false accu-
sation gratified his rancor; the improvcment of the
constitution alarmed his caution.
“The habit of anonymous writing is apt to produce
an absurd exaggeration in the language used towards
Statesmen. The writor can, on the one hand, derive
no weight from his reputation for integrity or for
knowledge; an attack without a name may be writ-
ten by the most worthless and ignorant, as well as
by the honestest and most learned of men. On the
other hand, he feels none of that caution which
arises from the consciousness, that while he fires
his rifle, he is exposing his own person to his cnc-
my. It is for these two reasons that we generally
find anonymous writers so much more abusive than
men who speak or write in their own names. The
ſlaunting colors of the daub attract the eye of the
vulgar; while the just harmony of a good portrait
is valued only by those who love a true likeness.”
There is much truth in that; and however widely
on some points our estimate of Junius' talents and
motives may diſſer from Lord John Russell's, we
f
f
*
626 CORRESPONDENCE of John,
FOURTH IDUKE OF BEDFORD.
have never doubted the cruel falsehood and wicked-| “Mr. Fox never thought very highly of this
ness of his imputations in this particular case.
Compared with the innocent entries of the duke's
journal, here authentically republished, the violence
of the libeller should now, indeed, chiefly provoke
a smile. Lord John Russell condescends to aſſord
them this serious and sufficient answer:
“Such false drawing as that of Junius does much
to corrupt the public judgment. It is of the utmost
importance that a nation should have a correct stand-
ard by which to weigh the character of its rulers.
But if the weak and the misguided are called ‘trai-
tors’ and ‘villains,”—still more, if purity of conduct
is made the theme of invective, as much as notori-
ous dishonesty, the good are discouraged, the bad
are comforted, and the indolent opinion of the idle
multitude confounds in one sweeping condemnation
the most unblemished of patriots with the most
greedy of demagogues and the most corrupt of
COUlrtierS.
“The special accusations against the Duke of
Bedford may be soon disposed of Indeed, they
almost vanish when they are pressed into substance.
For instance, that the duke had been beaten on a
race-course. The fact was, that he had been
assaulted by some Jacobite rioters, in the Jacobite
county of Stafford, two years after the rebellion.
Or, that he had been paid for the peace of Paris.
The proof of this baseless fiction was, that the
Duke of Marlborough had refused a bribe from
Torcy during the Succession War! Or, thirdly,
tiſat he had shown less grief than he should have
done for the death of his son. But who can sound
the depths of a private sorrow? Or who will ven-
ture to affirm that a vote given at the India House,
on a great public question, may not have been the
vain attempt of an afflicted heart to break a single
link in the chain of a continuous sorrow? I need
not notice the low tale, that the Duke and Duchess
of Bedford had sold the wardrobe of their son and
daughter-in-law. These effects were given, as was
the practice, to the immediate servants of Lord and
Lady Tavistock, and sold by them for their own
benefit. Indeed, there was nothing sordid in the
duke's attention to his fortune. When his son had
chosen a wife whom the duke approved, Walpole
says, “the duke asked no questions about fortune,
but has since slipped a bit of paper into Lady Eliz-
abeth's hand, j. her he hoped his son would
live; but if he did not, there was something for
her. It was a jointure of three thousand a year,
and six hundred pin money." He allowed his son
cight thousand a year, and on his death increased
the jointure of Lady Tavistock.
“It must be acknowledged, however, that Junius
was a most accomplished libeller. Although he
was no lawyer, and had but a smattering of consti-
tutional knowledge, his statements on legal and
constitutional questions are clear and plausible, his
periods concise and harmonious ; his epigram
ointed, and his sarcasm exquisitely polished.
These qualities, together with the proneness of
mankind to believe the false, and doubt the true,
sufficiently account for the great popularity of Ju-
IRIUIS .
‘I,’homme est de feu pour le mensonge; . .
Il est de glace pour la vérité.”—La Fontaine.
writer; nor can his letters bo regardcd otherwise
than as a disgraceful proof that considerable talents
may be devoted to the most malignant slander, and
that calumnies may be so elaborately contrived as
to exist beyond the usual period of their ephemeral
and loathsome life.”
“Whither,” asked Junius, the year before the
duke died, “whither shall this unhappy old man
retire? Can he remain in the metropolis : If he
returns to Woburn, scorn and mockery await him.
He must create a solitude round his estate, if he
would avoid the face of reproach and derision.”
And, meanwhile, the unhappy old man was playing
games of Quadrille, dining with the Catch Club,
trifling with the Society of Diletanttes, enjoying
Ariana at the Opera house, or Thomas and Sally
at Drury Lane, seeing Master Townshend in Cato,
or the Duke of York in Lothario, welcoming scorn
and mockery that he might admire the Lady Mac.
beth of “incomparable Mrs. Yates,” and avoiding
faces of reproach and derision among the crowds
that ſº to the benefit of Išitty Clive. Poor,
unhappy old man
But his memory may now be at rest. His dis-
tinguished descendant has worthily and nobly
cleared it, of at least all baser matters of reproach;
and closes his labors with this elegant tribute of
contrast to Lord Chesterfield:
“Warm and eager in his disposition, of a social
and cheerful temper, he devoted himself with ardor
to political affairs, enjoyed with keen delight the
playhouse, or the opera, and then turned with
equal animation to see his oats carried, or join in
a game of cricket. He was in many respects a
great contrast to the Earl of Chesterfield. That
accomplished and witty person was often right in
his political views, and always pointed in the expres-
sion of his opinions. The Duke of Bedford was
sometimes very right, and sometimes exceedingly
wrong, but his study of the subject was always
better than the language of his speeches. I,ord
Chesterfield endeavored to imitate the profligacy,
the levity, the neglect of moral duties of the French
nobility. The Duke of Bedford liked a jolly com-
panion, and an athletic game, but was deeply
attached to the religion of his country and the soci-
ety of his own family. Lord Chesterfield endeav-
ored, though in vain, to teach his son the arts of
intrigue, and a tone of clever insincerity upon all
subjects. The Duke of Bedford attained his ut-
most wishes when he saw his son married to a vir-
tuous woman, and in the enjoyment of domestic
happiness. The want of practical religion and
morals which Lord Chesterfield held up to imita-
tion, conducted the French nobility to the guillo-
tine and emigration ; the honesty, the attachment
to his religion, the country habits, the love of home,
the activity in rural business and rural sports in
which the Duke of Bedford and others of his class
delighted, preserved the English aristocracy from a
flood which swept over half of Europe, laying pros-
trate the highest of her palaces, and scattering the
ashes of the most sacred of her monuments.”
We may apply to the spirit of this pleasing and
pointed parallel what the writer himself happily
says of 1. partial character of Lord Rocking-
ham—it is a portrait set in diamonds.
THREADING THE NEEDLE–TO A YOUNG PRINCESS.
627
Thfieading THE NEEDLE.
[In Mrs. Norton's “Scrap Book for 1847,” Sharp's old
print is thus illustrated by Lady Dufferin:
“Air deary me ! what needles —well, really I
niust say,
All things are sadly altered—(for the worse too)
since my day ! *.
The pins have neither heads nor points—the needles
have no eyes,
And there 's ne'er a pair of scissors of the good old-
fashioned size *
The very bodkins now are made in fine new-fangled
ways, *
And the good old British thimble—is a dream of
-- other days' r
Now that comes of machinery l—I’m given to
understand
That great folks turn their noses up, at all things
‘done by hand,” g
Altho' its easy proving to the most thick-pated
dunce, * *
That things ar’n’t done the better—for all being
done at once.
I'm sure I often ponder, with a kind of awful dread,
On those bold ‘spinning-jennies,’ that ‘go off, of
their own head ''
Those power-looms and odd machines,—those
- whizzing things with wheels,
That evermore “keep moving !'—besides, one re-
ally feels
So superannuated-like, and laid upon the shelf—
When one sees a worsted stocking, get up, and
knit itself!
“Ah! that comes of those Radicals why, Life's
a perfect storm, º !
A whirlwind of inventions ! with their “Progress'
and “Reform ''
The good old days—the quiet times, that calmly
used to glide, º
Are changed into a steeple-chase, a wild 'cross-
country ride'
A loud view-holloa in our ears-away ! away !
we go ; g # * * .
A-levelling all distinctions, and a-mingling high
and low : g * †
All spurring on, with seats so tight, and principles
so loose,
Whisk! over this old prejudicel-slap-bang! thro'
that abuse ! º
N6 matter why, no matter where ! without a
stop or hitch, * * * * * *
And nobody has time to help his neighbor in the
| ditch
And then, what turns and changes | Good lack
I'd rather be .
A joint-stool in a Pantomime;-than some great
folks I see :
Because in Pantomimes, a stool may turn to any-
thing,
You're not surprised, if chairs step out to dance a
Highland fling !
“A coffee-pot perhaps becomes a mitre by-and-by,
And everything is something else—and nobody
asks why?
But there 's a rage for questioning, and meddling
now-a-days; '
And what one does, don’t matter half so much as
what one says;
And a minister can't change his mind, without such
stir and fuss,
That one would think the ‘public voice’ was some
huge omnibus
Which takes you to a certain
must remain, ; ,
Until the same old Buss may choose—to take you
back again
* * *
point, whereat you
For, (odd enoughs) in all this change, they keep
some order still,
And when they turn,-turn all at once,—like sol-
diers at a drill ;
But wont allow a public man, a private pirouette,
When once his part of Harlequin, or Pantaloon, is
Set.
And that's what makes their Pantomime so dull,
and such a bore, i.
That their joint-stool must still remain—a joint-stool
€WCTIn Ore.
“Now that comes of Newspapers I know in my
young days,
“Least said, and soonest mended,” was a maxim
worthy praise,
But were I to give counsel to the Public—as a
friend,
‘Little said—and nothing written,” is the rule I’d
recommend.
Such snapping-up—and setting down Reporters,
eft and right !
All bent on pinning down a man to lie, in black
and white
Such nº up of Hansardſ such ſlinging in one's
ace, g
Any little lapsus lingua' that may once have
taken place
Such ** and a-proving, and a-calling over
Coals,
As if it really mattered to our poor immortal souls,
That Thingumbob should think or say, on question
so and so,
That foolish things he thought and said—some forty
years ago!
There's one thing in those papers, tho', I'm very
glad to see,
That many more old women think very much like
Iſle :
I'm even told that certain dukes will echo back
my groan,
And sigh for those dear golden days, when we
“left—well, alone . * *
TO A YOUNG PRINCESS.
[From Mrs. Norton's Scrap Book we copy some lines
by the author to the portrait of the Princess of Hohenlöhe
Langenbourg, the Duchess of Kent's grandchild.]
A Lovely, innocent, childlike face; with a happy
smile and most artless grace
Far away be the bitter hour, that shall wither, for
her, life's blooming flower;
Glad be her heart for many a year, though her smile
must lose part of its radiance clear,
And that floating hair must be twisted and curled,
before she is fit for fashion’s world !
A Princess' life, old gossips say, is nothing but
one long !".
But the life of the people of fashion I've known,
seemed more laborious far than my own.
Toiling, racketing, visiting, shopping—in and out
of their carriages popping—
Driving about, they scarcely know where—and
just as they get to Cavendish square,
s
628
Checking the coachman to set them down in a
- totally different part of the town;
Going to parties, breakfasts, and balls, holding
... bazaars, with charity-stalls;–
Writing small billets all day long, to beg for a
- pattern, or copy a song ;
Quarrelling, sneering, struggling, and fretting—
plotting, contriving, racing, and betting,<
Sowing the whirlwind, reaping the storm,-and
going to church on Sundays, for form.
“Sometimes a scheme, afloat in the town, turns
the whole populace upside down ;
Such as the Pageant, (a pretty thought,) which
back the days of § brought,
When the inconvenient rain came down on the
guests of the Marquis of Eglintoun,
And knights took shelter, like common fellows,
beneath the shade of their old umbrellas,
And the Marchioness fair, of Wortleberry, looked
peevish instead of looking merry;
And some of the heroes in armor swore, that the
thing was a most confounded bore,
And that they were sorry (audacious elves') they’d
agreed to make tom-fools of themselves,
And thus exposed all Chivalry's flower, like
Cowper's rose, to be “washed in a shower.’
“Or ‘the Powder Ball,”—when Her Majesty sent,
to the Earl de Grey, to be ‘Earl of Kent;’
When you past your friend and brother by, (who
had shaved his whiskers, and corked his
ey e,)—
And said to some stranger—“How do you do?’—
- because you could n’t tell who was who ;
And every statesman, lord, and minister, was dressed
in something strange and sinister;
And Peel and Russell had given their vote for such
an identical pattern of coat,
That Lord George might have said, if he then had
seen 'em, ‘there was n’t a shade to choose
between 'em.”
And men returned their pious thanks to Heaven,
for not having spindle-shanks,
Or bid their tailors not work by halves, but, making
their tights, add in the calves;
And every one was frantic to know, in what sort
of dress they ought to go,
For very few of them yet had heard of that ‘ro-
coco' monarch, Edward the Third ;
And it really seemed as if something sly had been
leasantly planned by Her Majesty,
To finil her subjects’ empty pates with a few
of the great historical dates.
“But except when events like these “come off,'
the world of fashion is to me enough’;
The ladies drive to Howell & James, and call for
French silks with affected names,
And they tell the languishing lady's maid, that
their gayety’s ‘all for the good of trade;’
And loop their petticoats up with grace, with a
heathenish lot of Cardinal's lace;
Till memory leaves you quite in the lurch,-and
you seem to * in St Peter's church,-
And the worst and most foolish woman there,
with her thoughts the farthest from praise
... and prayer,
In spite of herself, brings visions dim, of the
swinging censer and nasal hymn,
And the little choristers, one by one, passing out
of the southern sun,
END OF
TO A YOUNG PRINCESS.
Into the dark cool marble dome, where the stranger
wonders at mighty Rome !
“Then, in Hyde Park, they “take the air,’ with a
f languid yawn and a quiet stare,
While the same old faces cross their way, they’ve
seen for many and many a day :
For habits are governed by certain rules, in the
School of Fashion, like other scheols ;
For instance, whatever is wrong or right, your
footmen must be of an equal height.
Match them exactly ; John or Jim must n’t be ſat,
if Thomas is slim :
And Samuel should nºt be over tall, if Richard is
five foot nothing at all.
And when parties and fancy-balls are given, it's
as settled as anything under Heaven,
That nothing shall be, which gives any pain to the
Ladies Loud, or the Ladies Blane :
For the Countess of Bustle is hot and proud, and
a violent woman is Lady Loud,
And they cannot permit that their daughters should
be, “share alike” with the rest of society.
Lady Magnolia Loud is pretty, and Lady Amelia
Blane is witty,
And God made them quite of a different race, from
other young ladies,<-who know their
place;
For nothing can be more flatly humble; more will-
ing to polk, to valse, to tumble,
Exactly according to word of command, than the
rest of the young obsequious bänd.
If it were Mrs Tomkins of Stroud, instead of the
Countess Bustle or Loud,
They would call her a vulgar, noisy woman;–but
such a decision were superhuman,
When the lady on whom they pass an opinion, is
queen of a part of Fashion's dominion.
Heavens ! the parties and popularity, they might
risk by even a jocularity,
Levelled at people ‘in certain quarters,’ (to whom
the rest of the world are martyrs')
What easy sympathy seems to pierce their hearts,
for women both false and fierce,
While the joys and sorrows of lesser people might
be cried in vain from the village steeple.
The bare idea that a very fine lady should find her
sunny path grow shady—
The baro idea of a tear in her eye, or a real un-
doubted anxiety—
Is met by a sort of commiscration, that J own has
my blankest admiration,
When I see what suffering claims in vain, the pity
won by affected pain.”
sº
A LETTER from Munich, in the Gazette de Cologne,
mentions that for some time the state of Prince Met-
termich's health has caused serious apprehension.
He engages in no business, and confines his official
activity to conversations. Some time ago it was
reported that the friends of Prince Metternich deemed
it prudent to watch his condition.
THE Morning Post contradicts, on authority, a
poleon Bonaporte was about to marry Miss Burdett
Coutts.
WOL., XI,
report in the French papors that Prince Louis Na-
w