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diff --git a/33452-0.txt b/33452-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a22d2e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/33452-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13625 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, No. V, +October, 1850, Volume I. + + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under +the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or +online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license + + + +Title: Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, No. V, October, 1850, Volume I. + + + +Release Date: August 17, 2010 [Ebook #33452] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF‐8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, NO. V, OCTOBER, 1850, VOLUME I.*** + + + + + + Harper’s + + New Monthly Magazine + + No. V.—October, 1850.—Vol. I. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +Wordsworth—His Character And Genius. +Sidney Smith. By George Gilfillan. +Thomas Carlyle. By George Gilfillan. +The Gentleman Beggar. An Attorney’s Story. (From Dickens’s Household +Words.) +Singular Proceedings Of The Sand Wasp. (From Howitt’s Country Year-Book.) +What Horses Think Of Men. From The Raven In The Happy Family. (From +Dickens’s Household Words.) +The Quakers During The American War. (From Howitt’s Country Year-Book.) +A Shilling’s Worth Of Science. (From Dickens’s Household Words.) +A Tuscan Vintage. +How To Make Home Unhealthy. By Harriet Martineau. +Sorrows And Joys. (From Dickens’s Household Words.) +Maurice Tiernay, The Soldier Of Fortune. (From the Dublin University +Magazine) +The Enchanted Rock. (From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.) +The Force Of Fear. (From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.) +Lady Alice Daventry; Or, The Night Of Crime. (From the Dublin University +Magazine.) +Mirabeau. An Anecdote Of His Private Life. (From Chambers’s Edinburgh +Journal.) +Terrestrial Magnetism. (From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.) +Early History Of The Use Of Coal. (From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.) +Jenny Lind. By Fredrika Bremer. +My Novel; Or, Varieties In English Life. By Pisistratus Caxton. (From +Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.) +The Two Guides Of The Child. (From Dickens’s Household Words.) +The Laboratory In The Chest. (From Dickens’s Household Words.) +The Steel Pen. An Illustration Of Cheapness. (From Dickens’s Household +Words.) +Snakes And Serpent Charmers. (From Bentley’s Miscellany.) +The Magic Maze. (From Colburn’s Monthly Magazine.) +The Sun. (From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.) +The Household Jewels. (From Dickens’s Household Words.) +The Tea-Plant. (From Hogg’s Instructor.) +Anecdotes Of Dr. Chalmers. +The Pleasures Of Illness. (From the People’s Journal.) +Obstructions To The Use Of The Telescope. +Monthly Record Of Current Events. +Literary Notices. +Autumn Fashions. +Footnotes + + + + + + +WORDSWORTH—HIS CHARACTER AND GENIUS. + + + [Illustration: Wordsworth.] + +In a late article on Southey, we alluded to the solitary position of +Wordsworth in that lake country where he once shone the brightest star in +a large galaxy. Since then, the star of Jove, so beautiful and large, has +gone out in darkness—the greatest laureate of England has expired—the +intensest, most unique, and most pure-minded of our poets, with the single +exceptions of Milton and Cowper, is departed. And it were lesemajesty +against his mighty shade not to pay it our tribute while yet his memory, +and the grass of his grave, are green. + +It is singular, that only a few months have elapsed since the great +antagonist of his literary fame—Lord Jeffrey (who, we understand, +persisted to the last in his ungenerous and unjust estimate), left the +bench of human, to appear at the bar of Divine justice. Seldom has the +death of a celebrated man produced a more powerful impression in his own +city and circle, and a less powerful impression on the wide horizon of the +world. In truth, he had outlived himself. It had been very different had +he passed away thirty years ago, when the “Edinburgh Review” was in the +plenitude of its influence. As it was, he disappeared like a star at +midnight, whose descent is almost unnoticed while the whole heavens are +white with glory, not like a sun going down, that night may come over the +earth. One of the acutest, most accomplished, most warm-hearted, and +generous of men, Jeffrey wanted that stamp of universality, that highest +order of genius, that depth of insight, and that simple directness of +purpose, not to speak of that moral and religious consecration, which +“give the world assurance of a man.” He was the idol of Edinburgh, and the +pride of Scotland, because he condensed in himself those qualities which +the modern Athens has long been accustomed to covet and admire—taste and +talent rather than genius—subtlety of appreciation rather than power of +origination—the logical understanding rather than the inventive +insight—and because his name _had_ sounded out to the ends of the earth. +But nature and man, not Edinburgh Castle, or the Grampian Hills merely, +might be summoned to mourn in Wordsworth’s departure the loss of one of +their truest high-priests, who had gazed into some of the deepest secrets +of the one, and echoed some of the loftiest aspirations of the other. + +To soften such grief, however, there comes in the reflection, that the +task of this great poet had been nobly discharged. He _had_ given the +world assurance, full, and heaped, and running over, of what he meant, and +of what was meant by him. While the premature departure of a Schiller, a +Byron, or a Keats, gives us emotions similar to those wherewith we would +behold the crescent moon, snatched away as by some “insatiate archer,” up +into the Infinite, ere it grew into its full glory—Wordsworth, like Scott, +Goethe, and Southey, was permitted to fill his full and broad sphere. + +What Wordsworth’s mission was, may be, perhaps, understood through some +previous remarks upon his great mistress—Nature, as a poetical personage. + +There are three methods of contemplating nature. These are the material, +the shadowy, and the mediatorial. The materialist looks upon it as the +great and only reality. It is a vast solid fact, for ever burning and +rolling around, below and above him. The idealist, on the contrary, +regards it as a shadow—a mode of mind—the infinite projection of his own +thought. The man who stands _between_ the two extremes, looks on nature as +a great, but not ultimate or everlasting scheme of mediation, or +compromise, between pure and absolute spirit and humanity—adumbrating God +to man, and bringing man near to God. To the materialist, there is an +altar, star-lighted heaven-high, but no God. To the idealist, there is a +God, but no altar. He who holds the theory of mediation, has the Great +Spirit as his God, and the universe as the altar on which he presents the +gift of his poetical (we do not speak at present so much of his +theological) adoration. + +It must be obvious, at once, which of those three views of nature is the +most poetical. It is surely that which keeps the two principles of spirit +and matter distinct and unconfounded—preserves in their proper +relations—the soul and the body of things—God within, and without the +garment by which, in Goethe’s grand thought, “we see him by.” While one +party deify, and another destroy matter, the third impregnate, without +identifying it with the Divine presence. + +The notions suggested by this view, which is that of Scripture, are +exceedingly comprehensive and magnificent. Nature becomes to the poet’s +eye “_a great sheet let down from God out of heaven_,” and in which there +is no object “common or unclean.” The purpose and the Being above cast +such a grandeur over the pettiest or barest objects, as did the fiery +pillar upon the sand, or the shrubs of the howling desert of its march. +Every thing becomes valuable when looked upon as a communication from God, +imperfect only from the nature of the material used. What otherwise might +have been concluded discords, now appear only stammerings or whisperings +in the Divine voice; thorns and thistles spring above the primeval curse, +the “meanest flower that blows” gives + + + “Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” + + +The creation is neither unduly exalted nor contemptuously trampled +under-foot, but maintains its dignified position, as an embassador from +the Divine King. The glory of something far beyond association—that of a +divine and perpetual presence—is shed over the landscape, and its +golden-drops are spilled upon the stars. Objects the most diverse—the +cradle of the child, the wet hole of the centipede, the bed of the corpse, +and the lair of the earthquake, the nest of the lark, and the crag on +which sits, half asleep, the dark vulture, digesting blood—are all clothed +in a light the same in kind, though varying in degree— + + + “A light which never was on sea or shore.” + + +In the poetry of the Hebrews, accordingly, the locusts are God’s “great +army;”—the winds are his messengers, the thunder his voice, the lightning +a “fiery stream going before him,” the moon his witness in the heavens, +the sun a strong man rejoicing to run his race—all creation is roused and +startled into life through him—its every beautiful, or dire, or strange +shape in the earth or the sky, is God’s movable tent; the place where, for +a season, his honor, his beauty, his strength, and his justice dwell—the +tenant not degraded, and inconceivable dignity being added to the abode. + +His mere “tent,” however—for while the great and the infinite are thus +connected with the little and the finite, the subordination of the latter +to the former is always maintained. The most magnificent objects in nature +are but the mirrors to God’s face—the scaffolding to his future purposes; +and, like mirrors, are to wax dim; and, like scaffolding, to be removed. +The great sheet is to be _received up_ again into heaven. The heavens and +the earth are to pass away, and to be succeeded, if not by a purely mental +economy, yet by one of a more spiritual materialism, compared to which the +former shall no more be remembered, neither come into mind. Those +frightful and fantastic forms of animated life, through which God’s glory +seems to shine with a struggle, and but faintly, shall disappear—nay, the +worlds which bore, and sheltered them in their rugged dens and eaves, +shall flee from the face of the regenerator. “A milder day” is to dawn on +the universe—the refinement of matter is to keep pace with the elevation +of mind. Evil and sin are to be eternally banished to some Siberia of +space. The word of the poet is to be fulfilled, + + + “And one eternal spring encircles all!” + + +The mediatorial purpose of creation, fully subserved, is to be abandoned, +that we may see “eye to eye,” and that God may be “all in all.” + +That such views of matter—its present ministry—the source of its beauty +and glory—and its future destiny, transferred from the pages of both +Testaments to those of our great moral and religious poets, have deepened +some of their profoundest, and swelled some of their highest strains, is +unquestionable. Such prospects as were in Milton’s eye, when he sung, + + + “Thy Saviour and thy Lord + Last in the clouds from heaven to be revealed, + In glory of the Father to dissolve + Satan with his perverted world; then raise + From the conflagrant mass, purged and refined, + New heavens, new earth, ages of endless date,” + + +may be found in Thomson, in his closing Hymn to the Seasons, in +Coleridge’s “Religious Musings,” (in Shelley’s “Prometheus” even, but +perverted and disguised), in Bailey’s “Festus” (cumbered and entangled +with his religious theory); and more rootedly, although less +theologically, than in all the rest, in the poetry of Wordsworth. + +The secret of Wordsworth’s profound and peculiar love for Nature, even in +her meaner and minuter forms, may lie, perhaps, here. De Quincey seeks for +it in a peculiar conformation of the eye, as if he actually did see more +in the object than other men—in the rose a richer red, in the sky a deeper +azure, in the broom a yellower gold, in the sun a more dazzling ray, in +the sea a finer foam, and in the star a more sparkling splendor, than even +Nature’s own “sweet and cunning” hand put on; but the critic has not +sought to explain the rationale of this peculiarity. Mere acuteness of +vision it can not have been, else the eagle might have _felt_, though not +written, “The Excursion”—else the fact is not accountable why many of weak +sight, such as Burke, have been rapturous admirers of Nature; and so, till +we learn that Mr. De Quincey has looked through Wordsworth’s eyes, we must +call this a mere fancy. Hazlitt again, and others since, have accounted +for the phenomenon by association—but this fails, we suspect, fully to +explain the deep, native, and brooding passion in question—a passion +which, instead of being swelled by the associations of after life, rose to +lull stature in youth, as “Tintern Abbey” testifies. One word of his own, +perhaps, better solves the mystery—it is the one word “consecration”— + + + “The _consecration_ and the poet’s dream.” + + +His eye had been anointed with eye-salve, and he saw, as his +poet-predecessors had done, the temple in which he was standing, heard in +every breeze and ocean billow the sound of a temple-service, and felt that +the grandeur of the ritual, and of its recipient, threw the shadow of +their greatness upon every stone in the corners of the edifice, and upon +every eft crawling along its floors. Reversing the miracle, he saw “trees +as men walking”—heard the speechless sins, and, in the beautiful thought +of “the Roman,” caught on his ear the fragments of a “divine soliloquy,” +filling up the pauses in a universal anthem. Hence the tumultuous, yet +awful joy of his youthful feelings to Nature. Hence his estimation of its +lowliest features; for does not every bush and tree appear to him a +“pillar in the temple of his God?” The leaping fish pleases him, because +its “cheer” in the lonely tarn is of praise. The dropping of the earth on +the coffin lid, is a slow and solemn psalm, mingling in austere sympathy +with the raven’s croak, and in his “Power of sound” he proceeds +elaborately to condense all those varied voices, high or low, soft or +harsh, united or discordant, into one crushing chorus, like the choruses +of Haydn, or of heaven. Nature undergoes no outward change to his _eye_, +but undergoes a far deeper transfiguration to his spirit—as she stands up +in the white robes, and with the sounding psalmodies of her mediatorial +office, between him and the Infinite I AM. + +Never must this feeling be confounded with Pantheism. All does not seem to +him to be God, nor even (strictly speaking) divine; but all seems to be +immediately _from_ God—rushing out from him in being, to rush instantly +back to him in service and praise. Again the natal dew of the first +morning is seen lying on bud and blade, and the low voice of the first +evening’s song becomes audible again. Although Coleridge in his youth was +a Spinozist, Wordsworth seems at once, and forever, to have recoiled from +even his friend’s eloquent version of that creedless creed, that baseless +foundation, that system, through the _phenomenon_ of which look not the +bright eyes of Supreme Intelligence, but the blind face of irresponsible +and infinite necessity. Shelley himself—with all the power his critics +attribute to him of painting night, animating Atheism, and giving strange +loveliness to annihilation—has failed in redeeming Spinoza’s theory from +the reproach of being as hateful as it is false; and there is no axiom we +hold more strongly than this—that the theory which can not be rendered +poetical, can not be true. “Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty,” said +poor Keats, to whom time, however, was not granted to come down from the +first glowing generalization of his heart, to the particular creeds which +his ripened intellect would have, according to _it_, rejected or received. + +Nor, although Wordsworth is a devoted lover of Nature, down to what many +consider the very blots—or, at least, dashes and commas in her page, is he +blind to the fact of her transient character. The power he worships has +his “dwelling in the light of setting suns,” but that dwelling is not his +everlasting abode. For earth, and the universe, a “_milder day_” (words +certifying their truth by their simple beauty) is in store when “the +monuments” of human weakness, folly, and evil, shall “all be over-grown.” +He sees afar off the great spectacle of Nature retiring before God; the +embassador giving place to the King; the bright toys of this nursery—sun, +moon, earth, and stars—put away, like childish things; the symbols of the +Infinite lost in the Infinite itself; and though he could, on the Saturday +evening, bow before the midnight mountains, and midnight heavens, he could +also, on the Sabbath morn, in Rydal church, bow as profoundly before the +apostolic word, “All these things shall be dissolved.” + +With Wordsworth, as with all great poets, his poetical creed passes into +his religious. It is the same tune with variations. But we confess that, +in his case, we do not think the variations equal. The mediation of Nature +he understands, and has beautifully represented in his poetry; but that +higher mediation of the Divine Man between man and the Father, does not +lie fully or conspicuously on his page. A believer in the mystery of +godliness he unquestionably was; but he seldom preached it. Christopher +North, many years ago, in “Blackwood,” doubted if there were so much as a +Bible in poor Margaret’s cottage (Excursion). We doubt so, too, and have +not found much of the “true cross” among all his trees. The theologians +divide prayer into four parts—adoration, thanksgiving, confession, and +petition. Wordsworth stops at the second. No where do we find more solemn, +sustained, habitual, and worthy adoration, than in his writings. The tone, +too, of all his poems, is a calm thanksgiving, like that of a long blue, +cloudless sky, coloring, at evening, into the hues of more fiery praise. +But he does not weep like a penitent, nor supplicate like a child. Such +feelings seem suppressed and folded up as far-off storms, and the traces +of past tempests are succinctly inclosed in the algebra of the silent +evening air. And hence, like Milton’s, his poetry has rather tended to +foster the glow of devotion in the loftier spirits of the race—previously +taught to adore—than like that of Cowper and Montgomery, to send prodigals +back to their forsaken homes; Davids, to cry, “Against thee only have I +sinned;” and Peters, to shriek in agony, “Lord, save us, we perish.” + +To pass from the essential poetic element in a writer of genius, to his +artistic skill, is a felt, yet necessary descent—like the painter +compelled, after sketching the man’s countenance, to draw his dress. And +yet, as of some men and women, the very dress, by its simplicity, +elegance, and unity, seems fitted rather to garb the soul than the +body—seems the soul made visible—so is it with the style and manner of +many great poets. Their speech and music without are as inevitable as +their genius, or as the song forever sounding within their souls. And why? +The whole ever tends to beget a whole—the large substance to cast its +deep, yet delicate shadow—the divine to be like itself in the human, on +which its seal is set. So it is with Wordsworth. That profound +simplicity—that clear obscurity—that night-like noon—that noon-like +night—that one atmosphere of overhanging Deity, seen weighing upon ocean +and pool, mountain and mole-hill, forest and flower—that pellucid +depth—that entireness of purpose and fullness of power, connected with +fragmentary, willful, or even weak execution—that humble, yet proud, +precipitation of himself, Antæus-like, upon the bosom of simple scenes and +simple sentiments, to regain primeval vigor—that obscure, yet lofty +isolation, like a tarn, little in size, but elevated in site, with few +visitors, but with many stars—that Tory-Radicalism, Popish-Protestantism, +philosophical Christianity, which have rendered him a glorious riddle, and +made Shelley, in despair of finding it out, exclaim, + + + “No Deist, and no Christian he, + No Whig, no Tory. + He got so subtle, that to be + _Nothing_ was all his glory,”— + + +all such apparent contradictions, but real unities, in his poetical and +moral creed and character, are fully expressed in his lowly but aspiring +language, and the simple, elaborate architecture of his verse—every stone +of which is lifted up by the strain of strong logic, and yet laid to +music; and, above all, in the choice of his subjects, which range, with a +free and easy motion, up from a garden spade and a village drum, to the +“celestial visages” which darkened at the tidings of man’s fall, and to +the “organ of eternity,” which sung pæans over his recovery. + +We sum up what we have further to say of Wordsworth, under the items of +his works, his life and character, his death; and shall close by +inquiring, Who is worthy to be his successor? + +His works, covering a large space, and abounding in every variety of +excellence and style, assume, after all, a fragmentary aspect. They are +true, simple, scattered, and strong, as blocks torn from the crags of +Helvellyn, and lying there “low, but mighty still.” Few even of his +ballads are wholes. They leave too much untold. They are far too +suggestive to satisfy. From each poem, however rounded, there streams off +a long train of thought: like the tail of a comet, which, while testifying +its power, mars its aspect of oneness. The “Excursion,” avowedly a +fragment, seems the splinter of a larger splinter; like a piece of Pallas, +itself a piece of some split planet. Of all his poems, perhaps, his +sonnets, his “Laodamia,” his “Intimations of Immortality,” and his verses +on the “Eclipse in Italy,” are the most complete in execution, as +certainly they are the most classical in design. Dramatic power he has +none, nor does he regret the want. “I hate,” he was wont to say to +Hazlitt, “those interlocutions between Caius and Lucius.” He sees, as +“from a tower, the end of all.” The waving lights and shadows, the varied +loopholes of view, the shiftings and fluctuations of feeling, the growing, +broadening interest of the drama, have no charm for him. His mind, from +its gigantic size, contracts a gigantic stiffness. It “moveth altogether, +if it move at all.” Hence, some of his smaller poems remind you of the +dancing of an elephant, or of the “hills leaping like lambs.” Many of the +little poems which he wrote upon a system, are exceedingly tame and +feeble. Yet often, even in his narrow bleak vales, we find one “meek +streamlet—only one”—beautifying the desolation; and feel how painful it is +for him to become poor, and that, when he sinks, it is with “compulsion +and laborious flight.” But, having subtracted such faults, how much +remains—of truth—of tenderness—of sober, eve-like grandeur—of purged +beauties, white and clean as the lilies of Eden—of calm, deep reflection, +contained in lines and sentences which have become proverbs—of mild +enthusiasm—of minute knowledge of nature—of strong, yet unostentatious +sympathy with man—and of devout and breathless communion with the Great +Author of all! Apart altogether from their intellectual pretensions +Wordsworth’s poems possess a moral clearness, beauty, transparency, and +harmony, which connect them immediately with those of Milton: and beside +the more popular poetry of the past age—such as Byron’s, and Moore’s—they +remind us of that unplanted garden, where the shadow of God united all +trees of fruitfulness, and all flowers of beauty, into one; where the +“large river,” which watered the whole, “ran south,” toward the sun of +heaven—when compared with the gardens of the Hesperides, where a dragon +was the presiding deity, or with those of Vauxhall or White Conduit-house, +where Comus and his rabble rout celebrate their undisguised orgies of +miscalled and miserable pleasure. + + [Illustration.] + + Wordsworth’s Home at Rydal Mount. + + +To write a great poem demands years—to write a great undying example, +demands a lifetime. Such a life, too, becomes a poem—higher far than pen +can inscribe, or metre make musical. Such a life it was granted to +Wordsworth to live in severe harmony with his verse—as it lowly, and as it +aspiring, to live, too, amid opposition, obloquy, and abuse—to live, too, +amid the glare of that watchful observation, which has become to public +men far more keen and far more capacious in its powers and opportunities, +than in Milton’s days. It was not, unquestionably, a perfect life, even as +a man’s, far less as a poet’s. He did feel and resent, more than beseemed +a great man, the pursuit and persecution of the hounds, whether “gray” and +swift-footed, or whether curs of low degree, who dogged his steps. His +voice from his woods sounded at times rather like the moan of wounded +weakness, than the bellow of masculine wrath. He should, simply, in reply +to his opponents, have written on at his poems, and let his prefaces +alone. “If they receive your first book ill,” wrote Thomas Carlyle to a +new author, “write the second better—so much better as to shame them.” +When will authors learn that to answer an unjust attack, is, merely to +give it a keener edge, and that all injustice carries the seed of oblivion +and exposure in itself? To use the language of the masculine spirit just +quoted, “it is really a truth, one never knows whether praise be really +good for one—or whether it be not, in very fact, the worst poison that +could be administered. Blame, or even vituperation, I have always found a +safer article. In the long run, a man _has_, and _is_, just what he _is_ +and _has_—the world’s notion of him has not altered him at all, except, +indeed, if it have poisoned him with self-conceit, and made a _caput +mortuum_ of him.” + +The sensitiveness of authors—were it not such a _sore_ subject—might admit +of some curious reflections. One would sometimes fancy that Apollo, in an +angry hour, had done to his sons, what fable records him to have done to +Marsyas—_flayed_ them alive. Nothing has brought more contempt upon +authors than this—implying, as it does, a lack of common courage and +manhood. The true son of genius ought to rush before the public as the +warrior into battle, resolved to hack and hew his way to eminence and +power, not to whimper like a schoolboy at every scratch—to acknowledge +only home thrusts—large, life-letting-out blows—determined either to +conquer or to die, and, feeling that battles should be lost in the same +spirit in which they are won. If Wordsworth did not fully answer this +ideal, others have sunk far more disgracefully and habitually below it. + +In private, Wordsworth, we understand, was pure, mild, simple, and +majestic—perhaps somewhat austere in his judgments of the erring, and, +perhaps, somewhat narrow in his own economics. In accordance, we suppose, +with that part of his poetic system, which magnified mole-heaps to +mountains, _pennies_ assumed the importance of _pounds_. It is ludicrous, +yet characteristic, to think of the great author of the “Recluse,” +squabbling with a porter about the price of a parcel, or bidding down an +old book at a stall. He was one of the few poets who were ever guilty of +the crime of worldly prudence—that ever could have fulfilled the old +parodox, “A poet has built a house.” In his young days, according to +Hazlitt, he said little in society—sat generally lost in thought—threw out +a bold or an indifferent remark occasionally—and relapsed into reverie +again. In latter years, he became more talkative and oracular. His health +and habits were always regular, his temperament happy, and his heart sound +and pure. + +We have said that his life, _as a poet_, was far from perfect. Our meaning +is, that he did not sufficiently, owing to temperament, or position, or +habits, sympathize with the on-goings of society, the fullness of modern +life, and the varied passions, unbeliefs, sins, and miseries of modern +human nature. His soul dwelt apart. He came, like the Baptist, “neither +eating nor drinking,” and men said, “he hath a demon.” He saw at morning, +from London bridge, “all its mighty heart” lying still; but he did not at +noon plunge artistically into the thick of its throbbing life; far less +sound the depths of its wild midnight heavings of revel and wretchedness, +of hopes and fears, of stifled fury and eloquent despair. Nor, although he +sung the “mighty stream of tendency” of this wondrous age, did he ever +launch his poetic craft upon it, nor seem to see the _witherward_ of its +swift and awful stress. He has, on the whole, stood aside from his +time—not on a peak of the past—not on an anticipated Alp of the future, +but on his own Cumberland highlands—hearing the tumult and remaining +still, lifting up his life as a far-seen beacon-fire, studying the manners +of the humble dwellers in the vales below—“piping a simple song to +thinking hearts,” and striving to waft to brother spirits, the fine +infection of his own enthusiasm, faith, hope, and devotion. Perhaps, had +he been less strict and consistent in creed and in character, he might +have attained greater breadth, blood-warmth, and wide-spread power, have +presented on his page a fuller reflection of our present state, and drawn +from his poetry a yet stronger moral, and become the Shakspeare, instead +of the Milton, of the age. For himself, he did undoubtedly choose the +“better part;” nor do we mean to insinuate that any man ought to +contaminate himself for the sake of his art, but that the poet of a period +will necessarily come so near to its peculiar sins, sufferings, follies, +and mistakes, as to understand them, and even to feel the force of their +temptations, and though he should never yield to, yet must have a +“fellow-feeling” of its prevailing infirmities. + +The death of this eminent man took few by surprise. Many anxious eyes have +for a while been turned toward Rydal mount, where this hermit stream was +nearly sinking into the ocean of the Infinite. And now, to use his own +grand word, used at the death of Scott, a “trouble” hangs upon Helvellyn’s +brow, and over the waters of Windermere. The last of the Lakers has +departed. That glorious country has become a tomb for its more glorious +children. No more is Southey’s tall form seen at his library window, +confronting Skiddaw—with a port as stately as its own. No more does +Coleridge’s dim eye look down into the dim tarn, heavy laden, too, under +the advancing thunder-storm. And no more is Wordsworth’s pale and lofty +front shaded into divine twilight, as he plunges at noon-day amidst the +quiet woods. A stiller, sterner power than poetry has folded into its +strict, yet tender and yearning embrace, those + + + “Serene creators of immortal things.” + + +Alas! for the pride and the glory even of the purest products of this +strange world! Sin and science, pleasure and poetry, the lowest vices, and +the highest aspirations, are equally unable to rescue their votaries from +the swift ruin which is in chase of us all. + + + “Golden lads and girls all must + Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.” + + +But Wordsworth has left for himself an epitaph almost superfluously +rich—in the memory of his private virtues—of the impulse he gave to our +declining poetry—of the sympathies he discovered in all his strains with +the poor, the neglected, and the despised—of the version he furnished of +Nature, true and beautiful as if it were Nature _describing herself_—of +his lofty and enacted ideal of his art and the artist—of the “thoughts, +too deep for tears,” he has given to meditative and lonely hearts—and, +above all, of the support he has lent to the cause of the “primal duties” +and eldest instincts of man—to his hope of immortality, and his fear of +God. And now we bid him farewell, in his own words— + + + “Blessings be with him, and eternal praise, + The _poet_, who on earth has made us heirs + Of truth and pure delight, by heavenly lays.” + + +Although, as already remarked, not the poet of the age—it has, in our +view, been, on the whole, fortunate for poetry and society, that for seven +years William Wordsworth has been poet-laureate. We live in a transition +state in respect to both. The march and the music are both changing—nor +are they yet fully attuned to each other—and, meanwhile, it was desirable +that a poet should preside, whose strains formed a fine “musical +confusion,” like that of old in the “wood of Crete”—of the old and the +new—of the Conservative and the Democratic—of the golden age, supposed by +many to have existed in the past, and of the millennium, expected by more +in the future—a compromise of the two poetical styles besides—the one, +which clung to the hoary tradition of the elders, and the other, which +accepted innovation because it was new, and boldness because it was +daring, and mysticism because it was dark—not truth, _though_ new; beauty, +_though_ bold; and insight, _though_ shadowy and shy. Nay, we heartily +wish, had it been for nothing else than this, that his reign had lasted +for many years longer, till, perchance, the discordant elements in our +creeds and literature, had been somewhat harmonized. As it is, there must +now be great difficulty in choosing his successor to the laureateship; nor +is there, we think, a single name in our poetry whose elevation to the +office would give universal, or even general, satisfaction. + +Milman is a fine poet, but not a great one. Croly is, or ought to have +been, a great poet; but is not sufficiently known, nor _en rapport_ with +the spirit of the time. Bowles is dead—Moore dying. Lockhart and Macaulay +have written clever ballads; but no shapely, continuous, and masterly +poem. John Wilson, _alias_ Christopher North, has more poetry in his eye, +brow, head, hair, figure, voice, talk, and the prose of his “Noetes,” than +any man living; but his verse, on the whole, is mawkish—and his being a +Scotchman will be a stumbling-block to many, though not to us; for, had +Campbell been alive, we should have said at once, let him be laureate—if +manly grace, classic power, and genuine popularity, form qualifications +for the office. Tennyson, considering all he has done, has received his +full meed already. Let him and Leigh Hunt repose under the shadow of their +pensions. Our gifted friends, Bailey, of “Festus,” and Yendys, of the +“Roman,” are yet in blossom—though it is a glorious blossom. Henry Taylor +is rather in the sere and yellow leaf—nor was his leaf ever, in our +judgment, very fresh or ample: a masterly builder he is, certainly, but +the materials he brings are not highly poetical. When Dickens is promoted +to Scott’s wizard throne, let Browning succeed Wordsworth on the forked +Helvellyn! Landor is a vast monumental name; but, while he has overawed +the higher intellects of the time, he has never touched the general heart, +nor _told_ the world much, except his great opinion of himself, the low +opinion he has of almost every body else, and the very learned reasons and +sufficient grounds he has for supporting those twin opinions. Never was +such power so wasted and thrown away. The proposition of a lady laureate +is simply absurd, without being witty. Why not as soon have proposed the +Infant Sappho? In short, if we ask again, _Where_ is the poet worthy to +wear the crown which has dropped from the solemn brow of “old Pan,” “sole +king of rocky Cumberland?”—Echo, from Glaramara, or the Langdale Pikes, +might well answer, “Where?” + +We have, however, a notion of our own, which we mean, as a close to the +article, to indicate. The laureateship was too long a sop for parasites, +whose politics and poetry were equally tame. It seems now to have become +the late reward of veteran merit—the Popedom of poetry. Why not, rather, +hang it up as a crown, to be won by our rising bards—either as the reward +of some special poem on an appointed subject, or of general merit? Why not +delay for a season the bestowal of the laurel, and give thus a national +importance to its decision? + + + + + +SIDNEY SMITH. BY GEORGE GILFILLAN. + + + [Illustration.] + + Sidney Smith. + + +It is melancholy to observe how speedily, successively, nay, almost +simultaneously, our literary luminaries are disappearing from the sky. +Every year another and another member of the bright clusters which arose +about the close of the last, or at the beginning of this century, is +fading from our view. Within nineteen years, what havoc, by the “insatiate +archer,” among the ruling spirits of the time! Since 1831, Robert Hall, +Andrew Thomson, Goethe, Cuvier, Mackintosh, Crabbe, Foster, Coleridge, +Edward Irving, Sir Walter Scott, Charles Lamb, Southey, Thomas Campbell, +&c., have entered on the “silent land;” and latterly has dropped down one +of the wittiest and shrewdest of them all—the projector of the “Edinburgh +Review”—the author of “Peter Plymley’s Letters”—the preacher—the +politician—the brilliant converser—the “mad-wag”—Sidney Smith. + +It was the praise of Dryden that he was the best reasoner in verse who +ever wrote; let it be the encomium of our departed Sidney that, he was one +of the best reasoners in wit of whom our country can boast. His +intellect—strong, sharp, clear, and decided—wrought and moved in a rich +medium of humor. Each thought, as it came forth from his brain, issued as +“in dance,” and amid a flood of inextinguishable laughter. The march of +his mind through his subject resembled the procession of Bacchus from the +conquest of India—joyous, splendid, straggling—to the sound of flutes and +hautboys—rather a victory than a march—rather a revel than a contest. His +logic seemed always hurrying into the arms of his wit. Some men argue in +mathematical formulæ; others, like Burke, in the figures and flights of +poetry; others in the fire and fury of passion; Sidney Smith in exuberant +and riotous fun. And yet the matter of his reasoning was solid, and its +inner spirit earnest and true. But though his steel was strong and sharp, +his hand steady, and his aim clear, the management of the motions of his +weapon was always fantastic. He piled, indeed, like a Titan, his Pelion on +Ossa, but at the oddest of angles; he lifted and carried his load bravely, +and like a man, but laughed as he did so; and so carried it that beholders +forgot the strength of the arm in the strangeness of the attitude. He thus +sometimes disarmed anger; for his adversaries could scarcely believe that +they had received a deadly wound while their foe was roaring in their +face. He thus did far greater execution; for the flourishes of his weapon +might distract his opponents, but never himself, from the direct and +terrible line of the blow. His laughter sometimes stunned, like the +cachination of the Cyclops, shaking the sides of his cave. In this +mood—and it was his common one—what scorn was he wont to pour upon the +opponents of Catholic emancipation—upon the enemies of all change in +legislation—upon any individual or party who sought to obstruct measures +which, in his judgment, were likely to benefit the country. Under such, he +could at any moment spring a mine of laughter; and what neither the fierce +invective of Brougham, nor the light and subtle raillery of Jeffrey could +do, his contemptuous explosion effected, and, himself crying with mirth, +saw them hoisted toward heaven in ten thousand comical splinters. +Comparing him with other humorists of a similar class, we might say, that +while Swift’s ridicule resembles something between a sneer and a spasm +(half a sneer of mirth, half a spasm of misery)—while Cobbett’s is a +grin—Fonblanque’s a light but deep and most significant smile—Jeffrey’s a +sneer, just perceptible on his fastidious lip—Wilson’s a strong, healthy, +hearty laugh—Carlyle’s a wild unearthly sound, like the neighing of a +homeless steed—Sidney Smith’s is a genuine guffaw, given forth with his +whole heart, and soul, and mind, and strength. Apart from his matchless +humor, strong, rough, instinctive, and knotty sense was the leading +feature of his mind. Every thing like mystification, sophistry, and +humbug, fled before the first glance of his piercing eye; every thing in +the shape of affectation excited in him a disgust “as implacable” as even +a Cowper could feel. If possible, with still deeper aversion did his manly +nature regard cant in its various forms and disguises; and his motto in +reference to it was, “spare no arrows.” But the mean, the low, the paltry, +the dishonorable, in nations or in individuals, moved all the fountains of +his bile, and awakened all the energy of his invective. Always lively, +generally witty, he is never eloquent, except when emptying out his vials +of indignation upon baseness in all its shapes. His is the ire of a +genuine “English gentleman, all of the olden time.” It was in this spirit +that he recently explained, in his own way, the old distinctions of Meum +and Tuum to Brother Jonathan, when the latter was lamentably inclined to +forget them. It was the same sting of generous indignation which, in the +midst of his character of Mackintosh, prompted the memorable picture of +that extraordinary being who, by his transcendent talents and his tortuous +movements—his head of gold, and his feet of miry clay—has become the +glory, the riddle, and the regret of his country, his age, and his +species. + +As a writer, Smith is little more than a very clever, witty, and ingenious +pamphleteer. He has effected no permanent _chef d’oeuvre_; he has founded +no school; he has left little behind him that the “world will not +willingly let die;” he has never drawn a tear from a human eye, nor +excited a thrill of grandeur in a human bosom. His reviews are not +preserved by the salt of original genius, nor are they pregnant with +profound and comprehensive principle; they have no resemblance to the +sibylline leaves which Burke tore out from the vast volume of his mind, +and scattered with imperial indifference among the nations; they are not +the illuminated indices of universal history, like the papers of Macaulay; +they are not specimens of pure and perfect English, set with modest but +magnificent ornaments, like the criticism of Jeffrey or of Hall; nor are +they the excerpts, rugged and rent away by violence, from the dark and +iron tablet of an obscure and original mind, like the reviews of Foster; +but they are exquisite _jeux d’esprit_, admirable occasional pamphlets, +which, though now they look to us like spent arrows, yet assuredly have +done execution, and have not been spent in vain. And as, after the lapse +of a century and more, we can still read with pleasure Addison’s “Old Whig +and Freeholder,” for the sake of the exquisite humor and inimitable style +in which forgotten feuds and dead logomachies are embalmed, so may it be, +a century still, with the articles on Bentham’s Fallacies and on the Game +Laws, and with the letters of the witty and ingenious Peter Plymley. There +is much at least in those singular productions—in their clear and manly +sense—in their broad native fun—in their rapid, careless, energetic +style—and in their bold, honest, liberal, and thoroughly English spirit—to +interest several succeeding generations, if not to secure the “rare and +regal” palm of immortality. + +Sidney Smith was a writer of sermons as well as of political squibs. Is +not their memory eternized in one of John Foster’s most ponderous pieces +of sarcasm? In an evil hour the dexterous and witty critic came forth from +behind the fastnesses of the Edinburgh Review, whence, in perfect security +he had shot his quick glancing shafts at Methodists and Missions, at +Christian Observers and Eclectic Reviews, at Owens and Styles, and (what +the more wary Jeffrey, in the day of his power, always avoided) became +himself an author, and, _mirabile dictu_, an author of sermons. It was as +if he wished to give his opponents their revenge, and no sooner did his +head peep forth from beneath the protection of its shell than the +elephantine foot of Foster was prepared to crush it in the dust. It was +the precise position of Saladin with the Knight of the Leopard, in their +memorable contest near the Diamond of the Desert. In the skirmish Smith +had it all his own way; but when it came to close quarters, and when the +heavy and mailed hand of the sturdy Baptist had confirmed its grasp on his +opponent, the disparity was prodigious, and the discomfiture of the light +horseman complete. But why recall the memory of an obsolete quarrel and a +forgotten field? The sermons—the _causa belli_—clever but dry, destitute +of earnestness and unction—are long since dead and buried; and their +review remains their only monument. + +Even when, within his own stronghold, our author intermeddled with +theological topics, it was seldom with felicity or credit to himself. His +onset on missions was a sad mistake; and in attacking the Methodists, and +poor, pompous John Styles, he becomes as filthy and foul-mouthed as Swift +himself. His wit forsakes him, and a rabid invective ill supplies its +place; instead of laughing, he raves and foams at the mouth. Indeed, +although an eloquent and popular preacher, and in many respects an +ornament to his cloth, there was one radical evil about Smith; _he had +mistaken his profession_. He was intended for a barrister, or a literary +man, or a member of parliament, or some occupation into which he could +have flung his whole soul and strength. As it was, but half his heart was +in a profession which, of all others, would require the whole. He became +consequently a rather awkward medley of buffoon, politician, preacher, +literateur, divine, and diner-out. Let us grant, however, that the ordeal +was severe, and that, if a very few have weathered it better, many more +have ignominiously broken down. No one coincides more fully than we do +with Coleridge in thinking that every literary man should have a +profession; but in the name of common sense let it be one fitted for him, +and for which he is fitted—one suited to his tastes as well as to his +talents—to his habits as well as to his powers—to his heart as well as to +his head. + +As a conversationist, Sidney Smith stood high among the highest—a Saul +among a tribe of Titans. His jokes were not rare and refined, like those +of Rogers and Jekyll; they wanted the slyness of Theodore Hook’s +inimitable equivoque; they were not poured forth with the prodigal +profusion of Hood’s breathless and bickering puns; they were rich, fat, +unctuous, always bordering on farce, but always avoiding it by a +hair’s-breadth. No finer cream, certes, ever mantled at the feasts of +Holland House than his fertile brain supplied; and, to quote himself, it +would require a “forty-parson power” of lungs and language to do justice +to his convivial merits. An acquaintance of ours sometimes met him in the +company of Jeffrey and Macaulay—a fine concord of first-rate performers, +content, generally, to keep each within his own part, except when, now and +then, the author of the “Lays” burst out irresistibly, and changed the +concert into a fine solo. + +Altogether “we could have better spared a better man.” Did not his death +“eclipse the gayety of nations?” Did not a Fourth Estate of Fun expire +from the midst of us? Did not even Brother Jonathan drop a tear when he +thought that the scourge that so mercilessly lashed him was broken? And +shall not now all his admirers unite with us in inscribing upon his +grave—“Alas! poor Yorick!” + + + + + +THOMAS CARLYLE. BY GEORGE GILFILLAN. + + + [Illustration.] + + Thomas Carlyle. + + +Thomas Carlyle was born at Ecclefechan, Annandale. His parents were “good +farmer people,” his father an elder in the Secession church there, and a +man of strong native sense, whose words were said to “nail a subject to +the wall.” His excellent mother still lives, and we had the pleasure of +meeting her lately in the company of her illustrious son; and beautiful it +was to see his profound and tender regard, and her motherly and yearning +reverence—to hear her fine old covenanting accents, concerting with his +transcendental tones. He studied in Edinburgh. Previous to this, he had +become intimate with Edward Irving, an intimacy which continued unimpaired +to the close of the latter’s eccentric career. Like most Scottish +students, he had many struggles to encounter in the course of his +education; and had, we believe, to support himself by private tuition, +translations for the booksellers, &c. The day star of German literature +arose early in his soul, and has been his guide and genius ever since. He +entered into a correspondence with Goethe, which lasted, at intervals, +till the latter’s death. Yet he has never, we understand, visited Germany. +He was, originally, destined for the church. At one period he taught an +academy in Dysart, at the same time that Irving was teaching in Kirkaldy. +After his marriage, he resided partly at Comely Bank, Edinburgh; and, for +a year or two in Craigenputtock, a wild and solitary farm-house in the +upper part of Dumfriesshire. Here, however, far from society, save that, +of the “great dumb monsters of mountains,” he wearied out his very heart. +A ludicrous story is told of Lord Jeffrey visiting him in this +out-of-the-way region, when they were unapprized of his coming—had nothing +in the house fit for the palate of the critic, and had, in dire haste and +pother, to send off for the wherewithal to a market town about fifteen +miles off. Here, too, as we may see hereafter, Emerson, on his way home +from Italy, dropped in like a spirit, spent precisely twenty-four hours, +and then “forth uprose that lone, wayfaring man,” to return to his native +woods. He has, for several years of late, resided in Chelsea, London, +where he lives in a plain, simple fashion; occasionally, but seldom, +appearing at the splendid soirées of Lady Blessington, but listened to, +when he goes, as an oracle; receiving, at his tea-table, visitors from +every part of the world; forming an amicable centre for men of the most +opposite opinions and professions, Poets and Preachers, Pantheists and +Puritans, Tennysons and Scotts, Cavanaighs and Erskines, Sterlings and +Robertsons, smoking his perpetual pipe, and pouring out, in copious +stream, his rich and quaint philosophy. His appearance is fine, without +being ostentatiously singular—his hair dark—his brow marked, though +neither very broad nor very lofty—his cheek tinged with a healthy red—his +eye, the truest index of his genius, flashing out, at times, a wild and +mystic fire from its dark and quiet surface. He is above the middle size, +stoops slightly, dresses carefully, but without any approach to foppery. +His address, somewhat high and distant at first, softens into simplicity +and cordial kindness. His conversation is abundant, inartificial, flowing +on, and warbling as it flows, more practical than you would expect from +the cast of his writings—picturesque and graphic in a high measure—full of +the results of extensive and minute observation—often terribly direct and +strong, garnished with French and German phrase, rendered racy by the +accompaniment of the purest Annandale accent, and coming to its climaxes, +ever and anon, in long, deep, chest-shaking bursts of laughter. + +Altogether, in an age of singularities, Thomas Carlyle stands peculiarly +alone. Generally known, and warmly appreciated, he has of late +become—popular, in the strict sense, he is not, and may never be. His +works may never climb the family library, nor his name become a household +word; but while the Thomsons and the Campbells shed their gentle genius, +like light, into the hall and the hovel—the shop of the artisan and the +sheiling of the shepherd, Carlyle, like the Landors and Lambs of this age, +and the Brownes and Burtons of a past, will exert a more limited but +profounder power—cast a dimmer but more gorgeous radiance—attract fewer +but more devoted admirers, and obtain an equal, and perhaps more enviable +immortality. + +To the foregoing sketch of CARLYLE, which is from the eloquent critical +description of Gilfillan, we append the following, which is from a letter +recently published in the Dumfries and Galloway Courier. The writer, after +remarking at some length upon the “Latter Day Pamphlets,” which are +Carlyle’s latest productions, proceeds to give this graphic and +interesting sketch of his personal appearance and conversation: + +“Passing from the political phase of these productions (the ‘Latter Day +Pamphlets’), which is not my vocation to discuss, I found for myself one +very peculiar charm in the perusal of them—they seemed such perfect +transcripts of the conversation of Thomas Carlyle. With something more of +set continuity—of composition—but essentially the same thing, the Latter +Day Pamphlets’ are in their own way a ‘Boswell’s Life’ of Carlyle. As I +read and read, I was gradually transported from my club-room, with its +newspaper-clad tables, and my dozing fellow-loungers, only kept half awake +by periodical titillations of snuff, and carried in spirit to the grave +and quiet sanctum in Chelsea, where Carlyle dispenses wisdom and +hospitality with equally unstinted hand. The long, tall, spare figure is +before me—wiry, though, and elastic, and quite capable of taking a long, +tough spell through the moors of Ecclefechan, or elsewhere—stretched at +careless, homely ease in his elbow-chair, yet ever with strong natural +motions and starts, as the inward spirit stirs. The face, too, is before +me—long and thin, with a certain tinge of paleness, but no sickness or +attenuation, form muscular and vigorously marked, and not wanting some +glow of former rustic color—pensive, almost solemn, yet open, and cordial, +and tender, very tender. The eye, as generally happens, is the chief +outward index of the soul—an eye is not easy to describe, but _felt_ ever +after one has looked thereon and therein. It is dark and full, shadowed +over by a compact, prominent forehead. But the depth, the expression, the +far inner play of it—who could transfer that even to the eloquent canvas, +far less to this very _in_-eloquent paper? It is not brightness, it is not +flash, it is not power even—something beyond all these. The expression is, +so to speak, heavy laden—as if be-tokening untold burdens of thought, and +long, long fiery struggles, resolutely endured—endured until they had been +in some practical manner overcome; to adopt his own fond epithet, and it +comes nearest to the thing, his is the heroic eye, but of a hero who has +done hard battle against Paynim hosts. This is no dream of mine—I have +often heard this peculiarity remarked. The whole form and expression of +the face remind me of Dante—it wants the classic element, and the mature +and matchless harmony which distinguish the countenance of the great +Florentine; but something in the cast and in the look, especially the +heavy laden, but dauntless eye, is very much alike. But he speaks to me. +The tongue has the _sough_ of Annandale—an echo of the Solway, with its +compliments to old Father Thames. A keen, sharp, ringing voice, in the +genuine Border key, but tranquil and sedate withal—neighborly and frank, +and always in unison with what is uttered. Thus does the presence of +Thomas Carlyle rise before me—a ‘true man’ in all his bearings and in all +his sayings. And in this same guise do I seem to hear from him all those +‘Latter Day Pamphlets.’ Even such in his conversation—he sees the very +thing he speaks of; it breathes and moves palpable to him, and hence his +words form a picture. When you come from him, the impression is like +having seen a great brilliant panorama; every thing had been made visible +and naked to your sight. But more and better far than that; you bear home +with you an indelible feeling of love for the man—deep at the heart, long +as life. No man has ever inspired more of this personal affection. Not to +love Carlyle when you know him is something unnatural, as if one should +say they did not love the breeze that fans their cheek, or the vine-tree +which has refreshed them both with its leafy shade and its exuberant +juices. He abounds, himself, in love and in good works. His life, not only +as a ‘writer of books,’ but as a man among his fellows, has been a +continued shower of benefits. The young men, more especially, to whom he +has been the good Samaritan, pouring oil upon their wounds, and binding up +their bruised limbs, and putting them on the way of recovery of health and +useful energy—the number of such can scarcely be told, and will never be +known till the great day of accounts. One of these, who in his orisons +will ever remember him, has just read to me, with tears of grateful +attachment in his eyes, portions of a letter of counsel and encouragement +which he received from him in the hour of darkness, and which was but the +prelude to a thousand acts of substantial kindness and of graceful +attention. As the letter contains no secret, and may fall as a fructifying +seed into some youthful bosom that may be entering upon its trials and +struggles, a quotation from it will form an appropriate _finale_ at this +time. He thus writes: ‘It will be good news, in all times coming, to learn +that such a life as yours unfolds itself according to its promise, and +_becomes_ in some tolerable degree what it is capable of being. The +problem is your own, to make or to mar—a great problem for you, as the +like is for every man born into this world. You have my entire sympathy in +your denunciation of the “explosive” character. It is frequent in these +times, and deplorable wherever met with. Explosions are ever wasteful, +woeful; central fire should not explode itself, but lie silent, far down +at the centre; and make all good fruits _grow_! We can not too often +repeat to ourselves, “Strength is seen, not in spasms, but in stout +bearing of burdens.” You can take comfort in the meanwhile, if you need +it, by the experience of all wise men, that a right heavy burden is +precisely the thing wanted for a young strong man. Grievous to be borne; +but bear it well, you will find it one day to have been verily blessed. “I +would not, for any money,” says the brave Jean Paul, in his quaint way. “I +would not, for any money, have had money in my youth!” He speaks a truth +there, singular as it may seem to many. These young obscure years ought to +be incessantly employed in gaining knowledge of things worth knowing, +especially of heroic human souls worth knowing. And you may believe me, +the obscurer such years are, it is apt to be the better. Books are +needful; but yet not many books; a few well read. An open, true, patient, +and valiant soul is needed; that is the one thing needful.’ ” + + + + + +THE GENTLEMAN BEGGAR. AN ATTORNEY’S STORY. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD +WORDS.) + + +One morning, about five years ago, I called by appointment on Mr. John +Balance, the fashionable pawnbroker, to accompany him to Liverpool, in +pursuit for a Levanting customer—for Balance, in addition to pawning, does +a little business in the sixty per cent. line. It rained in torrents when +the cab stopped at the passage which leads past the pawning boxes to his +private door. The cabman rang twice, and at length Balance appeared, +looming through the mist and rain in the entry, illuminated by his +perpetual cigar. As I eyed him rather impatiently, remembering that trains +wait for no man, something like a hairy dog, or a bundle of rags, rose up +at his feet, and barred his passage for a moment. Then Balance cried out +with an exclamation, in answer apparently to a something I could not hear, +“What, man alive!—slept in the passage!—there, take that, and get some +breakfast, for Heaven’s sake!” So saying, he jumped into the “Hansom,” and +we bowled away at ten miles an hour, just catching the Express as the +doors of the station were closing. My curiosity was full set—for although +Balance can be free with his money, it is not exactly to beggars that his +generosity is usually displayed; so when comfortably ensconced in a +_coupé_, I finished with— + +“You are liberal with your money this morning: pray, how often do you give +silver to street cadgers?—because I shall know now what walk to take when +flats and sharps leave off buying law.” + +Balance, who would have made an excellent parson if he had not been bred +to a case-hardening trade, and has still a soft bit left in his heart that +is always fighting with his hard head, did not smile at all, but looked as +grim as if squeezing a lemon into his Saturday night’s punch. He answered +slowly, “A cadger—yes; a beggar—a miserable wretch, he is now; but let me +tell you, Master David, that that miserable bundle of rags was born and +bred a gentleman; the son of a nobleman, the husband of an heiress, and +has sat and dined at tables where you and I, Master David, are only +allowed to view the plate by favor of the butler. I have lent him +thousands, and been well paid. The last thing I had from him was his court +suit; and I hold now his bill for one hundred pounds that will be paid, I +expect, when he dies.” + +“Why, what nonsense you are talking! you must be dreaming this morning. +However, we are alone, I’ll light a weed, in defiance of Railway law, you +shall spin that yarn; for, true or untrue, it will fill up the time to +Liverpool.” + +“As for yarn,” replied Balance, “the whole story is short enough; and as +for truth, that you may easily find out if you like to take the trouble. I +thought the poor wretch was dead, and I own it put me out meeting him this +morning, for I had a curious dream last night.” + +“Oh, hang your dreams! Tell us about this gentleman beggar that bleeds you +of half-crowns—that melts the heart even of a pawnbroker!” + +“Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate son of the late Marquis of +Hoopborough by a Spanish lady of rank. He received a first-rate education, +and was brought up in his father’s house. At a very early age he obtained +an appointment in a public office, was presented by the marquis at court, +and received into the first society, where his handsome person and +agreeable manners made him a great favorite. Soon after coming of age, he +married the daughter of Sir E. Bumper, who brought him a very handsome +fortune, which was strictly settled on herself. They lived in splendid +style, kept several carriages, a house in town, and a place in the +country. For some reason or other, idleness, or to please his lady’s +pride, he resigned his appointment. His father died and left him nothing; +indeed, he seemed at that time very handsomely provided for. + +“Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy began to disagree. She was cold, +correct—he was hot and random. He was quite dependent on her, and she made +him feel it. When he began to get into debt, he came to me. At length some +shocking quarrel occurred; some case of jealousy on the wife’s side, not +without reason, I believe; and the end of it was, Mr. Fitz-Roy was turned +out of doors. The house was his wife’s, the furniture was his wife’s, and +the fortune was his wife’s—he was, in fact, her pensioner. He left with a +few hundred pounds ready money, and some personal jewelry, and went to an +hotel. On these and credit he lived. Being illegitimate, he had no +relations; being a fool, when he spent his money he lost his friends. The +world took his wife’s part, when they found she had the fortune, and the +only parties who interfered were her relatives, who did their best to make +the quarrel incurable. To crown all, one night he was run over by a cab, +was carried to a hospital, and lay there for months, and was during +several weeks of the time unconscious. A message to the wife, by the hands +of one of his debauched companions, sent by a humane surgeon, obtained an +intimation that ‘if he died, Mr. Croak, the undertaker to the family, had +orders to see to the funeral,’ and that Mrs. Molinos was on the point of +starting for the Continent, not to return for some years. When Fitz-Roy +was discharged, he came to me limping on two sticks, to pawn his court +suit, and told me his story. I was really sorry for the fellow, such a +handsome, thoroughbred-looking man. He was going then into the west +somewhere, to try to hunt out a friend. ‘What to do, Balance,’ he said, ‘I +don’t know. I can’t dig, and unless somebody will make me their +gamekeeper, I must starve, or beg, as my Jezebel bade me when we parted!’ + +“I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and when I next came upon him it +was in the Rookery of Westminster, in a low lodging-house, where I was +searching with an officer for stolen goods. He was pointed out to me as +the ‘gentleman cadger,’ because he was so free with his money when ‘in +luck.’ He recognized me, but turned away then. I have since seen him, and +relieved him more than once, although he never asks for any thing. How he +lives, Heaven knows. Without money, without friends, without useful +education of any kind, he tramps the country, as you saw him, perhaps +doing a little hop-picking or hay-making, in season, only happy when he +obtains the means to get drunk. I have heard through the kitchen whispers, +that you know come to me, that he is entitled to some property; and I +expect if he were to die his wife would pay the hundred pound bill I hold; +at any rate, what I have told you I know to be true, and the bundle of +rags I relieved just now is known in every thieves’ lodging in England as +the ‘gentleman cadger.’ ” + +This story produced an impression on me—I am fond of speculation, and like +the excitement of a legal hunt as much as some do a fox-chase: A gentleman +a beggar, a wife rolling in wealth, rumors of unknown property due to the +husband: it seemed as if there were pickings for me amidst this carrion of +pauperism. + +Before returning from Liverpool, I had purchased the gentleman beggar’s +acceptance from Balance. I then inserted in the “Times” the following +advertisement: “_Horatio Molinos Fitz-Roy_.—If this gentleman will apply +to David Discount, Esq., Solicitor, St. James’s, he will hear of something +to his advantage. Any person furnishing Mr. F.’s correct address, shall +receive 1£. 1_s._ reward. He was last seen,” &c. Within twenty-four hours +I had ample proof of the wide circulation of the “Times.” My office was +besieged with beggars of every degree, men and women, lame and blind, +Irish, Scotch, and English, some on crutches, some in bowls, some in +go-carts. They all knew him as the “gentleman,” and I must do the regular +fraternity of tramps the justice to say, that not one would answer a +question until he made certain that I meant the “gentleman” no harm. + +One evening, about three weeks after the appearance of the advertisement, +my clerk announced “another beggar.” There came in an old man leaning upon +a staff, clad in a soldier’s great coat all patched and torn, with a +battered hat, from under which a mass of tangled hair fell over his +shoulders and half concealed his face. The beggar, in a weak, wheezy, +hesitating tone, said, “You have advertised for Molinos Fitz-Roy. I hope +you don’t mean him any harm; he is sunk, I think, too low for enmity now; +and surely no one would sport with such misery as his.” These last words +were uttered in a sort of piteous whisper. + +I answered quickly, “Heaven forbid I should sport with misery: I mean and +hope to do him good, as well as myself.” + +“Then, sir, I am Molinos Fitz-Roy!” + +While we were conversing candles had been brought in. I have not very +tender nerves—my head would not agree with them—but I own I started and +shuddered when I saw and knew that the wretched creature before me was +under thirty years of age and once a gentleman. Sharp, aquiline features, +reduced to literal skin and bone, were begrimed and covered with dry fair +hair; the white teeth of the half-open mouth shattered with eagerness, and +made more hideous the foul pallor of the rest of the countenance. As he +stood leaning on a staff half bent, his long, yellow bony fingers clasped +over the crutch-head of his stick, he was indeed a picture of misery, +famine, squalor, and premature age, too horrible to dwell upon. I made him +sit down, and sent for some refreshment which he devoured like a ghoul, +and set to work to unravel his story. It was difficult to keep him to the +point; but with pains I learned what convinced me that he was entitled to +some property, whether great or small there was no evidence. On parting, I +said, “Now, Mr. F., you must stay in town while I make proper inquiries. +What allowance will be enough to keep you comfortably?” + +He answered humbly, after much pressing, “Would you think ten shillings +too much?” + +I don’t like, if I do those things at all, to do them shabbily, so I said, +“Come every Saturday and you shall have a pound.” He was profuse in +thanks, of course, as all such men are as long as distress lasts. + +I had previously learned that my ragged client’s wife was in England, +living in a splendid house in Hyde Park Gardens, under her maiden name. On +the following day the Earl of Owing called upon me, wanting five thousand +pounds by five o’clock the same evening. It was a case of life or death +with him, so I made my terms, and took advantage of his pressure to +execute a _coup de main_. I proposed that he should drive me home to +receive the money, calling at Mrs. Molinos in Hyde Park Gardens, on our +way. I knew that the coronet and liveries of his father, the marquis, +would insure me an audience with Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy. + +My scheme answered. I was introduced into the lady’s presence. She was, +and probably is, a very stately, handsome woman, with a pale complexion, +high solid forehead, regular features, thin, pinched, self-satisfied +mouth. My interview was very short, I plunged into the middle of the +affair, but had scarcely mentioned the word husband, when she interrupted +me with, “I presume you have lent this profligate person money, and want +me to pay you.” She paused, and then said, “He shall not have a farthing.” +As she spoke, her white face became scarlet. + +“But, madam, the man is starving. I have strong reasons for believing he +is entitled to property, and if you refuse any assistance, I must take +other measures.” She rang the bell, wrote something rapidly on a card; +and, as the footman appeared, pushed it toward me across the table, with +the air of touching a toad, saying, “There, sir, is the address of my +solicitors; apply to them if you think you have any claim. Robert, show +the person out, and take care he is not admitted again.” + +So far I had effected nothing; and, to tell the truth, felt rather +crest-fallen under the influence of that grand manner peculiar to certain +great ladies and to all great actresses. + +My next visit was to the attorneys, Messrs. Leasem and Fashun, of +Lincoln’s Inn Square, and there I was at home. I had had dealings with the +firm before. They are agents for half the aristocracy, who always run in +crowds like sheep after the same wine-merchants, the same architects, the +same horse-dealers, and the same law-agents. It may be doubted whether the +quality of law and land management they get on this principle is quite +equal to their wine and horses. At any rate, my friends of Lincoln’s Inn, +like others of the same class, are distinguished by their courteous +manners, deliberate proceedings, innocence of legal technicalities, long +credit, and heavy charges. Leasem, the elder partner, wears powder and a +huge bunch of seals, lives in Queen-square, drives a brougham, gives the +dinners and does the cordial department. He is so strict in performing the +latter duty, that he once addressed a poacher who had shot a duke’s +keeper, as “my dear creature,” although he afterward hung him. + +Fashun has chambers in St. James-street, drives a cab, wears a tip, and +does the grand haha style. + +My business lay with Leasem. The interviews and letters passing were +numerous. However, it came at last to the following dialogue: + +“Well, my dear Mr. Discount,” began Mr. Leasem, who hates me like poison. +“I’m really very sorry for that poor dear Molinos—knew his father well; a +great man, a perfect gentleman; but you know what women are, eh, Mr. +Discount? My client won’t advance a shilling; she knows it would only be +wasted in low dissipation. Now, don’t you think (this was said very +insinuatingly)—don’t you think he had better be sent to the workhouse; +very comfortable accommodations there, I can assure you—meat twice a week, +and excellent soup; and then, Mr. D., we might consider about allowing you +something for that bill.” + +“Mr. Leasem, can you reconcile it to your conscience to make such an +arrangement? Here’s a wife rolling in luxury, and a husband starving!” + +“No, Mr. Discount, not starving; there is the workhouse, as I observed +before; besides, allow me to suggest that these appeals to feeling are +quite unprofessional—quite unprofessional.” + +“But, Mr. Leasem, touching this property which the poor man is entitled +to.” + +“Why, there again, Mr. D., you must excuse me; you really must. I don’t +say he is; I don’t say he is not. If you know he is entitled to property, +I am sure you know how to proceed; the law is open to you, Mr. +Discount—the law is open; and a man of your talent will know how to use +it.” + +“Then, Mr. Leasem, you mean that I must, in order to right this starving +man, file a bill of discovery, to extract from you the particulars of his +rights. You have the marriage settlement, and all the information, and you +decline to allow a pension, or afford any information; the man is to +starve, or go to the workhouse.” + +“Why, Mr. D., you are so quick and violent, it really is not professional; +but you see (here a subdued smile of triumph), it has been decided that a +solicitor is not bound to afford such information as you ask, to the +injury of his client.” + +“Then you mean that this poor Molinos may rot and starve, while you keep +secret from him, at his wife’s request, his title to an income, and that +the Court of Chancery will back you in this iniquity?” + +I kept repeating the word “starve,” because I saw it made my respectable +opponent wince. + +“Well, then, just listen to me. I know that in the happy state of your +equity law, chancery can’t help my client; but I have another plan: I +shall go hence to my office, issue a writ, and take your client’s husband +in execution—as soon as he is lodged in jail, I shall file his schedule in +the Insolvent Court, and when he comes up for his discharge, I shall put +you in the witness-box, and examine you on oath, ‘touching any property of +which you know the insolvent to be possessed,’ and where will be your +privileged communications then?” + +The respectable Leasem’s face lengthened in a twinkling, his comfortable +confident air vanished, he ceased twiddling his gold chain, and, at +length, he muttered, + +“Suppose we pay the debt?” + +“Why, then, I’ll arrest him the day after for another.” + +“But, my dear Mr. Discount, surely such conduct would not be quite +respectable.” + +“That’s my business; my client has been wronged, I am determined to right +him, and when the aristocratic firm, of Leasem and Fashun takes refuge +according to the custom of respectable repudiators, in the cool arbors of +the Court of Chancery, why, a mere bill-discounting attorney like David +Discount need not hesitate about cutting a bludgeon out of the Insolvent +Court.” + +“Well, well, Mr. D., you are so warm—so fiery; we must deliberate—we must +consult. You will give me until the day after to-morrow, and then we’ll +write you our final determination; in the meantime, send us a copy of your +authority to act for Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy.” + +Of course, I lost no time in getting the gentleman beggar to sign a proper +letter. + +On the appointed day came a communication with the L. and F. seal, which I +opened, not without unprofessional eagerness. It was as follows: + +“_In re Molinos Fitz-Roy and Another._ + +“Sir—In answer to your application on behalf of Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy, we +beg to inform you that under the administration of a paternal aunt who +died intestate, your client is entitled to two thousand five hundred +pounds eight shillings and sixpence, Three per Cents.; one thousand five +hundred pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence, Three per Cents. Reduced; +one thousand pounds, Long Annuities; five hundred pounds, Bank Stock; +three thousand five hundred pounds, India Stock; besides other securities, +making up about ten thousand pounds, which we are prepared to transfer +over to Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy’s direction forthwith.” + +Here was a windfall! It quite took away my breath. + +At dusk came my gentleman beggar, and what puzzled me was, how to break +the news to him. Being very much overwhelmed with business that day, I had +not much time for consideration. He came in rather better dressed than +when I first saw him, with only a week’s beard on his chin; but, as usual, +not quite sober. Six weeks had elapsed since our first interview. He was +still the humble, trembling, low-voiced creature, I first knew him. + +After a prelude, I said, “I find, Mr. F., you are entitled to something; +pray, what do you mean to give me in addition to my bill, for obtaining +it?” He answered rapidly, “Oh, take half; if there is one hundred pounds, +take half; if there is five hundred pounds, take half.” + +“No, no; Mr. F., I don’t do business in that way, I shall be satisfied +with ten per cent.” + +It was so settled. I then led him out into the street, impelled to tell +him the news, yet dreading the effect; not daring to make the revelation +in my office, for fear of a scene. + +I began hesitatingly, “Mr. Fitz-Roy, I am happy to say, that I find you +are entitled to .....ten thousand pounds!” + +“Ten thousand pounds!” he echoed. “Ten thousand pounds!” he shrieked. “Ten +thousand pounds!” he yelled, seizing my arm violently. “You are a brick. +Here, cab! cab!” Several drove up—the shout might have been heard a mile +off. He jumped in the first. + +“Where to?” said the driver. + +“To a tailor’s, you rascal!” + +“Ten thousand pounds! ha, ha, ha!” he repeated hysterically, when in the +cab; and every moment grasping my arm. Presently he subsided, looked me +straight in the face, and muttered with agonizing fervor, + +“What a jolly brick you are!” + +The tailor, the hosier, the bootmaker, the hair-dresser, were in turn +visited by this poor pagan of externals. As, by degrees, under their +hands, he emerged from the beggar to the gentleman, his spirits rose; his +eyes brightened; he walked erect, but always nervously grasping my arm; +fearing, apparently, to lose sight of me for a moment, lest his fortune +should vanish with me. The impatient pride with which he gave his orders +to the astonished tradesmen for the finest and best of every thing, and +the amazed air of the fashionable hairdresser when he presented his matted +locks and stubble chin, to be “cut and shaved,” may be _acted_—it can not +be described. + +By the time the external transformation was complete, and I sat down in a +_Café_ in the Haymarket, opposite a haggard but handsome, +thoroughbred-looking man, whose air, with the exception of the wild eyes +and deeply browned face, did not differ from the stereotyped men about +town sitting around us, Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy had already almost forgotten +the past; he bullied the waiter, and criticised the wine, as if he had +done nothing else but dine and drink and scold there all the days of his +life. + +Once he wished to drink my health, and would have proclaimed his whole +story to the coffee-room assembly, in a raving style. When I left he +almost wept in terror at the idea of losing sight of me. But, allowing for +these ebullitions—the natural result of such a whirl of events—he was +wonderfully calm and self-possessed. + +The next day, his first care was to distribute fifty pounds among his +friends the cadgers, at a house of call in Westminster, and formally to +dissolve his connection with them; those present undertaking for the +“fraternity,” that, for the future, he should never be noticed by them in +public or private. + +I can not follow his career much further. Adversity had taught him +nothing. He was soon again surrounded by the well-bred vampires who had +forgotten him when penniless; but they amused him, and that was enough. +The ten thousand pounds were rapidly melting when he invited me to a grand +dinner at Richmond, which included a dozen of the most agreeable, +good-looking, well-dressed dandies of London, interspersed with a display +of pretty butterfly bonnets. We dined deliciously, and drank as men do of +iced wines in the dog-days—looking down from Richmond Hill. + +One of the pink bonnets crowned Fitz-Roy with a wreath of flowers; he +looked—less the intellect—as handsome as Alcibiades. Intensely excited and +flushed, he rose with a champagne glass in his hand to propose my health. + +The oratorical powers of his father had not descended on him. Jerking out +sentences by spasms, at length he said, “I was a beggar—I am a +gentleman—thanks to this—” + +Here he leaned on my shoulder heavily a moment, and then fell back. We +raised him, loosened his neckcloth— + +“Fainted!” said the ladies. + +“Drunk!” said the gentlemen. + +He was _dead!_ + + + + + +SINGULAR PROCEEDINGS OF THE SAND WASP. (FROM HOWITT’S COUNTRY YEAR-BOOK.) + + +In all my observations of the habits of living things, I have never seen +any thing more curious than the doings of one species of these +ammophilæ—lovers of sand. I have watched them day after day, and hour +after hour, in my garden, and also on the sandy banks on the wastes about +Esher, in Surrey, and always with unabated wonder. They are about an inch +long, with orange-colored bodies, and black heads and wings. They are +slender and most active. You see them on the warm borders of your garden, +or on warm, dry banks, in summer, when the sun shines hotly. They are +incessantly and most actively hunting about. They are in pursuit of a +particular gray spider with a large abdomen. For these they pursue their +chase with a fiery quickness and avidity. The spiders are on the watch to +seize flies; but here we have the tables turned, and these are flies on +the watch to discover and kill the spiders. These singular insects seem +all velocity and fire. They come flying at a most rapid rate, light down +on the dry soil, and commence an active search. The spiders lie under the +leaves of plants, and in little dens under the dry little clods. Into all +these places the sand-wasp pops his head. He bustles along here and there, +flirting his wings, and his whole body all life and fire. And now he moves +off to a distance, hunts about there, then back to his first place, beats +the old ground carefully over, as a pointer beats a field. He searches +carefully round every little knob of earth, and pops his head into every +crevice. Ever and anon, he crouches close among the little clods as a +tiger would crouch for his prey. He seems to be listening, or smelling +down into the earth, as if to discover his prey by every sense which he +possesses, He goes round every stalk, and descends into every hollow about +them. When he finds the spider, he dispatches him in a moment, and seizing +him by the centre of his chest, commences dragging him off backward. + +He conveys his prey to a place of safety. Frequently he carries it up some +inches into a plant, and lodges it among the green leaves. Seeing him do +this, I poked his spider down with a stick after he had left it; but he +speedily returned, and finding it fallen down, he immediately carried it +up again to the same place. + +Having thus secured his spider, he selects a particular spot of earth, the +most sunny and warm, and begins to dig a pit. He works with all his might, +digging up the earth with his formidable mandibles, and throwing it out +with his feet, as a dog throws out the earth when scratching after a +rabbit. Every few seconds he ascends, tail first, out of his hole, clears +away the earth about its mouth with his legs, and spreads it to a distance +on the surface. When he has dug the hole, perhaps two inches deep, he +comes forth eagerly, goes off for his spider, drags it down from its +lodgment, and brings it to the mouth of his hole. He now lets himself down +the hole, tail first, and then, putting forth his head, takes the spider, +and turns it into the most suitable position for dragging it in. + +It must be observed that this hole is made carefully of only about the +width of his body, and therefore the spider can not be got into it except +lengthwise, and then by stout pulling. Well, he turns it lengthwise, and +seizing it, commences dragging it in. At first, you would imagine this +impossible; but the sand-wasp is strong, and the body of the spider is +pliable. You soon see it disappear. Down into the cylindrical hole it +goes, and anon you perceive the sand-wasp pushing up its black head beside +it; and having made his way out he again sets to work, and pushes the +spider with all his force to the bottom of the den. + +And what is all this for? Is the spider laid up in his larder for himself? +No; it is food for his children? It is their birth-place, and their supply +of provision while they are in the larva state. + +We have been all along calling this creature he, for it has a most +masculine look; but it is in reality a she; it is the female sand-wasp, +and all this preparation is for the purpose of laying her eggs. For this +she has sought and killed the spider, and buried it here. She has done it +all wittingly. She has chosen one particular spider, and that only, for +that is the one peculiarly adapted to nourish her young. + +So here it is safely stored away in her den; and she now descends, tail +first, and piercing the pulpy abdomen of the spider, she deposits her egg +or eggs. That being done, she carefully begins filling in the hole with +earth. She rakes it up with her legs and mandibles, and fills in the hole, +every now and then turning round and going backward into the hole to stamp +down the earth with her feet, and to ram it down with her body as a +rammer. When the hole is filled, it is curious to observe with what care +she levels the surface, and removes the surrounding lumps of earth, laying +some first over the tomb of the spider, and others about, so as to make +that place look as much as possible like the surface all round. And before +she has done with it—and she works often for ten minutes at this leveling +and disguising before she is perfectly satisfied—she makes the place so +exactly like all the rest of the surface, that it will require good eyes +and close observation to recognize it. + +She has now done her part, and Nature must do the rest. She has deposited +her eggs in the body of the spider, and laid that body in the earth in the +most sunny spot she can find. She has laid it so near the surface that the +sun will act on it powerfully, yet deep enough to conceal it from view. +She has, with great art and anxiety, destroyed all traces of the hole, and +the effect will soon commence. The heat of the sun will hatch the egg. The +larva, or young grub of the sand-wasp, will become alive, and begin to +feed on the pulpy body of the spider in which it is enveloped. This food +will suffice it till it is ready to emerge to daylight, and pass through +the different stages of its existence. Like the ostrich, the sand-wasp +thus leaves her egg in the sand till the sun hatches it, and having once +buried it, most probably never knows herself where it is deposited. It is +left to Nature and Providence + + + + + +WHAT HORSES THINK OF MEN. FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. (FROM +DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.) + + +I suppose you thought I was dead? No such thing. Don’t flatter yourselves +that I haven’t got my eye upon you. I am wide awake, and you give me +plenty to look at. + +I have begun my great work about you, I have been collecting materials +from the Horse, to begin with. You are glad to hear it, ain’t you? Very +likely. Oh, he gives you a nice character! He makes you out a charming set +of fellows. + +He informs me by-the-by, that he is a distant relation of the pony that +was taken up in a balloon a few weeks ago; and that the pony’s account of +your going to see him at Vauxhall Gardens, is an amazing thing. The pony +says that when he looked round on the assembled crowd, come to see the +realization of the wood-cut in the bill, he found it impossible to +discover which was the real Mister Green—there were so many Mister +Greens—and they were all so very green! + +But that’s the way with you. You know it is. Don’t tell me! You’d go to +see any thing that other people went to see. And don’t flatter yourselves +that I am referring to “the vulgar curiosity,” as you choose to call it, +when you mean some curiosity in which you don’t participate yourselves. +The polite curiosity in this country is as vulgar as any curiosity in the +world. + +Of course you’ll tell me, no it isn’t; but I say, yes it is. What have you +got to say for yourselves about the Nepaulese princes, I should like to +know? Why, there has been more crowding, and pressing, and pushing, and +jostling, and struggling, and striving, in genteel houses this last +season, on account of those Nepaulese princes, than would have taken place +in vulgar Cremorne Gardens and Greenwich Park, at Easter time and +Whitsuntide! And what for? Do you know any thing about ’em? Have you any +idea why they came here? Can you put your finger on their country in the +map? Have you ever asked yourselves a dozen common questions about its +climate, natural history, government, productions, customs, religion, +manners? Not you! Here are a couple of swarthy princes very much out of +their element, walking about in wide muslin trowsers, and sprinkled all +over with gems (like the clockwork figure on the old round platform in the +street, grown-up), and they’re fashionable outlandish monsters, and it’s a +new excitement for you to get a stare at ’em. As to asking ’em to dinner, +and seeing ’em sit at table without eating in your company (unclean +animals as you are!), you fall into raptures at that. Quite delicious, +isn’t it? Ugh, you dunder-headed boobies! + +I wonder what there is, new and strange, that you _wouldn’t_ lionize, as +you call it. Can you suggest any thing! It’s not a hippopotamus, I +suppose. I hear from my brother-in-law in the Zoological Gardens, that you +are always pelting away into the Regent’s Park, by thousands, to see the +hippopotamus. Oh, you’re very fond of hippopotami, ain’t you? You study +one attentively, when you _do_ see one, don’t you? You come away so much +wiser than when you went, reflecting so profoundly on the wonders of the +creation—eh? + +Bah! You follow one another like wild geese; but you are not so good to +eat! + +These, however, are not the observations of my friend the Horse. _He_ +takes you, in another point of view. Would you like to read his +contribution to my Natural History of you? No? You shall then. + +He is a cab-horse now. He wasn’t always, but he is now, and his usual +stand is close to our proprietor’s usual stand. That’s the way we have +come into communication, we “dumb animals.” Ha, ha! Dumb, too! Oh, the +conceit of you men, because you can bother the community out of their five +wits, by making speeches! + +Well. I mentioned to this Horse that I should be glad to have his opinions +and experiences of you. Here they are: + +“At the request of my honorable friend the Raven, I proceed to offer a few +remarks in reference to the animal called Man. I have had varied +experience of this strange creature for fifteen years, and am now driven +by a Man, in the hackney cabriolet, number twelve thousand four hundred +and fifty-two. + +“The sense Man entertains of his own inferiority to the nobler animals—and +I am now more particularly referring to the Horse—has impressed me +forcibly, in the course of my career. If a man knows a horse well, he is +prouder of it than of any knowledge of himself, within the range of his +limited capacity. He regards it as the sum of all human acquisition. If he +is learned in a horse, he has nothing else to learn. And the same remark +applies, with some little abatement, to his acquaintance with dogs. I have +seen a good deal of man in my time, but I think I have never met a man who +didn’t feel it necessary to his reputation to pretend, on occasion, that +he knew something of horses and dogs, though he really knew nothing. As to +making us a subject of conversation, my opinion is that we are more talked +about than history, philosophy, literature, art, and science, all put +together. I have encountered innumerable gentlemen in the country, who +were totally incapable of interest in any thing but horses and dogs—except +cattle. And I have always been given to understand that they were the +flower of the civilized world. + +“It is very doubtful to me, whether there is, upon the whole, any thing +man is so ambitious to imitate as an ostler, jockey, a stage coachman, a +horse-dealer, or dog-fancier. There may be some other character which I do +not immediately remember, that fires him with emulation; but if there be, +I am sure it is connected with horses or dogs, or both. This is an +unconscious compliment, on the part of the tyrant, to the nobler animals, +which I consider to be very remarkable. I have known lords and baronets, +and members of parliament, out of number, who have deserted every other +calling to become but indifferent stablemen or kennelmen, and be cheated +on all hands, by the real aristocracy of those pursuits who were regularly +born to the business. + +“All this, I say, is a tribute to our superiority, which I consider to be +very remarkable. Yet, still I can’t quite understand it. Man can hardly +devote himself to us, in admiration of our virtues, because he never +imitates them. We horses are as honest, though I say it, as animals can +be. If, under the pressure of circumstances, we submit to act at a circus, +for instance, we always show that we are acting. We never deceive any +body. We would scorn to do it. If we are called upon to do any thing in +earnest, we do our best. If we are required to run a race falsely, and to +lose when we could win, we are not to be relied upon to commit a fraud; +man must come in at that point, and force us to it. And the extraordinary +circumstance to me is, that man (whom I take to be a powerful species of +monkey) is always making us nobler animals the instruments of his meanness +and cupidity. The very name of our kind has become a byword for all sorts +of trickery and cheating. We are as innocent as counters at a game—and yet +this creature WILL play falsely with us! + +“Man’s opinion, good or bad, is not worth much, as any rational horse +knows. But justice is justice; and what I complain of is, that mankind +talks of us as if we had something to do with all this. They say that such +a man was ‘ruined by horses.’ Ruined by horses! They can’t be open, even +in that, and say he was ruined by men; but they lay it at _our_ +stable-door! As if we ever ruined any body, or were ever doing any thing +but being ruined ourselves, in our generous desire to fulfill the useful +purposes of our existence! + +“In the same way, we get a bad name, as if we were profligate company. ‘So +and so got among horses, and it was all up with him.’ Why, _we_ would have +reclaimed him—_we_ would have made him temperate, industrious, punctual, +steady, sensible—what harm would he ever have got from _us_, I should wish +to ask? + +“Upon the whole, speaking of him as I have found him, I should describe +man as an unmeaning and conceited creature, very seldom to be trusted, and +not likely to make advances toward the honesty of the nobler animals. I +should say that his power of warping the nobler animals to bad purposes, +and damaging their reputation by his companionship, is, next to the art of +growing oats, hay, carrots, and clover, one of his principal attributes. +He is very unintelligible in his caprices; seldom expressing with +distinctness what he wants of us; and relying greatly on our better +judgment to find out. He is cruel, and fond of blood—particularly at a +steeple-chase—and is very ungrateful. + +“And yet, so far as I can understand, he worships us, too. He sets up +images of us (not particularly like, but meant to be) in the streets and +calls upon his fellows to admire them, and believe in them. As well as I +can make out, it is not of the least importance what images of men are put +astride upon these images of horses, for I don’t find any famous personage +among them—except one, and _his_ image seems to have been contracted for +by the gross. The jockeys who ride our statues are very queer jockeys, it +appears to me, but it is something to find man even posthumously sensible +of what he owes to us. I believe that when he has done any great wrong to +any very distinguished horse, deceased, he gets up a subscription to have +an awkward likeness of him made, and erects it in a public place, to be +generally venerated. I can find no other reason for the statues of us that +abound. + +“It must be regarded as a part of the inconsistency of man, that he erects +no statues to the donkeys—who, though far inferior animals to ourselves, +have great claims upon him. I should think a donkey opposite the horse at +Hyde Park, another in Trafalgar-square, and a group of donkeys, in brass, +outside the Guild-hall of the city of London (for I believe the +common-council chamber is inside that building) would be pleasant and +appropriate memorials. + +“I am not aware that I can suggest any thing more to my honorable friend +the Raven, which will not already have occurred to his fine intellect. +Like myself, he is the victim of brute force, and must bear it until the +present state of things is changed—as it possibly may be in the good time +which I understand is coming, if I wait a little longer.” + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +There! How do you like that? That’s the Horse! You shall have another +animal’s sentiments, soon. I have communicated with plenty of ’em, and +they are all down upon you. It’s not I alone who have found you out. You +are generally detected, I am happy to say, and shall be covered with +confusion. + +Talking about the horse, are you going to set up any more horses? Eh? +Think a bit. Come! You haven’t got horses enough yet, surely? Couldn’t you +put somebody else on horseback, and stick him up, at the cost of a few +thousands? You have already statues to most of the “benefactors of +mankind” (SEE ADVERTISEMENT) in your principal cities. You walk through +groves of great inventors, instructors, discoverers, assuagers of pain, +preventers of disease, suggesters of purifying thoughts, doers of noble +deeds. Finish the list. Come! + +Whom will you hoist into the saddle? Let’s have a cardinal virtue! Shall +it be Faith? Hope? Charity? Ay, Charity’s the virtue to ride on horseback! +Let’s have Charity! + +How shall we represent it? Eh? What do you think? Royal? Certainly. Duke? +Of course. Charity always was typified in that way, from the time of a +certain widow downward. And there’s nothing less left to put up; all the +commoners who were “benefactors of mankind” having had their statues in +the public places, long ago. + +How shall we dress it? Rags? Low. Drapery? Commonplace. Field-Marshal’s +uniform? The very thing! Charity in a Field-Marshal’s uniform (none the +worse for wear) with thirty thousand pounds a year, public money, in its +pocket, and fifteen thousand more, public money, up behind, will be a +piece of plain, uncompromising truth in the highways, and an honor to the +country and the time. + +Ha, ha, ha! You can’t leave the memory of an unassuming, honest, +good-natured, amiable old duke alone, without bespattering it with your +flunkeyism, can’t you? That’s right—and like you! Here are three brass +buttons in my crop. I’ll subscribe ’em all. One, to the statue of Charity; +one, to a statue of Hope; one, to a statue of Faith. For Faith, we’ll have +the Nepaulese Embassador on horseback—being a prince. And for Hope, we’ll +put the Hippopotamus on horseback, and so make a group. + +Let’s have a meeting about it! + + + + + +THE QUAKERS DURING THE AMERICAN WAR. (FROM HOWITT’S COUNTRY YEAR-BOOK.) + + +George Dilwyn was an American, a remarkable preacher among the Quakers. +About fifty years ago he came over to this country, on what we have +already said is termed a “Religious Visit,” and being in Cornwall, when I +was there, and at George Fox’s, in Falmouth—our aged relative still +narrates—soon became an object of great attraction, not only from his +powerful preaching, but from his extraordinary gift in conversation, which +he made singularly interesting from the introduction of curious passages +in his own life and experience. + +His company was so much sought after, that a general invitation was given, +by his hospitable and wealthy entertainer, to all the Friends of the town +and neighborhood to come, and hear, and see him; and evening by evening, +their rooms were crowded by visitors, who sat on seats, side by side, as +in a public lecture-room. + +Among other things, he related, that during the time of the revolutionary +war, one of the armies passing through a district in which a great number +of Friends resided, food was demanded from the inhabitants, which was +given to them. The following day the adverse army came up in pursuit, and +stripped them of every kind of provision that remained; and so great was +the strait to which they were reduced, that absolute famine was before +them. Their sufferings were extreme, as day after day went on, and no +prospect of relief was afforded them. Death seemed to stare them in the +face, and many a one was ready to despair. The forests around them were in +possession of the soldiers, and the game, which otherwise might have +yielded them subsistence, was killed or driven away. + +After several days of great distress, they retired at night, still without +hope or prospect of succor. How great, then, was their surprise and cause +of thankfulness when, on the following morning, immense herds of wild deer +were seen standing around their inclosures, as if driven there for their +benefit! From whence they came none could tell, nor the cause of their +coming, but they suffered themselves to be taken without resistance; and +thus the whole people were saved, and had great store of provisions laid +up for many weeks. + +Again, a similar circumstance occurred near the sea-shore, when the flying +and pursuing armies had stripped the inhabitants, and when, apparently to +add to their distress, the wind set in with such unusual violence, and the +sea drove the tide so far inland, that the people near the shore were +obliged to abandon their houses, and those in the town retreat to their +upper rooms. This also being during the night, greatly added to their +distress; and, like the others, they were ready to despair. Next morning, +however, they found that God had not been unmindful of them; for the tide +had brought up with it a most extraordinary shoal of mackerel, so that +every place was filled with them, where they remained ready taken, without +net or skill of man—a bountiful provision for the wants of the people, +till other relief could be obtained. + +Another incident he related, which occurred in one of the back +settlements, when the Indians had been employed to burn the dwellings of +the settlers, and cruelly to murder the people. One of these solitary +habitations was in the possession of a Friend’s family. They lived in such +secure simplicity, that they had hitherto had no apprehension of danger, +and used neither bar nor bolt to their door, having no other means of +securing their dwelling from intrusion than by drawing in the leathern +thong by which the wooden latch inside was lifted from without. + +The Indians had committed frightful ravages all around, burning and +murdering without mercy. Every evening brought forth tidings of horror, +and every night the unhappy settlers surrounded themselves with such +defenses as they could muster—even then, for dread, scarcely being able to +sleep. The Friend and his family, who had hitherto put no trust in the arm +of flesh, but had left all in the keeping of God, believing that man often +ran in his own strength to his own injury, had used so little precaution, +that they slept without even withdrawing the string, and were as yet +uninjured. Alarmed, however, at length, by the fears of others, and by the +dreadful rumors that surrounded them, they yielded to their fears on one +particular night, and, before retiring to rest, drew in the string, and +thus secured themselves as well as they were able. + +In the dead of the night, the Friend, who had not been able to sleep, +asked his wife if she slept; and she replied that she could not, for her +mind was uneasy. Upon this, he confessed that the same was his case, and +that he believed it would be the safest for him to rise and put out the +string of the latch as usual. On her approving of this, it was done, and +the two lay down again, commending themselves to the keeping of God. + +This had not occurred above ten minutes, when the dismal sound of the +war-whoop echoed through the forest, filling every heart with dread, and +almost immediately afterward, they counted the footsteps of seven men pass +the window of their chamber, which was on the ground-floor, and the next +moment the door-string was pulled, the latch lifted, and the door opened. +A debate of a few minutes took place, the purport of which, as it was +spoken in the Indian language, was unintelligible to the inhabitants; but +that it was favorable to them was proved by the door being again closed, +and the Indians retiring without having crossed the threshold. + +The next morning they saw the smoke rising from burning habitations all +around them; parents were weeping for their children who were carried off, +and children lamenting over their parents who had been cruelly slain. + +Some years afterward, when peace was restored, and the colonists had +occasion to hold conferences with the Indians, this Friend was appointed +as one for that purpose, and speaking in favor of the Indians, he related +the above incident; in reply to which, an Indian observed, that, by the +simple circumstance of putting out the latch-string, which proved +confidence rather than fear, their lives and their property had been +saved; for that he himself was one of that marauding party, and that, on +finding the door open, it was said—“These people shall live; they will do +us no harm, for they put their trust in the GREAT SPIRIT.” + +During the whole American revolution, indeed, the Indians, though incited +by the whites to kill and scalp the enemy, never molested the Friends, as +the people of Father Onas, or William Penn, and as the avowed opponents of +all violence. Through the whole war, there were but two instances to the +contrary, and they were occasioned by the two Friends themselves. The one +was a young man, a tanner, who went to his tan-yard and back daily +unmolested, while devastation spread on all sides; but at length, +thoughtlessly carrying a gun to shoot some birds, the Indians, in ambush, +believed that he had deserted his principles, and shot him. The other was +a woman, who, when the dwellings of her neighbors were nightly fired, and +the people themselves murdered, was importuned by the officers of a +neighboring fort to take refuge there till the danger was over. For some +time she refused, and remained unharmed amid general destruction; but, at +length, letting in fear, she went for one night to the fort, but was so +uneasy, that the next morning she quitted it to return to her home. The +Indians, however, believed that she too had abandoned her principles, and +joined the fighting part of the community, and before she reached home she +was shot by them. + + + + + +A SHILLING’S WORTH OF SCIENCE. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.) + + +Dr. Paris has already shown, in a charming little book treating +scientifically of children’s toys, how easy even “philosophy in sport can +be made science in earnest.” An earlier genius cut out the whole alphabet +into the figures of uncouth animals, and inclosed them in a toy-box +representing Noah’s Ark, for the purpose of teaching children their +letters. Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, have been decimated; “yea, the +great globe itself,” has been parceled into little wooden sections, that +their readjustment into a continuous map might teach the infant conqueror +of the world the relative positions of distant countries. Archimedes might +have discovered the principle of the lever and the fundamental principles +of gravity upon a rocking-horse. In like manner he might have ascertained +the laws of hydrostatics, by observing the impetus of many natural and +artificial fountains, which must occasionally have come beneath his eye. +So also the principles of acoustics might even now be taught by the aid of +a penny whistle, and there is no knowing how much children’s nursery games +may yet be rendered subservient to the advancement of science. The famous +Dr. Cornelius Scriblerus had excellent notions on these subjects. He +determined that his son Martinus should be the most learned and +universally well-informed man of his age, and had recourse to all sorts of +devices in order to inspire him even unthinkingly with knowledge. He +determined that every thing should contribute to the improvement of his +mind—even his very dress. He therefore, his biographer informs us, +invented for him a geographical suit of clothes, which might give him some +hints of that science, and also of the commerce of different nations. His +son’s disposition to mathematics—for he was a remarkable child—was +discovered very early by his drawing parallel lines on his bread and +butter, and intersecting them at equal angles, so as to form the whole +superficies into squares. His father also wisely resolved that he should +acquire the learned languages, especially Greek—and remarking, curiously +enough, that young Martinus Scriblerus was remarkably fond of gingerbread, +the happy idea came into his parental head that his pieces of gingerbread +should be stamped with the letters of the Greek alphabet; and such was the +child’s avidity for knowledge, that the very first day he eat down to +_iota_. + +When Sir Isaac Newton changed his residence and went to live in +Leicester-place, his next door neighbor was a widow lady, who was much +puzzled by the little she observed of the habits of the philosopher. One +of the Fellows of the Royal Society called upon her one day, when, among +other domestic news, she mentioned that some one had come to reside in the +adjoining house, who she felt certain was a poor mad gentleman. “And why +so?” asked her friend. “Because,” said she, “he diverts himself in the +oddest way imaginable. Every morning when the sun shines so brightly that +we are obliged to draw down the window-blinds, he takes his seat on a +little stool before a tub of soap-suds, and occupies himself for hours +blowing soap-bubbles through a common clay-pipe, which he intently watches +floating about until they burst. He is doubtless,” she added, “now at his +favorite diversion, for it is a fine day; do come and look at him.” The +gentleman smiled; and they went up-stairs, when after looking through the +stair-case window into the adjoining court-yard, he turned round and said, +“My dear lady, the person whom you suppose to be a poor lunatic, is no +other than the great Sir Isaac Newton studying the refraction of light +upon thin plates, a phenomenon which is beautifully exhibited upon the +surface of a common soap-bubble.” + +The principle, illustrated by the examples we have given, has been +efficiently followed by the Directors of the Royal Polytechnic Institution +in Regent-street, London. Even the simplest models and objects they +exhibit in their extensive halls and galleries, expound—like Sir Isaac +Newton’s soap-bubble—some important principle of Science or Art. + +On entering the Hall of Manufactures (as we did the other day) it was +impossible not to be impressed with the conviction that we are in an +utilitarian age in which the science of Mechanics advances with marvelous +rapidity. Here we observed steam-engines, hand-looms, and machines in +active operation, surrounding us with that peculiar din which makes the +air + + + “Murmur, as with the sound of summer-flies.” + + +Passing into the “Gallery in the Great Hall,” we did not fail to derive a +momentary amusement, from observing the very different objects which +seemed most to excite the attention, and interest of the different +sight-seers. Here, stood obviously a country farmer examining the model of +a steam-plow; there, a Manchester or Birmingham manufacturer looking into +a curious and complicated weaving machine; here, we noticed a group of +ladies admiring specimens of elaborate carving in ivory, and personal +ornaments esteemed highly fashionable at the antipodes; and there, the +smiling faces of youth watching with eager eyes the little boats and +steamers paddling along the Water Reservoir in the central counter. But we +had scarcely looked around us, when a bell rang to announce a lecture on +Voltaic Electricity by Dr. Bachhoffner; and moving with a stream of people +up a short stair-case, we soon found ourselves in a very commodious and +well-arranged theatre. There are many universities and public institutions +that have not better lecture rooms than this theatre in the Royal +Polytechnic Institution. The lecture was elementary and exceedingly +instructive, pointing out and showing by experiments, the identity between +Magnetism and Electricity—light and heat; but notwithstanding the extreme +perspicuity of the Professor, it was our fate to sit next two old ladies +who seemed to be very incredulous about the whole business. + +“If heat and light are the same thing,” asked one, “why don’t a flame come +out at the spout of a boiling tea-kettle?” + +“The steam,” answered the other, “may account for that.” + +“Hush!” cried somebody behind them; and the ladies were silent: but it was +plain they thought Voltaic Electricity had something to do with conjuring, +and that the lecturer might be a professor of Magic. The lecture over, we +returned to the Gallery, where we found the Diving Bell just about to be +put in operation. It is made of cast iron, and weighs three tons; the +interior being provided with seats, and lighted by openings in the crown, +upon which a plate of thick glass is secured. The weighty instrument +suspended by a massive chain to a large swing crane, was soon in motion, +when we observed our skeptical lady-friends join a party and enter, in +order, we presume, to make themselves more sure of the truth of the +diving-bell than they could do of the identity between light and heat. The +bell was soon swung round and lowered into a tank, which holds nearly ten +thousand gallons of water; but we confess our fears for the safety of its +inmates were greatly appeased, when we learned that the whole of this +reservoir of water could be emptied in less than one minute. Slowly and +steadily was the bell drawn up again, and we had the satisfaction of +seeing the enterprising ladies and their companions alight on _terra +firma_, nothing injured excepting that they were greatly flushed in the +face. A man, clad in a water-tight dress and surmounted with a +diving-helmet, next performed a variety of sub-aqueous feats, much to the +amusement and astonishment of the younger part of the audience, one of +whom shouted as he came up above the surface of the water, “Oh! ma’a! +Don’t he look like an Ogre!” and certainly the shining brass helmet and +staring large plate-glass eyes fairly warranted such a suggestion. The +principles of the diving-bell and of the diving-helmet are too well known +to require explanation: but the practical utility of these machines is +daily proved. Even while we now write, it has been ascertained that the +foundations of Blackfriars Bridge are giving way. The bed of the river, +owing to the constant ebb and flow of its waters, has sunk some six or +seven feet below its level since the bridge was built, thus undermining +its foundation; and this effect, it is presumed, has been greatly +augmented by the removal of the old London Bridge, the works surrounding +which operated as a dam in checking the force of the current. These +machines, also, are constantly used in repairing the bottom of docks, +landing-piers, and in the construction of breakwater works, such as those +which are at present being raised at Dover Harbor. + +Among other remarkable objects in the museum of natural history we +recognized, swimming upon his shingly bed under a glass case, our old +friend the Gymnotus Electricus, or Electrical Eel. Truly, he is a +marvelous fish. The power which animals of every description possess in +adapting themselves to external and adventitious circumstances, is here +marvelously illustrated, for, notwithstanding this creature is surrounded +by the greatest possible amount of artificial circumstances, inasmuch as +instead of sporting in his own pellucid and sparkling waters of the river +Amazon, he is here confined in a glass prison, in water artificially +heated; instead of his natural food, he is here supplied with fish not +indigenous to his native country, and denied access to fresh air, with +sunlight sparkling upon the surface of the waves—he is here surrounded by +an impure and obscure atmosphere, with crowds of people constantly moving +to and fro and gazing upon him; yet, notwithstanding all these +disadvantageous circumstances, he has continued to thrive; nay, since we +saw him ten years ago, he has increased in size and is apparently very +healthy, notwithstanding that he is obviously quite blind. + +This specimen of the Gymnotus Electricus was caught in the river Amazon, +and was brought over to this country by Mr. Potter, where it arrived on +the 12th of August, 1838, when he displayed it to the proprietors of the +Adelaide Gallery. In the first instance, there was some difficulty in +keeping him alive, for, whether from sickness, or sulkiness, he refused +food of every description, and is said to have eaten nothing from the day +he was taken, in March, 1838, to the 19th of the following October. He was +confided upon his arrival to the care of Mr. Bradley, who placed him in an +apartment the temperature of which could be maintained at about +seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, and acting upon the suggestions of Baron +Humboldt, he endeavored to feed him with bits of boiled meat, worms, +frogs, fish, and bread, which were all tried in succession. But the animal +would not touch these. The plan adopted by the London fishmongers for +fattening the common eel was then had recourse to; a quantity of bullock’s +blood was put into the water, care being taken that it should be changed +daily, and this was attended with some beneficial effects, as the animal +gradually improved in health. In the month of October it occurred to Mr. +Bradley to tempt him with some small fish, and the first gudgeon thrown +into the water he darted at and swallowed with avidity. From that period +the same diet has been continued, and he is now fed three times a day, and +upon each occasion is given two or three carp, or perch, or gudgeon, each +weighing from two to three ounces. In watching his movements we observed, +that in swimming about he seems to delight in rubbing himself against the +gravel which forms the bed above which he floats, and the water +immediately becomes clouded with the mucus from which he thus relieves the +surface of his body. + +When this species of fish was first discovered, marvelous accounts +respecting them were transmitted to the Royal Society: it was even said +that in the river Surinam, in the western province of Guiana, some existed +twenty feet long. The present specimen is forty inches in length; and +measures eighteen inches round the body; and his physiognomy justifies the +description given by one of the early narrators, who remarked, that the +Gymnotus “resembles one of our common eels, except that its head is flat, +and its mouth wide, like that of a cat-fish, without teeth.” It is +certainly ugly enough. On its first arrival in England, the proprietors +offered Professor Faraday (to whom this country may possibly discover, +within the next five hundred years, that it owes something) the privilege +of experimenting upon him for scientific purposes, and the result of a +great number of experiments, ingeniously devised, and executed with great +nicety, clearly proved the identity between the electricity of the fish +and the common electricity. The shock, the circuit, the spark, were +distinctly obtained: the galvanometer was sensibly affected; chemical +decompositions were obtained; an annealed steel needle became magnetic, +and the direction of its polarity indicated a current from the anterior to +the posterior parts of the fish, through the conductors used. The force +with which the electric discharge is made is also very considerable, for +this philosopher tells us we may conclude that a single medium discharge +of the fish is at least equal to the electricity of a Leyden Battery of +fifteen jars, containing three thousand five hundred square inches of +glass, coated upon both sides, charged to its highest degree. But great as +is the force of a single discharge, the Gymnotus will sometimes give a +double, and even a triple shock, with scarcely any interval. Nor is this +all. The instinctive action it has recourse to in order to augment the +force of the shock, is very remarkable. + +The professor one day dropped a live fish, five inches long, into the tub; +upon which the Gymnotus turned round in such a manner as to form a coil +inclosing the fish, the latter representing a diameter across it, and the +fish was struck motionless, as if lightning had passed through the water. +The Gymnotus then made a turn to look for his prey, which having found, he +bolted it, and then went about seeking for more. A second smaller fish was +then given him, which being hurt, showed little signs of life; and this he +swallowed apparently without “shocking it.” We are informed by Dr. +Williamson, in a paper he communicated some years ago to the Royal +Society, that a fish already struck motionless gave signs of returning +animation, which the Gymnotus observing, he instantly discharged another +shock, which killed it. Another curious circumstance was observed by +Professor Faraday—the Gymnotus appeared conscious of the difference of +giving a shock to an animate and an inanimate body, and would not be +provoked to discharge its powers upon the latter. When tormented by a +glass rod, the creature in the first instance threw out a shock, but as if +he perceived his mistake, he could not be stimulated afterward to repeat +it, although the moment the professor touched him with his hands, he +discharged shock after shock. He refused, in like manner, to gratify the +curiosity of the philosophers, when they touched him with metallic +conductors, which he permitted them to do with indifference. It is worthy +of observation, that this is the only specimen of the Gymnotus Electricus +ever brought over alive into this country. The great secret of preserving +his life would appear to consist in keeping the water at an even +temperature—summer and winter—of seventy-five degrees of Fahrenheit. After +having been subjected to a great variety of experiments, the creature is +now permitted to enjoy the remainder of its days in honorable peace, and +the only occasion upon which he is now disturbed, is when it is found +necessary to take him out of his shallow reservoir to have it cleaned, +when he discharges angrily enough shock after shock, which the attendants +describe to be very smart, even though he be held in several thick and +well wetted cloths, for they do not at all relish the job. + +The Gymnotus Electricus is not the only animal endowed with this very +singular power; there are other fish, especially the Torpedo and Silurus, +which are equally remarkable, and equally well known. The peculiar +structure which enters into the formation of their electrical organs, was +first examined by the eminent anatomist John Hunter, in the Torpedo; and, +very recently, Rudolphi has described their structure with great exactness +in the Gymnotus Electricus. + +Without entering into minute details, the peculiarity of the organic +apparatus of the Electrical Eel seems to consist in this, that it is +composed of numerous _laminæ_ or thin tendinous partitions, between which +exists an infinite number of small cells filled with a thickish gelatinous +fluid. These strata and cells are supplied with nerves of unusual size, +and the intensity of the electrical power is presumed to depend on the +amount of nervous energy accumulated in these cells, whence it can be +voluntarily discharged, just as a muscle may be voluntarily contracted. +Furthermore, there are, it would appear, good reasons to believe that +nervous power (in whatever it may consist) and electricity are identical. +The progress of science has already shown the identity between heat, +electricity, and magnetism; that heat may be concentrated into +electricity, and this electricity reconverted into heat; that electric +force may be converted into magnetic force, and Professor Faraday himself +discovered how, by reacting back again, the magnetic force can be +reconverted into the electric force, and _vice versâ_; and should the +identity between electricity and nervous power be as clearly established, +one of the most important and interesting problems in physiology will be +solved. + +Every new discovery in science, and all improvements in industrial art, +the principles of which are capable of being rendered in the least degree +interesting, are in this Exhibition forthwith popularized, and become, as +it were, public property. Every individual of the great public can at the +very small cost of one shilling, claim his or her share in the property +thus attractively collected, and a small amount of previous knowledge or +natural intelligence will put the visitor in actual possession of +treasures which previously “he wot not of,” in so amusing a manner that +they will be beguiled rather than bored into his mind. + + + + + +A TUSCAN VINTAGE. + + +All Tuscany had been busy with the vintage. The vintage! Is there a word +more rich to the untraveled Englishman in picturesque significance and +poetical associations? All that the bright south has of glowing coloring, +harmonious forms, teeming abundance, and Saturnian facility, mixed up in +the imagination with certain vague visions of bright black eyes and +bewitching ankles—all this, and more, goes to the making up of the +Englishman’s notion of the vintage. Alas! that it should be needful to +dissipate such charming illusions. And yet it is well to warn those who +cherish these _couleur-de-rose_ imaginings, and who would fain shun a +disagreeable _désenchantement_, that they will do wisely in continuing to +receive their impressions of Italian ruralities from the presentations of +our theatres, and the description of Mrs. Radcliffe. To those inquirers, +however, of sterner mould, who would find truth, be it ever so +disagreeable when found, it must be told that a Devonshire harvesting is +twice as pretty, and a Kentish hop-picking thrice as pretty a scene as any +“vindemia” that the vineyards of Italy can show. The vine, indeed, as +grown in Italy—especially when the fruit is ripe, and the leaves begin to +be tinted with crimson and yellow—is an exceedingly pretty object, rich in +coloring, and elegant in its forms. Nothing but the most obsolete and +backward agriculture, however, preserves these beauties. If good wine and +not pretty crops be the object in view, the vine should be grown as in +France—a low dwarf plant closely pruned, and raised only two or three feet +from the ground; and than such a vineyard nothing can be more ugly. +Classic Italy, however, still cultivates her vines as she did when the +Georgics were written; “marries” them most becomingly and picturesquely to +elms or mulberries, &c, and makes of them lovely festoons and very acrid +wine. Again, it must be admitted that a yoke of huge dove-colored oxen, +with their heavy unwieldy tumbril, is a more picturesque object than an +English wagon and a team of horses. Occasionally, too, may be seen bearing +not ungracefully a blushing burden of huge bunches, a figure, male or +female, who might have sat for a model to Leopold Robert. But despite all +this, the process of gathering the vintage is any thing but a pleasing +sight. In one of the heavy tumbrils I have mentioned, are placed some +twelve or fifteen large pails, some three feet deep, and a foot or so in +diameter. Into these are thrown pell-mell the bunches of fruit, ripe and +unripe, clean and dirty, stalks and all, white and red indiscriminately. +The cart thus laden, the fifteen pails of unsightly, dirty-looking slush, +are driven to the “fattoria,” there to be emptied into vats, which appear, +both to nose and eye, never to have been cleansed since they were made. In +performing this operation much is of course spilt over the men employed, +over the cart, over the ground; and nothing can look less agreeable than +the effect thus produced. Sometimes one large tub occupies the whole +tumbril, the contents of which, on reaching the “fattoria,” have to be +ladled out with buckets. Often the contents of the vat, trodden in one +place—a most unsightly process—have to be transported in huge barrels, +like water-carts, to another place to undergo fermentation. And then the +thick muddy stream, laden with filth and impurities of all sorts, which is +seen when these barrels discharge their cargo, is as little calculated to +give one a pleasing idea of the “ruby wine” which is to be the result of +all this filthy squash, as can well be imagined. Add to this an +exceedingly unpleasant smell in and about all the buildings in which any +part of the wine-making process takes place, and the constant recurrence +of rotting heaps of the refuse matter of the pressed grape under every +wall and hedge in the neighborhood of each “fattoria”—and the notions +connected with the so be-poetized vintage, will be easily understood to be +none of the pleasantest in the minds of those acquainted with its sights +and smells.—_Trollope’s Impressions of a Wanderer._ + + + + + +HOW TO MAKE HOME UNHEALTHY. BY HARRIET MARTINEAU. + + +Emperor Yao (very many years B.C.) established a certain custom, which was +followed, we are told, by his successors on the throne of China. The +custom was this. Outside the hall-door of his palace, he suspended a +tablet and a gong; and if one among his subjects felt himself able to +suggest a good idea to his ruler, or wished to admonish him of any error +in his ways, the critic paid a visit to the palace, wrote what he had to +say upon the tablet, battered at the gong, and ran away. The Emperor came +out; and then, unless it happened that some scapegrace of a schoolboy had +annoyed him by superadding a fly-away knock to a contemptuous +hieroglyphic, he gravely profited by any hint the tablets might convey. +Not unlike honest, patriarchal Yao is our British Public. It is summoned +out to read inscriptions at its door, left there by all who have advice to +give or faults to deprecate. The successors of Yao, finding upon their +score so many conflicting tales, soon substituted for the gong five +instruments of music. It was required, then, that the monitor should +distinguish, by the instrument upon which he performed his summons, what +particular department of imperial duties it might be to which he desired +to call attention. Now not five but fifty voices summon _our_ royal +public. One man courts attention with a dulcet strain, one brays, one +harps upon a string, another drums. And among those who have of late been +busiest in pointing errors out, and drumming at the public’s door to have +them rectified, are they who profess concern about the Public Health. + +For the writer who now proposes to address to you, O excellent Public, +through these pages, a Series of Practical Hints as to How to make Home +Unhealthy, we would not have you think that he means to be in any respect +so troublesome as those Sanitary Instructors. The lion on your knocker +gives him confidence; he will leave no disconcerting messages; he will +seek to come into your parlor as a friend. A friend he is; for, with a +polite sincerity, he will maintain in all his arguments that what you do +is what ought always to be done. He knows well that you are not foolish, +and perceives, therefore, what end you have in view. He sees that you are +impressed deeply with a conviction of the vanity of life; that you desire, +accordingly, to prove your wisdom by exhibiting contempt for that which +philosopher after philosopher forbids a thoughtful man to cherish. You +would be proud to have Unhealthy Homes. Lusty carcases, they are for +coarse folk and for the heathen; civilization forbids us to promote animal +development. How can a man look spiritual, if he be not sickly? How can a +woman—Is not Paris the mode? Go, weigh an elegant Parisienne against a +peasant girl from Normandy. It is here proposed, therefore, to honor your +discretion by demonstrating publicly how right you are. Some of the many +methods by which one may succeed in making Home Unhealthy will be here +detailed to you, in order that, as we go on, you may congratulate yourself +on feeling how extremely clever you already are in your arrangements. Here +is a plain purpose. If any citizen, listening to such lessons, think +himself wise, and yet is one who, like good M. Jourdain in the comedy, +_n’applaudit qu’à contresens_—to such a citizen it is enough to say. May +much good come of his perversity! + + + + +I. Hints To Hang Up In The Nursery. + + +In laying a foundation of ill health, it is a great point to be able to +begin at the beginning. You have the future man at excellent advantage +when he is between your fingers as a baby. One of Hoffman’s heroines, a +clever housewife, discarded and abhorred her lover from the moment of his +cutting a yeast dumpling. There are some little enormities of that kind +which really can not be forgiven, and one such is, to miss the opportunity +of physicking a baby. Now I will tell you how to treat the future +pale-face at his first entrance into life. + +A little while before the birth of any child, have a little something +ready in a spoon; and, after birth, be ready at the first opportunity, to +thrust this down his throat. Let his first gift from his fellow-creatures +be a dose of physic—honey and calomel, or something of that kind: but you +had better ask the nurse for a prescription. Have ready also, before +birth, an abundant stock of pins; for it is a great point, in putting the +first dress upon the little naked body, to contrive that it shall contain +as many pins as possible. The prick of a sly pin is excellent for making +children cry; and since it may lead nurses, mothers, now and then even +doctors, to administer physic for the cure of imaginary gripings in the +bowels, it may be twice blessed. Sanitary enthusiasts are apt to say that +strings, not pins, are the right fastening for infants’ clothes. Be not +misled. Is not the pincushion an ancient institution? What is to say, +“Welcome, little stranger,” if pins cease to do so? Resist this +innovation. It is the small end of the wedge. The next thing that a child +would do, if let alone, would be to sleep. I would not suffer that. The +poor thing must want feeding; therefore waken it and make it eat a sop, +for that will be a pleasant joke at the expense of nature. It will be like +wakening a gentleman after midnight to put into his mouth some pickled +herring; only the baby can not thank you for your kindness as the +gentleman might do. + +This is a golden rule concerning babies: to procure sickly growth, let the +child always suckle. Attempt no regularity in nursing. It is true that if +an infant be fed at the breast every four hours, it will fall into the +habit of desiring food only so often, and will sleep very tranquilly +during the interval. This may save trouble, but it is a device for rearing +healthy children: we discard it. Our infants shall be nursed in no +new-fangled way. As for the child’s crying, quiet costs eighteen-pence a +bottle; so that argument is very soon disposed of. + +Never be without a flask of Godfrey’s Cordial, or Daffy, in the nursery; +but the fact is, that you ought to keep a medicine-chest. A good deal of +curious information may be obtained by watching the effects of various +medicines upon your children. + +Never be guided by the child’s teeth in weaning it. Wean it before the +first teeth are cut, or after they have learned to bite. Wean all at once, +with bitter aloes or some similar devices; and change the diet suddenly. +It is a foolish thing to ask a medical attendant how to regulate the food +of children; he is sure to be over-run with bookish prejudices; but nurses +are practical women, who understand thoroughly matters of this kind. + +Do not use a cot for infants, or presume beyond the time-honored +institution of the cradle. Active rocking sends a child to sleep by +causing giddiness. Giddiness is a disturbance of the blood’s usual way of +circulation; obviously, therefore, it is a thing to aim at in our +nurseries. For elder children, swinging is an excellent amusement, if they +become giddy on the swing. + +In your nursery, a maid and two or three children may conveniently be +quartered for the night, by all means carefully secured from draughts. +Never omit to use at night a chimney board. The nursery window ought not +to be much opened; and the door should be kept always shut, in order that +the clamor of the children may not annoy others in your house. + +When the children walk out for an airing, of course they are to be little +ladies and gentlemen. They are not to scamper to and fro; a little gentle +amble with a hoop ought to be their severest exercise. In sending them to +walk abroad, it is a good thing to let their legs be bare. The gentleman +papa, probably, would find bare legs rather cold walking in the streets of +London; but the gentleman son, of course, has quite another constitution. +Besides, how can a boy, not predisposed that way, hope to grow up +consumptive, if some pains are not taken with him in his childhood? + +It is said that of old time children in the Balearic Islands were not +allowed to eat their dinner, until, by adroitness in the shooting of +stones out of a sling, they had dislodged it from a rafter in the house. +Children in the British Islands should be better treated. Let them not +only have their meals unfailingly, but let them be at all other times +tempted and bribed to eat. Cakes and sweetmeats of alluring shape and +color, fruits, and palatable messes, should, without any regularity, be +added to the diet of a child. The stomach, we know, requires three or four +hours to digest a meal, expects a moderate routine of tasks, and between +each task looks for a little period of rest. Now, as we hope to create a +weak digestion, what is more obvious than that we must use artifice to +circumvent the stomach? In one hour we must come upon it unexpectedly with +a dose of fruit and sugar; then, if the regular dinner have been taken, +astonish the digestion, while at work upon it, with the appearance of an +extra lump of cake, and presently some gooseberries. In this way we soon +triumph over Nature, who, to speak truth, does not permit to us an easy +victory, and does try to accommodate her working to our whims. We triumph, +and obtain our reward in children pale and polite, children with appetites +already formed, that will become our good allies against their health in +after life. + +_Principiis obsta._ Let us subdue mere nature at her first start, and make +her civilized in her beginnings. Let us wipe the rose-tint out of the +child’s cheek, in good hope that the man will not be able to recover it. +White, yellow, and purple—let us make them to be his future tricolor. + + + + +II. The Londoner’s Garden. + + +Brick walls do not secrete air. It comes in through your doors and +windows, from the streets and alleys in your neighborhood; it comes in +without scraping its feet, and goes down your throat, unwashed, with small +respect for your gentility. You must look abroad, therefore, for some +elements of an unwholesome home: and when, sitting at home, you do so, it +is a good thing if you can see a burial-ground—one of “God’s gardens,” +which our city cherishes. + +Now, do not look up with a dolorous face, saying, “Alas! these gardens are +to be taken from us!” Let agitators write and let Commissioners report, +let Government nod its good-will, and although all the world may think +that our London burial-grounds are about to be incontinently jacketed in +asphalte, and that we ourselves, when dead, are to be steamed off to +Erith—we are content: at present this is only gossip.(1) On one of the +lowest terraces of hell, says Dante, he found a Cordelier, who had been +dragged thither by a logical demon, in defiance of the expostulations of +St. Francis. The sin of that monk was a sentence of advice for which +absolution had been received before he gave it: “Promise much, and perform +little.” In the hair of any Minister’s head, and of every Commissioner’s +head, we know not what “black cherubim” may have entwined their claws. +There is hope, while there is life, for the old cause. But if those who +have authority to do so really have determined to abolish intramural +burial, let us call upon them solemnly to reconsider their verdict. Let +them ponder what follows. + +Two or three years ago, a book, promulgating notions upon spiritual life, +was published in London by the Chancellor of a certain place across the +Channel. It was a clever book; and, among other matter, broached a theory. +“_Our souls,_” the Rev. Chancellor informed us, “_consist of the essence, +extract, or gas contained in the human body_;” and, that he might not be +vague, he made special application to a chemist, who “added some important +observations of his own respecting the corpse after death.” But we must +decorate a great speculation with the ornamental words of its propounder. + +“The gases into which the animal body is resolved by putrefaction are +ammonia, carbonic acid, carbonic oxide, cyanogen, and sulphureted, +phosphureted, and carbureted hydrogen. The first, and the two last-named +gases, are most abundant.” We omit here some details as to the time a body +takes in rotting. “From which it appears, that these noble elements and +rich essences of humanity are too subtle and volatile to continue long +with the corpse; but soon disengage themselves, and escape from it. After +which nothing remains but the foul refuse in the vat; the mere _caput +mortuum_ in the crucible; the vile dust and ashes of the tomb. Nor does +inhumation, however deep in the ground, nor drowning in the lowest depths +and darkest caverns of the fathomless abyss, prevent those subtle +essences, rare attenuate spirits, or gases, from escaping; or chain down +to dust those better, nobler elements of the human body. No bars can +imprison them; no vessels detain them from their kindred element, confine +them from their native home.” + +We are all of us familiar with the more noticeable of these “essences,” by +smell, if not by name. Metaphysicians tell us that perceptions and ideas +_will_ follow in a train: perhaps that may account for the sudden +recollection of an old-fashioned story—may the moderns pardon it. A young +Cambridge student, airing his wisdom at a dinner-party, was ingenious upon +the Theory of Winds. He was most eloquent concerning heat and cold; +radiation, rarefaction; polar and equatorial currents; he had brought his +peroration to a close, when he turned round upon a grave Professor of his +College, saying, “And what, sir, do you believe to be the cause of wind?” +The learned man replied, “Pea-soup—pea-soup!” In the group of friends +around a social soup-tureen, must we in future recognize + + + “The feast of reason, and—the flow of soul!” + + +How gladly shall we fight the fight of life, hoping that, after death, we +shall meet in a world of sulphureted hydrogen and other gases! And where +do the Sanitary Reformers suppose that, after death, _their_ gases will +go—they who, in life, with asphalte and paving-stones, would have +restrained the souls of their own fathers from ascending into upper air? + +Against us let there be no such reproach. Freely let us breathe into our +bosoms some portion of the spirit of the dead. If we live near no +church-yard, let us visit one—Mesmerically, if you please. Now we are on +the way. We see narrow streets and many people; most of the faces that we +meet are pale. Here is a walking funeral; we follow with it to the +church-yard. A corner is turned, and there is another funeral to be +perceived at no great distance in advance. Our walkers trot. The other +party, finding itself almost overtaken, sets off with a decent run. Our +party runs. There is a race for prior attention when they reach the +ground. We become interested. We perceive that one undertaker wears +gaiters, and the other straps. We trot behind them, betting with each +other, you on Gaiters, I on Straps. I win; a _Deus ex machinâ_ saves me, +or I should have lost. An over-goaded ox rushes bewildered round a corner, +charges and overthrows the foremost coffin; it is broken, and the body is +exposed—its white shroud flaps upon the mud. This has occurred once, I +know; and how much oftener, I know not. So Gaiters pioneers his party to +the nearest undertaker for repairs, and we follow the triumphant +procession to the church-yard. The minister there meets it, holding his +white handkerchief most closely to his nose: the mourners imitate him, +sick and sorrowful. Your toe sticks in a bit of carrion, as we pass near +the grave and seek the sexton. He is a pimpled man, who moralizes much; +but his morality is maudlin. He is drunk. He is accustomed to antagonize +the “spirits” of the dead with spirits from the “Pig and Whistle.” Here +let the _séance_ end. + +At home again, let us remark upon a striking fact. Those poor creatures +whom we saw in sorrow by the grave, believed that they were sowing flesh +to immortality—and so they were. They did not know that they were also +sowing coffee. By a trustworthy informant, I am taught that of the old +coffin-wood dug up out of the crowded church-yards, a large quantity that +is not burned, is dried and ground; and that ground coffee is therewith +adulterated in a wholesale manner. It communicates to cheap coffee a good +color; and puts Body into it, there can be no doubt of that. It will be a +severe blow to the trade in British coffees if intramural interment be +forbidden. We shall be driven to depend upon distant planters for what now +can be produced in any quantity at home. + +Remember the largeness of the interests involved. Within the last thirty +years, a million and a half of corpses have been hidden under ground, in +patches, here and there, among the streets of London. This pasturage we +have enjoyed from our youth up, and it is threatened now to put us off our +feed. + +I say no more, for better arguments than these can not be urged on behalf +of the maintenance of City grave-yards. Possibly these may not prevail. +Yet never droop. Nevertheless, without despairing, take a house in the +vicinity of such a garden of the dead. If our lawgivers should fear the +becoming neighborly with Dante’s Cordelier, and therefore absolutely +interdict more burials in London, still you are safe. They shall not +trample on the graves that are. We can agitate, and we will agitate +successfully against their asphalte. Let the City be mindful of its old +renown; let Vestries rally round Sir Peter Laurie, and there may be yet +secured to you, for seven years to come, an atmosphere which shall assist +in making Home Unhealthy. + + + + +III. Spending A Very Pleasant Evening. + + +By the consent of antiquity, it is determined that Pain shall be +doorkeeper to the house of Pleasure. In Europe Purgatory led to Paradise; +and, had St. Symeon lived among us now, he would have earned heaven, if +the police permitted, by praying for it, during thirty years, upon the +summit of a lamp-post. In India the Fakir was beatified by standing on his +head, under a hot sun, beset with roasting bonfires. In Greenland the soul +expected to reach bliss by sliding for five days down a rugged rock, +wounding itself, and shivering with cold. The American Indians sought +happiness through castigation, and considered vomits the most expeditious +mode of enforcing self-denial on the stomach. Some tribes of Africans +believe, that on the way to heaven every man’s head is knocked against a +wall. By consent of mankind, therefore, it is granted that we must pass +Pain on the way to Pleasure. + +What Pleasure is, when reached, none but the dogmatical can venture to +determine. To Greenlanders, a spacious fish-kettle, forever simmering, in +which boiled seals forever swim, is the delight of heaven. And remember +that, in the opinion of M. Bailly, Adam and Eve gardened in Nova Zembla. + +You will not be surprised, therefore, if I call upon you to prepare for +your domestic pleasures with a little suffering; nor, when I tell you what +such pleasures are, must you exclaim against them as absurd. Having the +sanction of our forefathers, they are what is fashionable now, and +consequently they are what is fit. + +I propose, then, that you should give, for the entertainment of your +friends, an Evening Party; and as this is a scene in which young ladies +prominently figure, I will, if you please, on this occasion, pay +particular attention to your daughter. + +O mystery of preparation!—Pardon, sir. You err if you suppose me to +insinuate that ladies are more careful over personal adornment than the +gentlemen. When men made a display of manhood, wearing beards, it is +recorded that they packed them, when they went to bed, in pasteboard +cases, lest they might be tumbled in the night. Man at his grimmest is as +vain as woman, even when he stalks about bearded and battle-axed. This is +the mystery of preparation in your daughter’s case: How does she breathe? +You have prepared her from childhood for the part she is to play to-night, +by training her form into the only shape which can be looked at with +complacency in any ball-room. A machine, called stays, introduced long +since into England by the Normans, has had her in its grip from early +girlhood. She has become pale, and—only the least bit—liable to be blue +about the nose and fingers. + +Stays are an excellent contrivance; they give a material support to the +old cause, Unhealthiness at Home. This is the secret of their excellence. +A woman’s ribs are narrow at the top, and as they approach the waist they +widen, to allow room for the lungs to play within them. If you can prevent +the ribs from widening, you can prevent the lungs from playing, which they +have no right to do, and make them work. This you accomplish by the agency +of stays. It fortunately happens that these lungs have work to do—the +putting of the breath of life into the blood—which they are unable to do +properly when cramped for space; it becomes about as difficult to them as +it would be to you to play the trombone in a china closet. By this +compression of the chest, ladies are made nervous, and become unfit for +much exertion; they do not, however, allow us to suppose that they have +lost flesh. There is a fiction of attire which would induce, in a +speculative critic, the belief that some internal flame had caused their +waists to gutter, and that the ribs had all run down into a lump which +protrudes behind under the waistband. This appearance is, I think, a +fiction; and for my opinion I have newspaper authority. In the papers it +was written, one day last year, that the hump alluded to was tested with a +pin, upon the person of a lady, coming from the Isle of Man, and it was +found not to be sensitive. Brandy exuded from the wound; for in that case +the projection was a bladder, in which the prudent housewife was smuggling +comfort in a quiet way. The touch of a pin changed all into discomfort, +when she found that she was converted into a peripatetic +watering-can—brandying-can, I should have said. + +Your daughter comes down stairs dressed, with a bouquet, at a time when +the dull seeker of Health and Strength would have her to go up stairs with +a bed-candlestick. Your guests arrive. Young ladies, thinly clad and +packed in carriages, emerge, half-stifled; put a cold foot, protected by a +filmy shoe, upon the pavement, and run, shivering, into your house. Well, +sir, we’ll warm them presently. But suffer me to leave you now, while you +receive your guests. + +I know a Phyllis, fresh from the country, who gets up at six and goes to +bed at ten; who knows no perfume but a flower-garden, and has worn no +bandage to her waist except a sash. She is now in London, and desires to +do as others do. She is invited to your party, but is not yet come; it may +be well for me to call upon her. Why, in the name of Newgate, what is +going on? She is shrieking “Murder!” on the second floor. Up to the +rescue! A judicious maid directs me to the drawing-room: “It’s only miss +a-trying on her stays.” + +Here we are, sir; Phyllis and I. You find the room oppressive—’tis with +perfume, Phyllis. With foul air? ah, your nice country nose detects it; +yes, there is foul air: not nasty, of course, my dear, mixed, as it here +is, with eau-de-Cologne and patchouli. Pills are not nasty, sugared. A +grain or two of arsenic in each might be not quite exactly neutralized by +sugar, but there is nothing like faith in a good digestion. Why do the +gentlemen cuddle the ladies, and spin about the room with them, like +tee-totums? Oh, Phyllis! Phyllis! let me waltz with you. There, do you not +see how it is? Faint, are you—giddy—will you fall? An ice will refresh +you. Spasms next! Phyllis, let me take you home. + +Now then, sir, Phyllis has been put to bed; allow me to dance a polka with +your daughter. Frail, elegant creature that she is! A glass of wine—a +macaroon: good. Sontag, yes; and that dear novel. That was a delightful +dance; now let us promenade. The room is close; a glass of wine, an ice, +and let us get to the delicious draught in the conservatory, or by that +door. Is it not beautiful? The next quadrille—I look slily at my watch, +and Auber’s grim chorus rumbles within me, “_Voici minuit! voici minuit_!” +Another dance. How fond she seems to be of macaroons! Supper. My dear sir, +I will take good care of your daughter. One sandwich. Champagne. +Blanc-mange. Tipsey-cake. Brandy cherries. Glass of wine. A macaroon. +Trifle. Jelly. Champagne. Custard. Macaroon. The ladies are being taken +care of—Yes, now in their absence we will drink their health, and wink at +each other: their and our Bad Healths. This is the happiest moment of our +lives; at two in the morning, with a dose of indigestion in the stomach, +and three hours more to come before we get to bed. You, my dear sir, hope +that on many occasions like the present you may see your friends around +you, looking as glassy-eyed as you have made them to look now. We will +rejoin the ladies. + +Nothing but Champagne could have enabled us to keep up the evening so +well. We were getting weary before supper—but we have had some wine, have +dug the spur into our sides, and on we go again. At length, even the +bottle stimulates our worn-out company no more; and then we separate. +Good-night, dear sir; we have spent a Very Pleasant Evening under your +roof. + +To-morrow, when you depart from a late breakfast, having seen your +daughter’s face, and her boiled-mackerel eye, knowing that your wife is +bilious, and that your son has just gone out for soda-water, you will feel +yourself to be a Briton who has done his duty, a man who has paid +something on account of his great debt to civilized society. + + + + +IV. The Light Nuisance. + + +Tieck tells us, in his “History of the Schildbürger,” that the town +council of that spirited community was very wise. It had been noticed that +many worthy aldermen and common-councilors were in the habit of looking +out of window when they ought to be attending to their duties. A vote was +therefore, on one occasion, passed by a large majority, to this effect, +namely—Whereas the windows of the Town-hall are a great impediment to the +dispatch of public business, it is ordered that before the next day of +meeting they be all bricked up. When the next day of meeting came, the +worthy representatives of Schildbürg were surprised to find themselves +assembling in the dark. Presently, accepting the unlooked-for fact, they +settled down into an edifying discussion of the question, whether darkness +was not more convenient for their purposes than daylight. Had you and I +been there, my friend, our votes in the division would have been, like the +vote in our own House of Commons a few days ago, for keeping out the Light +Nuisance as much as possible. Darkness is better than daylight, certainly. + +Now this admits of proof. For, let me ask, where do you find the best part +of a lettuce?—not in the outside leaves. Which are the choice parts of +celery?—of course, the white shoots in the middle. Why, sir? Because light +has never come to them. They become white and luxurious by tying up, by +earthing up, by any contrivance which has kept the sun at bay. It is the +same with man: while we obstruct the light by putting brick and board +where glass suggests itself, and mock the light by picturing impracticable +windows on our outside walls—so that our houses stare about like blind men +with glass eyes—while this is done, we sit at home and blanch, we become +in our dim apartments pale and delicate, we grow to look refined, as +gentlemen and ladies ought to look. Let the sanitary doctor, at whose head +we have thrown lettuces, go to the botanist and ask him, How, is this? Let +him come back and tell us, Oh, gentlemen, in these vegetables the natural +juices are not formed when you exclude the light. The natural juices in +the lettuce or in celery are flavored much more strongly than our tastes +would relish, and therefore we induce in these plants an imperfect +development, in order to make them eatable. Very well. The natural juices +in a man are stronger than good taste can tolerate. Man requires +horticulture to be fit to come to table. To rear the finer sorts of human +kind, one great operation necessary is to banish light as much as +possible. + +Ladies know that. To keep their faces pale, they pull the blinds down in +their drawing-rooms, they put a vail between their countenances and the +sun when they go out, and carry, like good soldiers, a great shield on +high, by name a Parasol, to ward his darts off. They know better than to +let the old god kiss them into color, as he does the peaches. They choose +to remain green fruit: and we all know that to be a delicacy. + +Yet there are men among us daring to propose that there shall no longer be +protection against light; men who would tax a house by its capaciousness, +and let the sun shine into it unhindered. The so-called sanitary people +really seem to look upon their fellow-creatures as so many cucumbers. But +we have not yet fallen so far back in our development. Disease is a +privilege. Those only who know the tender touch of a wife’s hand, the +quiet kiss, the soothing whisper, can appreciate its worth. All who are +not dead to the tenderest emotions will lament the day when light is +turned on without limit in our houses. We have no wish to be blazed upon. +Frequently pestilence itself avoids the sunny side of any street, and +prefers walking in the shade. Nay, even in one building, as in the case of +a great barrack at St. Petersburg, there will be three calls made by +disease upon the shady side of the establishment for every one visit that +it pays to the side brightened by the sun; and this is known to happen +uniformly, for a series of years. Let us be warned, then. There must be no +increase of windows in our houses; let us curtain those we have, and keep +our blinds well down. Let morning sun or afternoon sun fire no volleys in +upon us. Faded curtains, faded carpets, all ye blinds forbid! But faded +faces are desirable. It is a cheering spectacle on summer afternoons to +see the bright rays beating on a row of windows, all the way down a +street, and failing to find entrance any where. Who wants more windows? Is +it not obvious that, when daylight really comes, every window we possess +is counted one too many? If we could send up a large balloon into the sky, +with Mr. Braidwood and a fire-engine, to get the flames of the sun under, +just a little bit, that would be something rational. More light, indeed! +More water next, no doubt! As if it were not perfectly notorious that in +the articles of light, water, and air, Nature outran the constable. We +have to keep out light with blinds and vails, and various machinery, as we +would keep out cockroaches with wafers; we keep out air with pads and +curtains; and still there are impertinent reformers clamoring to increase +our difficulty, by giving us more windows to protect against the inroads +of those household nuisances. + +I call upon consistent Englishmen to make a stand against these +innovators. There is need of all our vigor. In 1848, the repeal of the +window-tax was scouted from the Commons by a sensible majority of +ninety-four. In 1850, the good cause has triumphed only by a precarious +majority of three. The exertions of right-thinking men will not be +wanting, when the value and importance of a little energetic labor is once +clearly perceived. + +What is it that the sanitary agitators want? To tan and freckle all their +countrywomen, and to make Britons apple-faced? The Persian hero, Rustum, +when a baby, exhausted seven nurses, and was weaned upon seven sheep a +day, when he was of age for spoon-meat. Are English babies to be Rustums? +When Rustum’s mother, Roubadah, from a high tower first saw and admired +her future husband Zal, she let her ringlets fall, and they were long, and +reached unto the ground; and Zal climbed up by them, and knelt down at her +feet, and asked to marry her. Are British ladies to be strengthened into +Roubadahs, with hair like a ship’s cable, up which husbands may clamber? +In the present state of the mania for public health, it is quite time that +every patriotic man should put these questions seriously to his +conscience. + +One topic more. Let it clearly be understood, that against artificial +light we can make no objection. Between sun and candle there are more +contrasts than the mere difference in brilliancy. The light which comes +down from the sky not only eats no air out of our mouths, but it comes +charged with mysterious and subtle principles which have a purifying, +vivifying power. It is a powerful ally of health, and we make war against +it. But artificial light contains no sanitary marvels. When the gas +streams through half a dozen jets into your room, and burns there and +gives light; when candles become shorter and shorter, until they are +“burnt out” and seen no more; you know what happens. Nothing in Nature +ceases to exist. Your camphine has left the lamp, but it has not vanished +out of being. Nor has it been converted into light. Light is a visible +action; and candles are no more converted into light when they are +burning, than breath is converted into speech when you are talking. The +breath, having produced speech, mixes with the atmosphere; gas, camphine, +candles, having produced light, do the same. If you saw fifty wax-lights +shrink to their sockets last week in an unventilated ball-room, yet, +though invisible, they had not left you; for their elements were in the +room, and you were breathing them. Their light had been a sign that they +were combining chemically with the air; in so combining they were changed, +but they became a poison. Every artificial light is, of necessity, a +little workshop for the conversion of gas, oil, spirit, or candle into +respirable poison. Let no sanitary tongue persuade you that the more we +have of such a process, the more need we have of ventilation. Ventilation +is a catchword for the use of agitators, in which it does not become any +person of refinement to exhibit interest. + +The following hint will be received thankfully by gentlemen who would be +glad to merit spectacles. To make your eyes weak, use a fluctuating light; +nothing can be better adapted for your purpose than what are called +“mould” candles. The joke of them consists in this, they begin with giving +you sufficient light; but, as the wick grows, the radiance lessens, and +your eye gradually accommodates itself to the decrease: suddenly they are +snuffed, and your eye leaps back to its original adjustment, there begins +another slide, and then leaps back again. Much practice of this kind +serves very well as a familiar introduction to the use of glasses. + + + + +V. Passing The Bottle. + + +A brass button from the coat of Saint Peter, was at one time shown to +visitors among the treasures of a certain church in Nassau; possibly some +traveler of more experience may have met with a false collar from the +wardrobe of Saint Paul. The intellect displayed of old by holy saints and +martyrs, we may reasonably believe to have surpassed the measure of a +bishop’s understanding in the present day; for we have the authority of +eyesight and tradition in asserting that the meanest of those ancient +worthies possessed not less than three skulls, and that a great saint must +have had so very many heads, that it would have built the fortune of a man +to be his hatter. Perhaps some of these relics are fictitious; +nevertheless, they are the boast of their possessors; they are exhibited +as genuine, and thoroughly believed to be so. Sir, did your stomach never +suggest to you that doctored elder-berry of a recent brew had been +uncorked with veneration at some dinner-table as a bottle of old port? +Have you experience of any festive friend, who can commit himself to doubt +about the age and genuineness of his wine? The cellar is the social +relic-chamber; every bin rejoices in a most veracious legend; and, whether +it be over wine or over relics that we wonder, equal difficulties start up +to obstruct our faith. + +Our prejudices, for example, run so much in favor of one-headed men, that +we can scarcely entertain the notion of a saint who had six night-caps to +put on when he went to bed, and when he got up in the morning had six +beards to shave. Knowing that the Russians, by themselves, drink more +Champagne than France exports, and that it must rain grapes at Hockheim +before that place can yield all the wine we English label Hock, and +haunted as we are by the same difficulty when we look to other kinds of +foreign wine, we feel a justified suspicion that the same glass of +“genuine old port” can not be indulged in simultaneously by ten people. If +only one man of the number drinks it, what is that eidolon which delights +the other nine? + +When George the Fourth was Regent, he possessed a small store of the +choicest wine, and never called for it. There were some gentlemen in his +establishment acquainted with its merits; these took upon themselves to +rescue it from undeserved neglect. Then the prince talked about his +treasure—when little remained thereof except the bottles; and it was to be +produced at a forthcoming dinner-party. The gentlemen, who knew its +flavor, visited the vaults of an extensive wine-merchant, and there they +vainly sought to look upon its like again. “In those dim solitudes and +awful cells” they, groaning in spirit, made a confessor of the merchant, +who, for a fee, engaged to save them from the wrath to come. As an artist +in wine, having obtained a sample of the stuff required, this dealer +undertook to furnish a successful imitation. So he did; for, having filled +those bottles with a wondrous compound, he sent them to the palace just +before the fateful dinner-hour, exhorting the conspirators to take heed +how they suffered any to be left. The compound would become a tell-tale +after twelve hours’ keeping. The prince that evening enjoyed his wine. + +The ordinary manufacture of choice wine for people who are not princes, +requires the following ingredients: for the original fluid, cider, or +Common cape, raisin, grape, parsnip, or elder wine; a wine made of rhubarb +(for Champagne); to these may be added water. A fit stock having been +chosen, strength, color, and flavor may be grafted on it. Use is made of +these materials: for color-burnt sugar, logwood, cochineal, red sanders +wood, or elder-berries. Plain spirit or brandy for strength. For nutty +flavor, bitter almonds. For fruitiness, Dantzic spruce. For fullness or +smoothness, honey. For port-wine flavor, tincture of the seeds of raisins. +For bouquet, orris root or ambergris. For roughness or dryness, alum, oak +sawdust, rhatany or kino. It is not necessary that an imitation should +contain one drop of the wine whose name it bears; but a skillful +combination of the true and false is desirable, if price permit. Every +pint of the pure wine thus added to a mixture is, of course, so much +abstracted from the stock of unadulterated juice. + +You will perceive, therefore, that a free use of wine, not highly priced, +is likely to assist us very much in our endeavors to establish an +unhealthy home. Fill your cellar with bargains; be a genuine John Bull; +invite your friends, and pass the bottle. + +There is hope for us also in the recollection, that if chance force upon +us a small stock of wine that has not been, in England, under the doctor’s +hands, we know not what may have been done to it abroad. The botanist, +Robert Fortune, was in China when the Americans deluged the Chinese market +with their orders for Young Hyson tea. The Chinese very promptly met the +whole demand; and Fortune in his “Wanderings” has told us how. He found +his way to a Young Hyson manufactory, where coarse old Congou leaves were +being chopped, and carefully manipulated by those ingenious merchants the +Chinese. But it is in human nature for other folks than the Chinese to be +ingenious in such matters. We may, therefore, make up our minds that, +since the demand for wine from certain celebrated vineyards, largely +exceeds all possibility of genuine supply, since, also, every man who asks +is satisfied, it is inevitable that the great majority of wine-drinkers +are satisfied with a factitious article. The chances are against our very +often meeting with a glass of port that has not taken physic. So, let us +never drink dear wine, nor ask a chemist what is in our bottles. Enough +that they contain for us delightful poison. + +That name for wine, “delightful poison,” is not new. It is as old as the +foundation of Persepolis. Jemsheed was fond of grapes, Ferdusi tells, and +once, when grapes went out of season, stored up for himself some jars of +grape-juice. After a while he went to seek for a refreshing draught; then +fermentation was in progress; and he found his juice abominably nasty. A +severe stomach-ache induced him to believe that the liquor had acquired, +in some way, dangerous qualities, and, therefore, to avoid accidents, he +labeled each jar, “Poison.” More time elapsed, and then one of his wives, +in trouble of soul, weary of life, resolved to put an end to her +existence. Poison was handy: but a draught transformed her trouble into +joy; more of it stupefied, but did not kill her. That woman kept a secret: +she alone exhausted all the jars. Jemsheed then found them to be empty. +Explanations followed. The experiment was tried once more, and wine, being +so discovered, was thereafter entitled “the delightful poison.” What +Jemsheed would have said to a bottle of port out of our friend Hoggin’s +cellar—but I tread on sacred ground. + +Of good wine health requires none, though it will tolerate a little. Our +prospect, therefore, when the bottle passes briskly, is encouraging. Is +the wine good, we may expect some indigestion; is it bad, who can tell +what disorders we may not expect? Hoggins, I know, drinks more than a +quart without disordering his stomach. He has long been a supporter of the +cause we are now advocating, and therein finds one of his rewards. It is +not safe to pinch a tiger’s tail; yet, when the animal is sick, perhaps he +will not bite although you tread upon it heavily. Healthy men and healthy +stomachs tolerate no oppression. + +London is full now; elsewhere country folks come out of doors, invited by +fine weather. Walk where you will, in country or in town, and look at all +the faces that you meet. Traverse the Strand, and Regent-street, and +Holborn, and Cheapside; get into a boat at London bridge, steam to +Gravesend, and look at your fellow-passengers: examine where you will, the +stamp of our civilization, sickliness, is upon nine people in any ten. +There are good reasons why this should be so, and so let it continue. We +have excluded sanitary calculations from our social life; we have had +hitherto unhealthy homes, and we will keep them. Bede tells of a Mercian +noble on his death-bed, to whom a ghost exhibited a scrap of paper, upon +which were written his good deeds; then the door opened, and an +interminable file of ghosts brought in a mile or two of scroll, whereon +his misdeeds were all registered, and made him read them. Our wars against +brute health are glorious, and we rejoice to feel that of such sins we +have no scanty catalogue; we are content with our few items of mere +sanitary virtue. As for sanitary reformers, they are a company of Danaids; +they may get some of us into their sieve, but we shall soon slip out +again. When a traveler proposed, at Ghadames in the Sahara, to put up a +lantern here and there of nights among the pitch-dark streets, the people +said his notion might be good, but that, as such things never had been +tried before, it would be presumptuous to make the trial of them now. The +traveler, a Briton, must have felt quite at home when he heard that +objection. Amen, then; with the Ghadamese, we say, Let us have no New +Lights. + + + + +VI. Art Against Appetite. + + +The object of food is, to support the body in its natural development that +it may reach a reasonable age without becoming too robust. Civilization +can instruct us so to manage, that a gentle dissolution tread upon the +heels of growth, that, as Metastasio hath it, + + + —“dalle fasce, + Si comincia a morir quando si nasce.”(2) + + +An infant’s appetite is all for milk; but art suggests a few additions to +that lamentably simple diet. A lady not long since complacently informed +her medical attendant that, for the use of a baby, then about eight months +old she had spent nine pounds in “Infant’s Preservative.” Of this, or of +some like preparation, the advertisements tells us that it compels Nature +to be orderly, and that all infants take it with greediness. So we have +even justice to the child. Pet drinks Preservative; papa drinks Port. + +Then there is “farinaceous food.” Here, for a purpose, we must interpolate +a bit of science. There is a division of food into two great classes, +nourishment and fuel. Nourishment is said to exist chiefly in animal flesh +and blood, and in vegetable compounds which exactly correspond thereto, +called vegetable fibrine, albumen, and caseine. Fuel exists in whatever +contains much carbon: fat and starchy vegetables, potatoes, gum, sugar, +alcoholic liquors. If a person take more nourishment than he wants, it is +said to be wasted; if he take more fuel than he wants, part of it is +wasted, and part of it the body stacks away as fat. These men of science +furthermore assert, that the correct diet of a healthy man must contain +eight parts of fuel food to one of nourishment. This preserves +equilibrium, they say—suits, therefore, an adult; the child which has to +become bigger as it lives has use for an excess of nourishment. And so one +of the doctors, Dr. R.D. Thomson, gives this table; it has been often +copied. The proportion of nourishment to fuel is in + +Milk (food for a 1 to 2. +growing animal) +Beans 1 to + 2-1/2. +Oatmeal 1 to 5. +Barley 1 to 7. +Wheat flour (food 1 to 8. +for an animal at +rest) +Potatoes 1 to 9. +Rice 1 to 10. +Turnips 1 to 11. +Arrow-root, tapioca, 1 to 26. +sago +Starch 1 to 40. + +Very well, gentlemen, we take your facts. As ægritudinary men, we know +what use to make of them. We will give infants farinaceous food; +arrow-root, tapioca, and the like; quite ready to be taught by you that so +we give one particle of nourishment in twenty-six. Tell us, this diet is +like putting leeches on a child. We are content. Leeches give a delicate +whiteness that we are thankful to be able to obtain with out the biting or +the bloodshed. + +Sanitary people will allow a child, up to its seventh year, nothing beyond +bread, milk, water, sugar, light meat broth, without fat, and fresh meat +for its dinner—when it is old enough to bite it—with a little well-cooked +vegetable. They confine a child, poor creature, to this miserable fare; +permitting, in due season, only a pittance of the ripest fruit. + +They would give children, while they are growing, oatmeal and milk for +breakfast, made into a porridge. They would deny them beer. You know how +strengthening that is, and yet these people say that there is not an ounce +of meat in a whole bucketful. They would deny them comfits, cakes, wine, +pastry, and grudge them nuts; but our boys shall rebel against all this. +We will teach them to regard cake as bliss, and wine as glory; we will +educate them to a love of tarts. Once let our art secure over the stomach +its ascendency, and the civilized organ acquires new desires. Vitiated +cravings, let the sanitary doctors call them; let them say that children +will eat garbage, as young women will eat chalk and coals, not because it +is their nature so to do, but because it is a symptom of disordered +function. We know nothing about function. Art against Appetite has won the +day, and the pale face of civilization is established. + +Plain sugar, it is a good thing to forbid our children; there is something +healthy in their love of it. Suppose we tell them that it spoils the +teeth. They know no better; we do. We know that the negroes, who in a +great measure live upon sugar, are quite famous for their sound white +teeth; and Mr. Richardson tells us of tribes among the Arabs of Sahara, +whose beautiful teeth he lauds, that they are in the habit of keeping +about them a stick of sugar in a leathern case, which they bring out from +time to time for a suck, as we bring out the snuff-box for a pinch. But we +will tell our children that plain sugar spoils the teeth; sugar mixed with +chalk or verdigris, or any other mess—that is to say, civilized sugar—they +are welcome to. + +And for ourselves, we will eat any thing. The more our cooks, with spice, +with druggery and pastry, raise our wonder up, the more we will approve +their handicraft. We will excite the stomach with a peppered soup; we will +make fish indigestible with melted butter, and correct the butter with +cayenne. We will take sauces, we will drink wine, we will drink beer, we +will eat pie-crust, we will eat indescribable productions—we will take +celery, and cheese, and ale—we will take liqueur—we will take wine and +olives and more wine, and oranges and almonds, and any thing else that may +present itself, and we will call all that our dinner, and for such the +stomach shall accept it. We will eat more than we need, but will compel an +appetite. Art against Appetite forever. + +Sanitary people bear ill-will to pie-crust; they teach that butter, after +being baked therein, becomes a compound hateful to the stomach. We will +eat pies, we will eat pastry, we will eat—we would eat M. Soyer himself in +a tart, if it were possible. + +We will uphold London milk. Mr. Rugg says that it is apt to contain chalk, +the brains of sheep, oxen, and cows, flour, starch, treacle, whiting, +sugar of lead, arnotto, size, etc. Who cares for Mr. Rugg? London milk is +better than country milk, for London cows are town cows. They live in a +city, in close sheds, in our own dear alleys—are consumptive—they are +delightful cows; only their milk is too strong, it requires watering and +doctoring, and then it is delicious milk. + +Tea we are not quite sure about. Some people say that because tea took so +sudden a hold upon the human appetite, because it spread so widely in so +short a time, that therefore it supplies a want: its use is natural. +Liebig suggests that it supplies a constituent of bile. I think rather +that its use has become general because it causes innocent intoxication. +Few men are not glad to be made cheerful harmlessly. For this reason I +think it is that the use of tea and coffee has become popular; and since +whatever sustains cheerfulness advances health—the body working with good +will under a pleasant master—tea does our service little good. In excess, +no doubt, it can be rendered hurtful (so can bread and butter); but the +best way of pressing it into employment, as an ægritudinary aid, is by the +practice of taking it extremely hot. A few observations upon the +temperature at which food is refused by all the lower animals, will soon +convince you that in man—not as regards tea only, but in a great many +respects—Art has established her own rule, and that the Appetite of Nature +has been conquered. + +We have a great respect for alcoholic liquors. It has been seen that the +excess of these makes fat; they, therefore, who have least need of fat, +according to our rules, are those who have most need of wine and beer. + +Of ordinary meats there is not much to say, We have read of Dr. Beaumont’s +servant, who had an open musket-hole leading into his stomach, through +which the doctor made experiments. Many experiments were made, and tables +drawn of no great value on the digestibility of divers kinds of meat. +Climate and habit are, on such points, paramount. Pig is pollution to the +children of the Sun, the Jew, and Mussulman; but children of winter, the +Scandinavians, could not imagine Paradise complete without it. Schrimner, +the sacred hog, cut up daily and eaten by the tenants of Walhalla, +collected his fragments in the night, and was in his sty again ready for +slaughter the next morning. These things concern us little, for it is not +with plain meat that we have here to do, but with the noble art of +Cookery. That art, which once obeyed and now commands our appetite, which +is become the teacher where it was the taught, we duly reverence. When +ægritudinary science shall obtain its college, and when each Unhealthy +Course shall have its eminent professor to teach Theory and Practice—then +we shall have a Court of Aldermen for Patrons, a Gravedigger for +Principal, and a Cook shall be Dean of Faculty. + + + + +VII. The Water Party. + + +Water rains from heaven, and leaps out of the earth; it rolls about the +land in rivers, it accumulates in lakes; three-fourths of the whole +surface of the globe is water; yet there are men unable to be clean. “God +loveth the clean,” said Mahomet. He was a sanitary reformer; he was a +notorious impostor; and it is our duty to resist any insidious attempt to +introduce his doctrines. + +There are in London districts of filth which speak to us—through the +nose—in an emphatic manner. Their foul air is an atmosphere of charity; +for we pass through it pitying the poor. Burke said of a certain miser to +whom an estate was left, “that now, it was to be hoped, he would set up a +pocket-handkerchief.” We hope, of the miserable, that when they come into +their property they may be able to afford themselves a little lavender and +musk. We might be willing to subscribe for the correction now and then, +with aromatic cachou, of the town’s bad breath; but water is a vulgar sort +of thing, and of vulgarity the less we have the better. + +In truth, we have not much of it. We are told that in a great city Water +is maid of all work; has to assist our manufactures, to supply daily our +saucepans and our tea-kettles; has to cleanse our clothes, our persons, +and our houses; to provide baths, to wash our streets, and to flood away +the daily refuse of the people, with their slaughter-houses, markets, +hospitals, &c. Our dozen reservoirs in London yield a supply daily +averaging thirty gallons to each head—which goes partly to make swamps, +partly to waste, partly to rot, as it is used in tubs or cisterns. Rome in +her pride used once to supply water at the rate of more than three hundred +gallons daily to each citizen. That was excess. In London half a million +of people get no water at all into their houses; but as those people live +in the back settlements, and keep out of our sight, their dirt is no great +matter of concern. We, for our own parts, have enough to cook with, have +whereof to drink, wherewith to wash our feet sometimes, to wet our fingers +and the corner of a towel—we inquire no further. Drainage and all such +topics involve details positively nasty, and we blush for any of our +fellow-citizens who take delight in chattering about them. + +We are told to regard the habits of an infant world. London, the brain of +a vast empire, is advised now to forget her civilization, and to go back +some thousand years. We are to look at Persian aqueducts, attributed to +Noah’s great-grandson—at Carthaginians, Etruscans, Mexicans—at what Rome +did. It frets us when we are thus driven to an obvious reply. Man in an +unripe and half-civilized condition, has not found out the vulgarity of +water; for his brutish instinct is not overcome. All savages believe that +water is essential to their life and desire it in unlimited abundance. +Cultivation teaches us another life, in which our animal existence neither +gets nor merits much attention. As for the Romans, so perpetually quoted, +it was a freak of theirs to do things massively. While they were yet +almost barbarians, they built that Cloaca through which afterward Agrippa +sailed down to the Tiber in a boat. Who wishes to see His Worship the Lord +Mayor of London emerging in his state barge from a London sewer? + +Now here is inconsistency. Thirty million gallons of corruption are added +daily by our London sewers to the Thames: that is one object of complaint, +good in itself, because we drink Thames water. But in the next breath it +is complained that a good many million gallons more should be poured out; +that there are three hundred thousand cesspools more to be washed up; that +as much filth as would make a lake six feet in depth, a mile long, and a +thousand feet across, lies under London stagnant; and they would wish this +also to be swept into the river. I heard lately of a gentleman who is +tormented with the constant fancy that he has a scorpion down his back. He +asks every neighbor to put in his hand and fetch it out, but no amount of +fetching out ever relieves him. That is a national delusion. Our +enlightened public is much troubled with such scorpions. Sanitary writers +are infested with them. + +They also say, That in one-half of London people drink Thames water; and +in the other half, get water from the Chadwell spring and River Lea. That +the River Lea, for twenty miles, flows through a densely-peopled district. +and is, in its passage, drenched with refuse matter from the population on +its banks. That there is added to Thames water the waste of two hundred +and twenty cities, towns, and villages; and that between Richmond and +Waterloo-bridge more than two hundred sewers discharge into it their fetid +matter. That the washing to and fro of tide secures the arrival of a large +portion of filth from below Westminster, at Hammersmith; effects a perfect +mixture, which is still farther facilitated by the splashing of the +steamboats. Mr. Hassal has published engravings of the microscopic aspect +of water taken from companies which suck the river up at widely-separated +stages of its course through town—so tested, one drop differs little from +another in the degree of its impurity. They tell us that two companies—the +Lambeth and West Middlesex—supply Thames Mixture to subscribers as it +comes to them; but that others filter more or less. They say that +filtering can expurge nothing but mechanical impurities, while the +dissolved pollution which no filter can extract is that part which +communicates disease. We know this; well, and what then? There are +absurdities so lifted above ridicule, that Momus himself would spoil part +of the fun if he attempted to trangress beyond a naked statement of them. +What do the members of this Water Party want? I’ll tell you what I verily +believe they are insane enough to look for. + +They would, if possible, forsake Thames water, calling it dirty, saying it +is hard. So hard they say it is, that it requires three spoonfuls of tea +instead of two in every man’s pot, two pounds of soap for one in every +man’s kitchen. So they would fetch soft water from a Gathering Ground in +Surrey, adopting an example set in Lancashire; from rain-fall on the +heaths between Bagshot and Farnham, and from tributaries of the River Wey, +they would collect water in covered reservoirs, and bring it by A COVERED +AQUEDUCT to London. In London, they would totally abolish cisterns, and +all intermittence of supply. Water in London they would have to be, as at +Nottingham, accessible in all rooms at all times. They would have water, +at high pressure, climbing about every house in every court and alley. +They would place water, so to speak, at the finger’s end, limiting no +household as to quantity. They would enable every man to bathe. They would +revolutionize the sewer-system, and have the town washed daily, like a +good Mahometan, clean to the finger-nails. They hint that all this might +not even be expensive; that the cost of disease and degradation is so much +greater than the cost of health and self-respect, as to pay back, +possibly, our outlay, and then yield a profit to the nation. They say +that, even if it were a money loss, it would be moral gain; and they ask +whether we have not spent millions, ere now, upon less harmless +commodities than water? + +An ingenious fellow had a fiddle—all, he said, made out of his own head; +and wood enough was left to make another. He must have been a sanitary +man; his fiddle was a crotchet. Still farther to illustrate their own +capacity of fiddle-making, these good but misguided people have been +rooting up some horrible statistics of the filth and wretchedness which +our back-windows overlook, with strange facts anent fever, pestilence, and +the communication of disease. All this I purposely suppress; it is +peculiarly disagreeable. Delicate health we like, and will learn gladly +how to obtain it; but results we are content with, and can spare the +details, when those details bring us into contact, even upon paper, with +the squalid classes. + +If these outcries of the Water Party move the public to a thirst for +change, it would be prudent for us ægritudinary men not rashly to swim +against the current. Let us adopt a middle course, a patronizing tone. It +is in our favor that a large number of the facts which these our foes have +to produce, are, by a great deal too startling to get easy credit. A +single Pooh! has in it more semblance of reason than a page of facts, when +revelations of neglected hygiene are on the carpet. If the case of the +Sanitary Reformers had been only half as well made out, it would be twice +as well supported. + + + + +VIII. Filling The Grave. + + +M. Boutigny has published an account of some experiments which go to prove +that we may dip our fingers into liquid metal with impunity. Professor +Plücker, of Bonn, has amply confirmed Boutigny’s results, and in his +report hints a conclusion that henceforth “certain minor operations in +surgery may be performed with least pain by placing the foot in a bath of +red-hot iron.” Would you not like to see Professor Plücker, with his +trowsers duly tucked up, washing his feet in a pailful of this very +soothing fluid? And would it not be a fit martyrdom for sanitary doctors, +if we could compel them also to sacrifice their legs in a cause, kin to +their own, of theory and innovation? As Alderman Lawrence shrewdly +remarked the other day, from his place in the Guildhall, the sanitary +reform cry is “got up.” That is the reason why, in his case, it does not +go down. He, for his own part, did not disapprove the flavor of a +church-yard, and appeared to see no reason why it should be cheated of its +due. The sanitary partisans, he said, were paid for making certain +statements. It would be well if we could cut off their supply of +halfpence, and so silence them. Liwang, an ancient Emperor of China, +fearing insurrection, forbade all conversation, even whispering, in his +dominions. It would be well for us if Liwang lived now as our Secretary +for the Home Department. There is too much talking—is there not, Mr. +Carlyle? We want Liwang among us. However, as matters stand, it is bad +enough for the sanitary reformers. “They drop their arms and tremble when +they hear,” they are despised by Alderman Lawrence.(3) + +Let us uphold our city grave-yards; on that point we have already spoken +out. Let us not cheat them of their pasturage; if any man fall sick, when, +so to speak, his grave is dug, let us not lift him out of it by +misdirected care. That topic now engages our attention. + +There is a report among the hear-say stories of Herodotus, touching some +tribe of Scythians, that when one of them gets out of health, or passes +forty years of age, his friends proceed to slaughter him, lest he become +diseased, tough, or unfit for table. These people took their ancestors +into their stomachs, we take ours into our lungs—and herein we adopt the +better plan, because it is the more unwholesome. We are content, also, now +and then to let our friends grow old, although we may repress the tendency +to age as much as possible. We do not absolutely kill our neighbors when +they sicken; yet by judicious nursing we may frequently keep down a too +great buoyancy of health, and check recovery. How to produce this last +effect I will now tell you. Gentle mourners, do not chide me as +irreverent— + + + “Auch ich war in Arkadien geboren,” + + +bear with me, then, and let me give my hints concerning ægritudinary +sick-room discipline. + +Of the professional nurse I will say nothing. You, of course, have put +down Mrs. Gamp’s address. + +A sick-room should, in the first place, be made dark. Light, I have said +before, is, in most cases, curative. It is a direct swindling of the +doctor when we allow blinds to be pulled up, and so admit into the +patient’s room medicine for which nobody (except the tax-gatherer) is +paid. + +A sick-room should, in the next place, be made sad, obtrusively sad. A +smile upon the landing must become a sigh when it has passed the patient’s +door. Our hope is to depress, to dispirit invalids. Cheerful words and +gentle laughter, more especially where there is admitted sunshine also, +are a moral food much too nutritious for the sick. + +The sick-room, in its furniture as well, must have an ominous appearance. +The drawers, or a table should be decked with physic bottles. Some have a +way of thrusting all the medicine into a cupboard, out of sight, leaving a +glass of gayly-colored flowers for the wearied eyes to rest upon: this has +arisen obviously from a sanitary crotchet, and is, on no account, to be +adopted. + +Then we must have the sick-room to be hot, and keep it close. A scentless +air, at summer temperature, sanitary people want; a hot, close atmosphere +is better suited to our view. Slops and all messes are to be left standing +in the room—only put out of sight—and cleared away occasionally; they are +not to be removed at once. The chamber also is to be made tidy once a day, +and once a week well cleaned: it is not to be kept in order by incessant +care, by hourly tidiness, permitting no dirt to collect. + +There is an absurd sanitary dictum, which I will but name. It is, that a +patient ought to have, if possible, two beds, one for the day, and one for +night use; or else two sets of sheets, that, each set being used one day +and aired the next, the bed may be kept fresh and wholesome. Suppose our +friend were to catch cold in consequence of all this freshness! + +No, we do better to avoid fresh air; nor should we vex our patient with +much washing. We will not learn to feed the sick, but send their food away +when they are unable to understand our clumsiness. + +Yet, while we follow our own humor in this code of chamber practice, we +will pay tithes of mint and cummin to the men of science. We will ask +Monsieur Purgon how many grains of salt go to an egg; and if our patient +require twelve turns up and down the room, we will inquire with Argan, +whether they are to be measured by its length or breadth. + +When we have added to our course some doses of religious horror, we shall +have done as much as conscience can demand of us toward filling the grave. + +I may append here the remark, that if ever we do resolve to eat our +ancestors, there is the plan of a distinguished horticulturist apt for our +purpose. Mr. Loudon, I believe it was, who proposed, some years ago, the +conversion of the dead into rotation crops—that our grandfathers and +grandmothers should be converted into corn and mangel-wurzel. His +suggestion was to combine burial with farming operations. A field was to +be, during forty years, a place of interment: then the field adjacent was +to be taken for that purpose; and so on with others in rotation. A due +time having been allowed for the manure in each field to rot, the dead +were to be well worked up and gradually disinterred in the form of wheat, +or carrots, or potatoes. + +Nothing appears odd to which we are accustomed. We look abroad and wonder, +but we look at home and are content. The Esquimaux believe that men dying +in windy weather are unfortunate, because their souls, as they escape, +risk being blown away. Some Negroes do not bury in the rainy season, for +they believe that then the gods, being all busy up above, can not attend +to any ceremonies. Dr. Hooker writes home from the Himalaya mountains, +that about Lake Yarou the Lamas’ bodies are exposed, and kites are +summoned to devour them by the sound of a gong and of a trumpet made out +of a human thigh-bone. Such notions from abroad arrest our notice, but we +see nothing when we look at home. We might see how we fill our sick-rooms +with a fatal gloom, and keep our dead five or six days within our houses, +to bury them, side by side and one over another, thousands together, in +the middle of our cities. However, when we do succeed in getting at a view +of our own life _ab extra_, it is a pleasant thing to find that sanitary +heresies at any rate have not struck deep root in the British soil. In an +old book of emblems there is a picture of Cupid whipping a tortoise, to +the motto that Love hates delay. If lovers of reform in sanitary matters +hate delay, it is a pity; for our good old tortoise has a famous shell, +and is not stimulated easily. + + + + +IX. The Fire And The Dressing-Room. + + +Against the weather all men are Protectionists—all men account it matter +of offense. What say the people of the north? A Highland preacher, one +December Sunday, in the fourth hour of his sermon—For be it known to +Englishmen who nod at church, that in the Highlands, after four good hours +of prayer and psalm, there follow four good hours of sermon. And, _nota +bene_, may it not be that the shade of our King Henry I. does penance +among Highland chapels now, for having, in his lifetime, made one Roger a +bishop because he was expert in scrambling through the services?—A +Highland pastor saw his congregation shivering. “Ah!” he shouted, “maybe +ye think this a cauld place; but, let me tell ye, hell’s far caulder!” An +English hearer afterward reproached this minister for his perversion of +the current faith. “Hout, man,” said he, “ye dinna ken the Hielanders. If +I were to tell them hell was a hot place, they’d all be laboring to go +there.” And that was true philosophy. Mythologies invented in the north, +imagined their own climate into future torture. Above, in the northern +lights, they saw a chase of miserable souls, half starved, and hunted to +and fro by ravens; below, they imagined Nastrond with its frosts and +serpents. Warmth is delightful, certainly. No doubt but sunburnt nations +picture future punishment as fire. Yes, naturally, for it is in the middle +region only that we are not wearied with extremes. What region shall we +take? Our own? When is it not too hot, too cold, too dry, too wet, or too +uncertain? Italy? There the sun breeds idle maggots. As for the poet’s +paradise, Cashmere, botanists tell us that, although, no doubt, fruits +grow luxuriantly there, they are extremely flavourless. Then it is obvious +that to abuse, antagonise, defy the weather, is one of the established +rights of man. Upon our method of defying it, our health, in some measure, +depends. How is our right to be maintained unhealthily? + +Not by blind obedience to nature. We are correcting her, and must not let +her guide us. Nature considers all men savages—and savages they would be, +if they followed her. What is barbarism? Man in a state of nature. Nature, +I say, treats us almost as if we were unable to light fires, or stich for +ourselves breeches. Nature places near the hand of man in each climate a +certain food, and tyrannizes over his stomach with a certain craving. +Whales and seals delight the Esquimaux; he eats his blubber and defies the +frost. So fed, the Esquimaux woman can stand out of doors, suckling her +infant at an open breast, with the thermometer 40° below zero. As we go +south, we pass the lands of bread and beef, to reach the sultry region +wherein nature provides dates, and so forth. Even in our own range of the +seasons, nature seeks to bind us to her own routine; in winter gives an +appetite for flesh and fat, in summer takes a part of it away. We are not +puppets, and we will not be dictated to; so we stimulate the stomach, and +allow no brute instinct to tamper with our social dietary. We do here, on +a small scale, what is done, on a large scale, by our friends in India, +who pepper themselves into appetite, that they may eat, and drink, and +die. We drink exciting beverage in summer, because we are hot; we drink it +in winter, because we are cold. The fact is, we are driven to such +practices; for if we did not interfere to take the guidance of our diet +out of nature’s hands, she would make food do a large portion of the +service which civilization asks of fire and clothing. We should walk about +warm in the winter, cool in the summer, having the warmth and coolness in +ourselves. Now, it is obvious that this would never do. We must be +civilized, or we must not. Is Mr. Sangster to sell tomahawks instead of +canes? Clearly, he is not. We must so manage our homes as to create +unhealthy bodies. If we do not, society is ruined; if we do—and in +proportion as we do so—we become more and more unfit to meet vicissitudes +of weather. Then we acquire a social craving after fires, and coats, and +cloaks, and wrappers, and umbrellas, and cork soles, and muffetees, and +patent hareskins, and all the blessings of this life, upon which our +preservation must depend. These prove that we have stepped beyond the +brute. You never saw a lion with cork soles and muffetees. The tiger never +comes out, of nights, in a great coat. The eagle never soars up from his +nest with an umbrella. Man alone comprehends these luxuries; and it is +when he is least healthy that he loves them best. + +In winter, then, it is not diet, and it is not exercise, that shall excite +in us a vital warmth. We will depend on artificial means; we will be +warmed, not from within, but from without. We will set ourselves about a +fire, like pies, and bake; heating the outside first. Where the fire +fails, we will depend upon the dressing-room. + +If we have healthy chests, we will encase ourselves in flannel; but if we +happen to have chest complaint, we will use nothing of the sort. When we +go out, we will empanoply our persons, so that we may warm ourselves by +shutting in all exhalation from our bodies, and by husbanding what little +heat we permit nature to provide for us. + +In summer we will eat rich dinners and drink wine, will cast off +three-fourths of the thickness of our winter clothing, and still be +oppressed by heat. Iced drinks shall take the place of fire. + +Civilized people can not endure being much wetted. Contact of water, +during exercise, will do no harm to healthy bodies, but will spoil good +clothes. We will get damp only when we walk out in bad weather; then, when +we come home, we need no change. Evaporation from damp clothes—the act of +drying—while the body cools down, resting, and perhaps fatigued, that is +what damages the health; against that we have no objection. + +Hem! No doubt it is taking a great liberty with a Briton to look over his +wardrobe. I will not trespass so far, but, my dear sir, your Hat! If we +are to have a column on our heads, let it be one in which we can feel +pride; a miniature monument; and we might put a statue on the top. Hats, +as they are now worn, would not fitly support more than a bust. Is not +this mean? On ægritudinary grounds we will uphold a hat. To keep the +edifice from taking flight before a puff of wind, it must be fitted pretty +tightly round the head, must press over the forehead and the occiput. How +much it presses, a red ring upon our flesh will often testify. Heads are +not made of putty; pressure implies impediment to certain processes +within; one of these processes is called the circulation of the blood. The +brain lies underneath our hats. Well, that is as it should be. Ladies do +not wear hats, and never will, the bonnet is so artful a contrivance for +encompassing the face with ornament; roses and lilies and +daffidowndillies, which would have sent Flora into fits, and killed her +long ago, had such a goddess ever been. + +I said that there was brain under the hat; this is not always obvious, but +there is generally hair. Once upon a time, not very long ago, hair was +constructed with great labor into a huge tower upon every lady’s head, +pomatum being used by way of mortar, and this tower was repaired every +three weeks. The British matron then looked like a “mop-headed Papuan.” +The two were much alike, except in this, that while our countrywoman +triumphed in her art, the Papuan was discontented with his nature. The +ladies here, whose hair was naturally made to fall around the shoulders, +reared it up on end; but in New Guinea, fashionables born with hair that +grew of its own will into an upright bush, preferred to cut it off, and +re-arrange it in a wig directed downwards. Sometimes they do no more than +crop it close; and then, since it is characteristic of the hair in this +race to grow, not in an expanse, but in tufts, the head is said by sailors +to remind them of a worn-out shoe-brush. So, at the Antipodes as well as +here, Art is an enemy to Nature. Hair upon the head was meant originally +to preserve in all seasons an equable temperature above the brain. +Emptying grease-pots into it, and matting it together, we convert it into +an unwholesome skull-cap. + +The neck? Here sanitary people say, How satisfactory it is that Englishmen +keep their necks covered with a close cravat, and do not Byronize in +opposition to the climate. That is very good; but English women, who +account themselves more delicate, don’t cover their necks, indeed they do +not at all times cover their shoulders. So traveling from top to toe, if +Englishmen wear thick shoes to protect the feet, our English women scorn +the weakness, and go, except a little fancy covering, bare-footed. + +From this point I digress, to note of other garments that the English +dress, as now established, does on the whole fair credit to society. To +the good gentlemen who poetize concerning grace and the antique, who sigh +for togas, stolas, and paludaments, I say, Go to. The drapery you sigh for +was the baby-linen of the human race. Now we are out of long-clothes. The +present European dress is that which offers least impediment to action. It +shows what a Man is like, and that is more than any stranger from another +world could have detected under the upholstery to which our sculptors +cling. The merest hint of a man—shaped as God shaped him—is better than +ten miles of folded blanket. Artists cry down our costume; forgetting that +if they have not folds of drapery to paint, that is because they have in +each man every limb to which they may assign its posture. If they can put +no mind into a statue by the mastery of attitude, all the sheets in Guy’s +Hospital will not twist into a fold that shall be worth their chiseling. + +With women it is different. They have both moral and æsthetic right to +drapery; and for the fashion of it, we must leave that to themselves. They +are all licensed to deal in stuffs, colors, frippery, and flounce. And to +wear rings in their ears. If ladies have good taste they can not vex us; +and that any of them can have bad taste, who shall hint? Their stays they +will abide by, as they love hysterics; them I have mentioned. I have +before also gone out of my way to speak of certain humps carried by women +on their backs, which are not healthy or unhealthy—who shall say what they +are? Are these humps allegorical? Our wives and daughters perhaps wish to +hint that they resemble camels in their patience; camels who bear their +burden through a desert world, which we, poor folk, should find it quite +impossible to travel through without them. + + + + +X. Fresh Air. + + +Philosophers tell us that the breath of man is poisonous; that when +collected in a jar it will kill mice, but when accumulated in a room it +will kill men. Of this there are a thousand and one tales. I decline +alluding to the Black Hole of Calcutta, but will take a specimen dug up by +some sanitary gardener from Horace Walpole’s letters. In 1742 a set of +jolly Dogberries, virtuous in their cups, resolved that every woman out +after dark ought to be locked up in the round-house. They captured +twenty-six unfortunates, and shut them in with doors and windows fastened. +The prisoners exhausted breath in screaming. One poor girl said she was +worth eighteenpence, and cried that she would give it gladly for a cup of +water. Dogberry was deaf. In the morning four were brought out dead, two +dying, and twelve in a dangerous condition. This is an argument in favor +of the new police. I don’t believe in ventilation; and will undertake +here, in a few paragraphs, to prove it nonsense. + +At the very outset, let us take the ventilation-mongers on their own +ground. People of this class are always referring us to nature. Very well, +we will be natural. Do you believe, sir, that the words of that dear lady, +when she said she loved you everlastingly, were poisonous air rendered +sonorous by the action of a larynx, tongue, teeth, palate, and lips? No, +indeed; ladies, at any rate, although they claim a double share of what +the cherubs want—and, possibly, these humps, now three times spoken of, +are the concealed and missing portions of the cherubim torn from them by +the fair sex in some ancient struggle. There, now, I am again shipwrecked +on the wondrous mountains. I was about to say, that ladies, who, in some +things, surpass the cherubs, equal them in others; like them, are vocal +with ethereal tones; their breath is “the sweet south, stealing across a +bed of violets,” and that’s not poisonous, I fancy. Well, I believe the +chemists have, as yet, not detected any difference between a man’s breath, +and a woman’s; therefore, neither of them can be hurtful. But let us grant +the whole position. Breath is poisonous, but nature made it so; nature +intended it to be so. Nature made man a social animal, and, therefore, +designed that many breaths should be commingled. Why do you, lovers of the +natural, object to that arrangement? + +Now let us glance at the means adopted to get rid of this our breath, this +breath of which our words are made, libeled as poisonous. Ventilation is +of two kinds, mechanical and physical. I will say something about each. + +Mechanical ventilation is that which machinery produces. One of the first +recorded ventilators of this kind, was not much more extravagant in its +charges upon house-room, than some of which we hear in 1850. In 1663, H. +Schmitz published the scheme of a great fanner, which, descending through +the ceiling, moved to and fro pendulum-wise, within a mighty slit. The +movement of the fanner was established by a piece of clockwork more simple +than compact: it occupied a complete chamber overhead, and was set in +noisy motion by a heavy weight. The weight ran slowly down, pulling its +rope until it reached the parlor floor; so that a gentleman incautiously +falling asleep under it after his dinner, might awake to find himself a +pancake. Since that time we have had no lack of ingenuity at work on +forcing pumps, and sucking-pumps, and screws. The screws are admirable, on +account of the unusually startling nature, now and then, of their results. +Not long ago, a couple of fine screws were adapted to a public building; +one was to take air out, the other was to turn air in. The first screw, +unexpectedly perverse, wheeled its air inward; so did the second, but +instead of directing its draught upward, it blew down with a great gust of +contempt upon the horrified experimentalist. There is something of a screw +principle in those queer little wheels fastened occasionally in our +windows, and on footmen’s hats—query, are those the ventilating hats?—the +rooms are as much ventilated by these little tins as they would be by an +air from “Don Giovanni.” I will say nothing about pumps; nor, indeed, need +we devote more space to mechanical contrivances, since it is from other +modes of ventilation that our cause has most to fear. Only one quaint +speculation may be mentioned. It is quite certain that in the heats of +India, air is not cooled by fanning, nor is it cooled judiciously by +damping it. Professor Piazzi Smyth last year suggested this idea: Compress +air by a forcing-pump into a close vessel, by so doing you increase its +heat, then suddenly allow it to escape into a room, it will expand so much +as to be cold, and, mixing with the other air in the apartment, cool the +whole mass. This is the last new theory, which has not yet, I think, been +tried in practice. + +Now, physical ventilation—that which affects to imitate the processes of +nature—is a more dangerously specious business. Its chief agent is heat. +In nature, it is said, the sun is Lord High Ventilator. He rarefies the +air in one place by his heat, elsewhere permits cold, and lets the air be +dense; the thin air rises, and the dense air rushes to supply its place; +so we have endless winds and currents—nature’s ventilating works. It is +incredible that sane men should have thought this system fit for +imitation. It is a failure. Look at the hot department, where a traveler +sometimes has to record that he lay gasping for two hours upon his back, +until some one could find some water for him somewhere. Let us call that +Africa, and who can say that he enjoys the squalls of wind rushing toward +the desert? Let us think of the Persian and the Punic wars, when fleets +which had not learned to play bo-peep with ventilating processes, strewed +Mediterranean sands with wrecks and corpses. Some day we shall have these +mimics of Dame Nature content with nothing smaller than a drawing-room +typhoon to carry off the foul air of an evening party; dowagers’ caps, +young ladies’ scarfs, cards, pocket-handkerchiefs, will whirl upon their +blast, and then they will be happy. Now their demands are modest, but they +mean hurricanes rely upon it; we must not let ourselves be lulled into a +false security. + +A fire, they say, is in English houses necessary during a large part of +the year, is constant during that season when we are most closely shut up +in our rooms. The fire, they say, is our most handy and most efficacious +ventilator. Oh, yes, we know something about that: we know too well that +the fire makes an ascending current, and that the cold air rushes from our +doors and windows to the chimney, as from surrounding countries to the +burning desert. We know that very well, because every such current is a +draught; one cuts into our legs, one gnaws about our necks, and all our +backs are cold. We are in the condition of a pious man in Fox’s “Martyrs,” +about whom I used to read with childish reverence: that after a great deal +of frying, during which he had not been turned by the Inquisition-Soyer, +he lifted up his voice in verse: + + + “This side enough is toasted; + Then turn me, tyrant, and eat, + And see whether raw or roasted + I make the better meat.” + + +We, all of us, over our Christmas fires, present this choice of raw or +roast, and we don’t thank your principles of ventilation for it. Then say +these pertinacious people, that they also disapprove of draughts; but they +don’t seem to mind boring holes in a gentleman’s floor, or knocking +through the sacred walls of home. This is their plan. They say, that you +should have, if possible, a pipe connected with the air without, passing +behind the cheeks of your stove, and opening under your fire, about, on, +or close before your hearth. They say, that from this source the fire will +be supplied so well, that it will no longer suck in draughts over your +shoulders, and between your legs, from remote corners of the room. They +say, moreover, that if this aperture be large enough, it will supply all +the fresh air needed in your room, to replace that which has ascended and +passed out, through a hole which you are to make in your chimney near the +ceiling. They say, that an up-draught will clear this air away so quietly +that you will not need even a valve; though you may have one fitted and +made ornamental at a trifling cost. They would recommend you to make +another hole in the wall opposite your chimney, near the ceiling also, to +establish a more effectual current in the upper air. Then, they say, you +will have a fresh air, and no draughts. Fresh air, yes, at the expense of +a hole in the floor, and two holes in the wall. We might get fresh air, +gentlemen, on a much larger scale by pulling the house down. They say, you +should not mind the holes. Windows are not architectural beauties, yet we +like them for admitting light; and some day it may strike us that the want +of ventilators is a neighbor folly to the want of windows. + +This they suggest as the best method of adapting our old houses to their +new ideas. New houses they would have so built as to include this system +of ventilation in their first construction, and so include it as to make +it more effectual. But really, if people want to know how to build what +are called well-ventilated houses, they must not expect me to tell them; +let them buy Mr. Hosking’s book on “The proper Regulation of Buildings in +Towns.” + +Up to this date, as I am glad to know, few architects have heard of +ventilation. Under church galleries we doze through the most lively +sermons, in public meetings we pant after air, but we have architecture; +perhaps an airy style sometimes attempts to comfort us. These +circumstances are, possibly, unpleasant at the time, but they assist the +cause of general unhealthiness. Long may our architects believe that human +lungs are instruments of brass; and let us hope that, when they get a +ventilating fit, they will prefer strange machines, pumping, screwing, +steaming apparatus. May they dispense then, doctored air, in draughts and +mixtures.(4) + +Fresh air in certain favored places—as in Smithfield, for example—is +undoubtedly an object of desire. It is exceedingly to be regretted, if the +rumors be correct, that the result of a Commission of Inquiry threatens, +by removing Smithfield, to destroy the only sound lung this metropolis +possesses. The wholesome nature of the smell of cows is quite notorious. +Humboldt tells of a sailor who was dying of fever in the close hold of a +ship. His end being in sight, some comrades brought him out to die. What +Humboldt calls “the fresh air” fell upon him, and, instead of dying, he +revived, eventually getting well. I have no doubt that there was a cow on +board, and the man smelt her. Now, if so great an effect was produced by +the proximity of one cow, how great must be the advantage to the sick in +London of a central crowded cattle-market! + + + + +XI. Exercise. + + +There is a little tell-tale muscle in the inner corner of the eye, which, +if you question it, will deliver a report into your looking-glass touching +the state of the whole muscular system which lies elsewhere hidden in your +body. When it is pale, it praises you. Muscular development is, by all +means, to be kept down. Some means of holding it in check we have already +dwelt upon. Muscular power, like all other power, will increase with +exercise. We desire to hold the flesh in strict subjection to the spirit. +Bodily exercise, therefore, must be added to the number of those forces +which, by strengthening the animal, do damage to the spiritual man. + +We must take great pains to choke the energy of children. Their active +little limbs must be tied down by a well-woven system of politeness. They +run, they jump, turn heels over head, they climb up trees, if they attempt +stillness they are ever on the move, because nature demands that while the +body grows, it shall be freely worked in all its parts, in order that it +may develop into a frame-work vigorous and well proportioned. Nature +really is more obstinate than usual on this point. So restless a delight +in bodily exertion is implanted in the child, that our patience is +considerably tried when we attempt to keep it still. Children, however, +can be tamed and civilized. By sending them unhealthy from the nursery, we +can deliver many of them spiritless at school, there to be properly +subdued. The most unwholesome plan is to send boys to one school, girls to +another; both physically and morally, this method gives good hope of +sickliness. Nature, who never is on our side, will allow children of each +sex to be born into one family, to play together, and be educated at one +mother’s knee. There ought to be—if nature had the slightest sense of +decency—girls only born in one house, boys only in another. However, we +can sort the children at an early age, and send them off to school—girls +east, boys west. + +A girl should be allowed, on no account, to climb a tree, or be +unladylike. She shall regard a boy as a strange, curious monster; be +forced into flirtation; and prefer the solace of a darling friend to any +thing that verges on a scamper. She shall learn English grammar: that is +to mean, Lindley Murray’s notion of it; geography, or the names of capital +towns, rivers, and mountain ranges; French enough for a lady; music, +ornamental needlework, and the “use of the globes.” By-the-by, what a +marvel it is that every lady has learned in her girlhood the use of the +globes, and yet you never see a lady using them. All these subjects she +shall study from a female point of view. Her greatest bodily fatigue shall +be the learning of a polka, or the Indian sceptre exercise. Now and then, +she shall have an iron down her back, and put her feet in stocks. The +young lady shall return from school, able to cover ottomans with worsted +birds; and to stitch a purse for the expected lover about whom she has +been thinking for the last five years. She is quite aware that St. +Petersburg is the capital of Ireland, and that a noun is a +verb-substantive, which signifies to be, to do, to suffer. + +The boy children shall be sent to school, where they may sit during three +hours consecutively, and during eight or nine hours in the day, forcing +their bodies to be tranquil. They shall entertain their minds by +stuttering the eloquence of Cicero, which would be dull work to them in +English, and is not enlivened by the Latin. They shall get much into their +mouths of what they can not comprehend, and little or nothing into their +hearts, out of the wide stores of information for which children really +thirst. They shall be taught little or nothing of the world they live in, +and shall know its Maker only as an answer to some question in a +catechism. They shall talk of girls as beings of another nature; and shall +come home from their school-life, pale, subdued, having unwholesome +thoughts, awkward in using limbs, which they have not been suffered freely +to develop; and shamefaced in the society from which, during their +schoolboy life, they have been banished. + +The older girl shall ape the lady, and the older boy shall ape the +gentleman; so we may speak next of adults. + +No lady ought to walk when she can ride. The carriages of many kinds which +throng our streets, all prove us civilized; prove us, and make us weak. +The lady should be tired after a four-mile walk; her walk ought to be, in +the utmost possible degree, weeded of energy. It should be slow; and when +her legs are moved, her arms must be restrained from that synchronous +movement which perverse Nature calls upon them to perform. Ladies do well +to walk out with their arms quite still, and with their hands folded +before them. Thus they prevent their delicacy from being preyed upon by a +too wholesome exercise, and, what is to us more pleasant, they betray +their great humility. They dare only to walk among us lords of the +creation with their arms folded before them, that by such humble guise +they may acknowledge the inferiority of their position. An Australian +native, visiting London, might almost be tempted, in sheer pride of heart, +to knock some of our ladies two or three times about the head with that +small instrument which he employs for such correction of his women, that +so he might derive the more enjoyment from their manifest submissiveness. + +The well-bred gentleman ought to be weary after six miles of walking, and +haughtily stare down the man who talks about sixteen. The saddle, the gig, +the carriage, or the cab, and omnibus, must protect at once his delicacy +and his shoes. The student should confine himself to study, grudging time; +believing nobody who tells him that the time he gives to wholesome +exercise, he may receive back in the shape of increased value for his +hours of thought—that even his life of study may be lengthened by it. Let +the tradesman be well-rooted in his shop if he desire to flourish. Let the +mechanic sit at labor on the week-days, and on Sundays let him sit at +church, or else stop decently at home. Let us have no Sunday recreations. +It is quite shocking to hear sanitary people lecture on this topic. +Profanely they profess to wonder why the weary, toiling family of +Christians should not be carried from the town, and from that hum of +society which is not to them very refreshing on the day of rest. Why they +should not go out and wander in the woods, and ask their hearts who taught +the dragon-fly his dancing; who made the blue-bells cluster lovingly +together, looking so modest; and ask from whose Opera the birds are +singing their delicious music? Why should not the rugged man’s face +soften, and the care-worn woman’s face be melted into tenderness, and man +and wife and children cluster as closely as the blue-bells in the peaceful +wood? What if they there become so very conscious of their mutual love, +and of the love of God, as to feel glad that they are not in any other +“place of worship,” where they may hear Roman Catholics denounced, or +Churchmen scorned, or the Dissenters pounded? What if they then come home +refreshed in mind and body, and begin the week with larger, gentler +thoughts of God and man? By such means may they not easily be led, if they +were at any unwilling, to give praise to God, and learn to join—not as a +superstitious rite, but as a humble duty—in His public worship? So talk +the sanitary men—here, as in all their doctrines, showing themselves +little better than materialists. The negro notion of a Sabbath is, that +nobody may fish: our notion is, that nobody may stay away from church. + +In these remarks on exercise among adults, I have confined myself to the +plain exercise of walking. It may be taken for granted that no grown-up +person will be so childish as to leap, to row, to swim. A few Young +Englanders may put on, now and then, their white kid gloves to patronize a +cricket-match; but we can laugh at them. In a gentleman it is undignified +to run; and even walking, at the best, is vulgar. + +Indeed there is an obvious vulgarity in the whole doctrine which would +call upon us to assist our brute development by the mere exercising of +ourselves as animals. Such counsel offers to degrade us to the low +position of the race-horse who is trotted to and fro, the poodle who is +sent out for an airing. As spiritual people, we look down with much +contempt upon the man who would in any thing compare us with the lower +animals. His mind is mean, and must be quite beneath our indignation. I +will say no more. Why thrash a pickpocket with thunder? + + + + +XII. A Bedroom Paper. + + +If you wish to have a thoroughly unhealthy bedroom, these are the +precautions you should take. + +Fasten a chimney-board against the fireplace, so as to prevent foul air +from escaping in the night. You will, of course, have no hole through the +wall into the chimney; and no sane man, in the night season, would have a +door or window open. Use no perforated zinc in paneling; especially avoid +it in small bedrooms. So you will get a room full of bad air. But in the +same room there is bad, worse, and worst: your object is to have the worst +air possible. Suffocating machines are made by every upholsterer; attach +one to your bed; it is an apparatus of poles, rings, and curtains. By +drawing your curtains around you before you sleep, you insure to yourself +a condensed body of foul air over your person. This poison vapor-bath you +will find to be most efficient when it is made of any thick material. + +There being transpiration through the skin, it would not be a bad idea to +see whether this can not be in some way hindered. The popular method will +do very well: smother the flesh as much as possible in feathers. A +wandering princess, in some fairy tale, came to a king’s house. The king’s +wife, with the curiosity and acuteness proper to her sex, desired to know +whether their guest was truly born a princess, and discovered how to solve +the question. She put three peas on the young lady’s paillasse, and over +them a large feather-bed, and then another, then another—in fact, fifteen +feather-beds. Next morning the princess looked pale, and, in answer to +inquiries how she had passed the night, said that she had been unable to +sleep at all, because the bed had lumps in it. The king’s wife knew then +that their guest showed her good breeding. Take this high-born lady for a +model. The feathers retain all heat about your body, and stifle the skin +so far effectually, that you awake in the morning pervaded by a sense of +languor, which must be very agreeable to a person who has it in his mind +to be unhealthy. In order to keep a check upon exhalation about your head +(which otherwise might have too much the way of Nature), put on a stout, +closely-woven night-cap. People who are at the height of cleverness in +this respect sleep with their heads under the bed-clothes. Take no rest on +a hair-mattress; it is elastic and pleasant, certainly, but it does not +encase the body; and therefore you run a risk of not awaking languid. + +Never wash when you go to bed; you are not going to see any body, and +therefore there can be no use in washing. In the morning, wet no more skin +than you absolutely must—that is to say, no more than your neighbors will +see during the day—the face and hands. So much you may do with a tolerably +good will, since it is the other part of the surface of the body, more +covered and more impeded in the full discharge of its functions, which has +rather the more need of ablution; it is therefore fortunate that you can +leave that other part unwashed. Five minutes of sponging and rubbing over +the whole body in the morning would tend to invigorate the system, and +would send you with a cheerful glow to the day’s business or pleasure. +Avoid it by all means, if you desire to be unhealthy. Let me note here, +that in speaking of the poor, we should abstain from ceding to them an +exclusive title, as “the Great Unwashed.” Will you, Mr. N. or M., retire +into your room and strip? Examine your body; is it clean—was it sponged +this morning—is there no dirt upon it any where? If it be not clean, if it +was not sponged, if water would look rather black after you had enjoyed a +thorough scrub in it, then is it not obvious that you yourself take rank +among the Great Unwashed? By way of preserving a distinction between them +and us, I even think it would be no bad thing were we to advocate the +washing of the poor. + +Do not forget that, although you must unfortunately apply water to your +face you can find warrant in custom to excuse you from annoying it with +soap; and for the water again, you are at liberty to take vengeance by +obtaining compensation damages out of that part of your head which the +hair covers. Never wash it; soil it; clog it with oil or lard—either of +which will answer your purpose, as either will keep out air as well as +water, and promote the growth of a thick morion of scurf. Lard in the +bedroom is called bear’s grease. In connection with its virtues in +promoting growth of hair, there is a tale which I believe to be no +fiction; not the old and profane jest of the man who rubbed a deal box +with it over-night, and found a hair-trunk in the morning. It is said that +the first adventurer who advertised bear’s grease for sale, appended to +the laudation of its efficacy a Nota Bene, that gentlemen, after applying +it, should wash the palms of their hands, otherwise the hair would sprout +thence also. I admire that speculator, grimly satiric at the expense both +of himself and of his customers. He jested at his own pretensions; and +declared, by an oblique hint, that he did not look for friends among the +scrupulously clean. + +Tooth-powder is necessary in the bedroom. Healthy stomachs will make +healthy teeth, and then a tooth-brush and a little water may suffice to +keep them clean. But healthy stomachs also make coarse constitutions. It +is vexatious that our teeth rot when we vitiate the fluid that surrounds +them. As gentlemen and ladies we desire good teeth; they must be scoured +and hearth-stoned. + +Of course, as you do not cleanse your body daily, so you will not show +favor to your feet. Keep up a due distinction between the upper and lower +members. When a German prince was told confidentially that he had dirty +hands, he replied, with the liveliness of conscious triumph, + +“Ach, do you call dat dirty? You should see my toes!” + +Some people wash them once in every month; that will do very well; or once +a year, it matters little which. In what washing you find yourself unable +to omit, use only the finest towels, those which inflict least friction on +the skin. + +Having made these arrangements for yourself, take care that they are +adhered to, as far is may be convenient, throughout your household. + +Here and there, put numerous sleepers into a single room; this is a good +thing for children, if you require to blanch them. By a little +perseverance, also, in this way, when you have too large a family, you can +reduce it easily. By all means, let a baby have foul air, not only by the +use of suffocative apparatus, but by causing it to sleep where there are +four or five others in a well-closed room. So much is due to the +maintenance of our orthodox rate of infant mortality. + +Let us admire, lastly, the economy of time in great men who have allowed +themselves only four, five, or six hours, for sleep. It may be true that +they would have lived longer had they always paid themselves a fair +night’s quiet for a fair day’s work; they would have lived longer, but +they would not have lived so fast. It is essential to live fast in this +busy world. Moreover, there is a superstitious reverence for early rising, +as a virtue by itself, which we shall do well to acquire. Let sanitary men +say, “Roost with the lark, if you propose to rise with her.” Nonsense. No +civilized man can go to bed much earlier than midnight; but every man of +business must be up betimes. Idle, happy people, on the other hand, they +to whom life is useless, prudently remain for nine, ten, or a dozen hours +in bed. Snug in their corner, they are in the way of nobody, except the +housemaid. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + + + “Now wotte we nat, ne can na see + What manir ende that there shall be.” + + +Birth, sickness, burial. Eating, drinking, clothing, sleeping. Exercise, +and social pleasure. Air, water, and light. These are the topics upon +which we have already touched. A finished painting of good ægritudinary +discipline was not designed upon the present canvas: no man who knows the +great extent and varied surface of the scene which such a picture should +embrace, will think that there is here even an outline finished. + +We might have recommended early marriages; and marriage with first +cousins. We might have urged all men with heritable maladies to shun +celibacy. We might have praised tobacco, which, by acting on the mucous +membrane of the mouth, acts on the same membrane in the stomach also +(precisely as disorder of the stomach will communicate disorder to the +mouth), and so helps in establishing a civilized digestion and a pallid +face. + + + “But we woll stint of this matere + For it is wondir long to here.” + + +It is inherent in man to be perverse. A drawing-room critic, in one of +Gait’s novels, takes up a picture of a cow, holds it inverted, and enjoys +it as a castellated mansion with four corner towers. And so, since “all +that moveth doth mutation love,” after a like fashion, many people, it +appears, have looked upon these papers. There is a story to the point in +Lucian. Passus received commission from a connoisseur to draw a horse with +his legs upward. He drew it in the usual way. His customer came +unannounced, saw what had been done, and grumbled fearfully. Passus, +however, turned his picture up-side down, and then the connoisseur was +satisfied. These papers have been treated like the horse of Passus. + +“Stimatissimo Signor Boswell” says, in his book on Corsica, that he rode +out one day on Paoli’s charger, gay with gold and scarlet, and surrounded +by the chieftain’s officers. For a while, he says, he thought he was a +hero. Thus, like a goose on horseback, has our present writer visited some +few of the chief ægritudinary outposts. Why not so? They say there is no +way impossible. Wherefore an old emblem-book has represented Cupid +crossing a stream which parts him from an altar, seated at ease upon his +quiver, for a boat, and rowing with a pair of arrows. So has the writer +floated over on a barrel of his folly, and possibly may touch, O reader, +at the Altar of your Household Gods. + + + + + +SORROWS AND JOYS. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.) + + + Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise + As souls to the immortal skies, + And then look down like mothers’ eyes. + But let thy joys be fresh as flowers, + That suck the honey of the showers, + And bloom alike on huts and towers. + So shall thy days be sweet and bright— + Solemn and sweet thy starry night— + Conscious of love each change of light. + The stars will watch the flowers asleep, + The flowers will feel the soft stars weep, + And both will mix sensations deep. + With these below, with those above, + Sits evermore the brooding Dove, + Uniting both in bonds of love. + Children of Earth are these; and those + The spirits of intense repose— + Death radiant o’er all human woes. + For both by nature are akin; + Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin, + And joy, the juice of life within. + O, make thy sorrows holy—wise— + So shall their buried memories rise, + Celestial, e’en in mortal skies. + O, think what then had been their doom, + If all unshriven—without a tomb— + They had been left to haunt the gloom! + O, think again what they will be + Beneath God’s bright serenity, + When thou art in eternity! + For they, in their salvation, know + No vestige of their former woe, + While thro’ them all the Heavens do flow. + Thus art thou wedded to the skies, + And watched by ever-loving eyes, + And warned by yearning sympathies. + + + + + +MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. (FROM THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY +MAGAZINE) + + +(_Continued from Page_ 499.) + + + + +Chapter XII. “A Glance At Staff-Duty.” + + +Although the passage of the Rhine was but the prelude to the attack on the +fortress, that exploit being accomplished, Kehl was carried at the point +of the bayonet, the French troops entering the outworks pell-mell with the +retreating enemy, and in less than two hours after the landing of our +first detachments, the “tri-color” waved over the walls of the fortress. + +Lost amid the greater and more important successes which since that time +have immortalized the glory of the French arms, it is almost impossible to +credit the celebrity attached at that time to this brilliant achievement, +whose highest merits probably were rapidity and resolution. Moreau had +long been jealous of the fame of his great rival, Bonaparte, whose +tactics, rejecting the colder dictates of prudent strategy, and the slow +progress of scientific manoeuvres, seemed to place all his confidence in +the sudden inspirations of his genius, and the indomitable bravery of his +troops. It was necessary, then, to raise the _morale_ of the army of the +Rhine, to accomplish some great feat similar in boldness and heroism to +the wonderful achievements of the Italian army. Such was the passage of +the Rhine at Strasbourg, effected in the face of a great enemy, +advantageously posted, and supported by one of the strongest of all the +frontier fortresses. + +The morning broke upon us in all the exultation of our triumph, and as our +cheers rose high over the field of the late struggle, each heart beat +proudly with the thought of how that news would be received in Paris. + +“You’ll see how the bulletin will spoil all,” said a young officer of the +army of Italy, as he was getting his wound dressed on the field. “There +will be such a long narrative of irrelevant matter—such details of this, +that, and t’other—that the public will scarce know whether the placard +announces a defeat or a victory.” + +“Parbleu!” replied an old veteran of the Rhine army, “what would you have? +You’d not desire to omit the military facts of such an exploit?” + +“To be sure I would,” rejoined the other. “Give me one of our young +general’s bulletins, short, stirring, and effective—‘Soldiers! you have +crossed the Rhine against an army double your own in numbers and munitions +of war. You have carried a fortress, believed impregnable, at the bayonet. +Already the great flag of our nation waves over the citadel you have won. +Forward, then, and cease not till it float over the cities of conquered +Germany, and let the name of France be that of Empire over the continent +of Europe.’ ” + +“Ha! I like that,” cried I, enthusiastically; “that’s the bulletin to my +fancy. Repeat it once more, mon lieutenant, that I may write it in my +note-book.” + +“What! hast thou a note-book?” cried an old staff-officer, who was +preparing to mount his horse; “let’s see it, lad.” + +With a burning cheek and trembling hand, I drew my little journal from the +breast of my jacket, and gave it to him. + +“Sacre bleu!” exclaimed he, in a burst of laughter, “what have we here? +Why, this is a portrait of old General Morieier, and, although a +caricature, a perfect likeness. And here comes a plan for ‘manoeuvring a +squadron by threes from the left.’ This is better—it is a receipt for an +‘Omelette à la Hussard;’ and here we have a love-song, and a +mustache-paste, with some hints about devotion, and diseased frog in +horses. Most versatile genius, certainly!” And so he went on, occasionally +laughing at my rude sketches, and ruder remarks, till he came to a page +headed “Equitation, as practiced by Officers of the Staff,” and followed +by a series of caricatures of bad riding, in all its moods and tenses. The +flush of anger which instantly colored his face, soon attracted the notice +of those about him, and one of the bystanders quickly snatched the book +from his fingers, and, in the midst of a group all convulsed with +laughter, proceeded to expatiate upon my illustrations. To be sure, they +were absurd enough. Some were represented sketching on horseback, under +shelter of an umbrella; others were “taking the depth of a stream” by a +“header” from their own saddles; some, again, were “exploring ground for +an attack in line,” by a measurement of the rider’s own length over the +head of his horse. Then there were ridiculous situations, such as “sitting +down before a fortress,” “taking an angle of incidence,” and so on. Sorry +jests, all of them, but sufficient to amuse those with whose daily +associations they chimed in, and to whom certain traits of portraiture +gave all the zest of a personality. + +My shame at the exposure, and my terror for its consequences, gradually +yielded to a feeling of flattered vanity at the success of my +lucubrations; and I never remarked that the staff-officer had ridden away +from the group, till I saw him galloping back at the top of his speed. + +“Is your name Tiernay, my good fellow?” cried he, riding close up to my +side, and with an expression on his features I did not half like. + +“Yes, sir,” replied I. + +“Hussar of the Ninth, I believe?” repeated he, reading from a paper in his +hand. + +“The same, sir.” + +“Well, your talents as a draughtsman have procured you promotion, my +friend; I have obtained your discharge from your regiment, and you are now +my orderly—orderly on the staff, do you mind? so mount, sir, and follow +me.” + +I saluted him respectfully, and prepared to obey his orders. Already I +foresaw the downfall of all the hopes I had been cherishing, and +anticipated the life of tyranny and oppression that lay before me. It was +clear to me, that my discharge had been obtained solely as a means of +punishing me, and that Captain Discau, as the officer was called, had +destined me to a pleasant expiation of my note-book. The savage exultation +with which he watched me, as I made up my kit and saddled my horse—the +cool malice with which he handed me back the accursed journal, the cause +of all my disasters—gave me a dark foreboding of what was to follow; and +as I mounted my saddle, my woeful face, and miserable look, brought forth +a perfect shout of laughter from the bystanders. + +Captain Discau’s duty was to visit the banks of the Rhine, and the Eslar +island, to take certain measurements of distances, and obtain accurate +information on various minute points respecting the late engagement, for, +while a brief announcement of the victory would suffice for the bulletin, +a detailed narrative of the event, in all its bearings, must be drawn up +for the minister of war, and for this latter purpose various +staff-officers were then employed in different parts of the field. + +As we issued from the fortress, and took our way over the plain, we struck +out into a sharp gallop; but, as we drew near the river, our passage +became so obstructed by lines of baggage-wagons, tumbrils, and +ammunition-carts, that we were obliged to dismount and proceed on foot; +and now I was to see, for the first time, that dreadful picture, which, on +the day after a battle, forms the reverse of the great medal of glory. +Huge litters of wounded men on their way back to Strasbourg, were drawn by +six or eight horses, their jolting motion increasing the agony of +sufferings that found their vent in terrific cries and screams; oaths, +yells, and blasphemies, the ravings of madness, and the wild shouts of +infuriated suffering, filled the air on every side. As if to give the +force of contrast to this uproar of misery, two regiments of Swabian +infantry marched past as prisoners. Silent, crest-fallen, and +wretched-looking, they never raised their eyes from the ground, but moved, +or halted, wheeled, or stood at ease, as though by some impulse of +mechanism; a cord coupled the wrists of the outer files, one with another, +which struck me less as a measure of security against escape, than as a +mark of indignity. + +Carts and charettes with wounded officers, in which often-times the +uniform of the enemy appeared side by side with our own, followed in long +procession; and thus were these two great currents—the one hurrying +forward, ardent, high-hearted, and enthusiastic; the other returning +maimed, shattered, and dying! + +It was an affecting scene to see the hurried gestures, and hear the few +words of adieu, as they passed each other. Old comrades who were never to +meet again, parted with a little motion of the hand; sometimes a mere look +was all their leave-taking: save when, now and then, a halt would for a +few seconds bring the two lines together, and then many a bronzed and +rugged cheek was pressed upon the faces of the dying, and many a tear fell +from eyes bloodshot with the fury of the battle! Wending our way on foot +slowly along, we at last reached the river side, and having secured a +small skiff, made for the Eslar island; our first business being to +ascertain some details respecting the intrenchments there, and the depth +and strength of the stream between it and the left bank. Discau, who was a +distinguished officer, rapidly possessed himself of the principal facts he +wanted, and then, having given me his portfolio, he seated himself under +the shelter of a broken wagon, and opening a napkin, began his breakfast +off a portion of a chicken and some bread—viands which, I own, more than +once made my lips water as I watched him. + +“You’ve eaten nothing to-day, Tiernay?” asked he, as he wiped his lips, +with the air of a man that feels satisfied. + +“Nothing, mon capitaine,” replied I. + +“That’s bad,” said he, shaking his head; “a soldier can not do his duty, +if his rations be neglected. I have always maintained the principle: Look +to the men’s necessaries—take care of their food and clothing. Is there +any thing on that bone there?” + +“Nothing, mon capitaine.” + +“I’m sorry for it; I meant it for you; put up that bread, and the +remainder of that flask of wine. Bourdeaux is not to be had every day. We +shall want it for supper, Tiernay.” + +I did as I was bid, wondering not a little why he said “_we_,” seeing how +little a share I occupied in the co-partnery. + +“Always be careful of the morrow on a campaign, Tiernay—no squandering, no +waste; that’s one of my principles,” said he, gravely, as he watched me +while I tied up the bread and wine in the napkin. “You’ll soon see the +advantage of serving under an old soldier.” + +I confess the great benefit had not already struck me, but I held my peace +and waited; meanwhile he continued— + +“I have studied my profession from my boyhood, and one thing I have +acquired, that all experience has confirmed, the knowledge, that men must +neither be taxed beyond their ability nor their endurance; a French +soldier, after all, is human; eh, is’t not so?” + +“I feel it most profoundly, mon capitaine,” replied I, with my hand on my +empty stomach. + +“Just so,” rejoined he; “every man of sense and discretion must confess +it. Happily for you, too, I know it; ay, Tiernay, I know it, and practice +it. When a young fellow has acquitted himself to my satisfaction during +the day—not that I mean to say that the performance has not its fair share +of activity and zeal—when evening comes and stable duty finished, arms +burnished, and accoutrements cleaned, what do you think I say to him?—eh, +Tiernay, just guess now?” + +“Probably, sir, you tell him he is free to spend an hour at the canteen, +or take his sweetheart to the theatre.” + +“What! more fatigue! more exhaustion to an already tired and worn-out +nature!” + +“I ask pardon, sir, I see I was wrong; but I had forgotten how thoroughly +the poor fellow was done up. I now see that you told him to go to bed.” + +“To bed! to bed! Is it that he might writhe in the nightmare, or suffer +agony from cramps? To bed after fatigue like this! No, no, Tiernay, that +was not the school in which _I_ was brought up; _we_ were taught to think +of the men under our command; to remember that they had wants, sympathies, +hopes, fears, and emotions like our own. I tell him to seat himself at the +table, and with pen, ink, and paper before him, to write up the blanks. I +see you don’t quite understand me, Tiernay, as to the meaning of the +phrase, but I’ll let you into the secret. You have been kind enough to +give me a peep at your note-book, and you shall in return have a look at +mine. Open that volume, and tell me what you find in it.” + +I obeyed the direction, and read at the top of a page, the words +“Skeleton, 5th Prairial,” in large characters, followed by several +isolated words, denoting the strength of a brigade, the number of guns in +a battery, the depth of a fosse, the height of a parapet, and such like. +These were usually followed by a flourish of the pen, or sometimes by the +word “Bom.” which singular monosyllable always occurred at the foot of the +pages. + +“Well, have you caught the key to the cipher?” said he, after a pause. + +“Not quite, sir,” said I, pondering; “I can perceive that the chief facts +stand prominently forward, in a fair, round hand; I can also guess that +the flourishes may be spaces left for detail; but this word ‘Bom.’ puzzles +me completely.” + +“Quite correct, as to the first part,” said he, approvingly; “and as to +the mysterious monosyllable, it is nothing more than an abbreviation for +‘Bombaste,’ which is always to be done to the taste of each particular +commanding officer.” + +“I perceive, sir,” said I, quickly; “like the wadding of a gun, which may +increase the loudness, but never affect the strength of the shot.” + +“Precisely, Tiernay; you have hit it exactly. Now I hope that, with a +little practice, you may be able to acquit yourself respectably in this +walk; and now to begin our skeleton. Turn over to a fresh page, and write +as I dictate to you.” + +So saying, he filled his pipe and lighted it, and disposing his limbs in +an attitude of perfect ease, he began: + +“8th Thermidor, midnight—twelve battalions, and two batteries of +field—boats and rafts—Eslar island—stockades—eight guns—Swabian +infantry—sharp firing, and a flourish—strong current—flourish—detachment +of the 28th carried down—‘Bom.’ Let me see it now—all right—nothing could +be better—proceed. The 10th, 45th, and 48th landing together—more +firing—flourish—first gun captured—Bom.—bayonet charges—Bom. Bom.—three +guns taken—Bom. Bom. Bom.—Swabs in retreat—flourish. The bridge eighty +toises in length—flanking fire—heavy loss—flourish.” + +“You go a little too fast, mon capitaine,” said I, for a sudden bright +thought just flashed across me. + +“Very well,” said he, shaking the ashes of his pipe out upon the rock, +“I’ll take my doze, and you may awaken me when you’ve filled in those +details—it will be a very fair exercise for you;” and with this he threw +his handkerchief over his face, and without any other preparation was soon +fast asleep. + +I own that, if I had not been a spectator of the action, it would have +been very difficult, if not impossible, for me to draw up any thing like a +narrative of it, from the meagre details of the captain’s note-book. My +personal observations, however, assisted by an easy imagination, suggested +quite enough to make at least a plausible story, and I wrote away without +impediment and halt till I came to that part of the action in which the +retreat over the bridge commenced. There I stopped. Was I to remain +satisfied with such a crude and one-sided explanation as the note-book +afforded, and merely say that the retreating forces were harassed by a +strong flank fire from our batteries? Was I to omit the whole of the great +incident, the occupation of the “Fels Insel,” and the damaging discharges +of grape and round shot which plunged through the crowded ranks, and +ultimately destroyed the bridge? Could I—to use the phrase so +popular—could I, in the “interests of truth,” forget the brilliant +achievement of a gallant band of heroes who, led on by a young hussar of +the 9th, threw themselves into the “Fels Insel,” routed the garrison, +captured the artillery, and directing its fire upon the retiring enemy, +contributed most essentially to the victory. Ought I, in a word, to suffer +a name so associated with a glorious action to sink into oblivion? Should +Maurice Tiernay be lost to fame out of any neglect or false shame on my +part? Forbid it all truth and justice, cried I, as I set myself down to +relate the whole adventure most circumstantially. Looking up from time to +time at my officer, who slept soundly, I suffered myself to dilate upon a +theme in which somehow, I felt a more than ordinary degree of interest. +The more I dwelt upon the incident, the more brilliant and striking did it +seem. Like the appetite, which the proverb tells us comes by eating, my +enthusiasm grew under indulgence, so that, had a little more time been +granted me, I verily believe I should have forgotten Moreau altogether, +and coupled only Maurice Tiernay with the passage of the Rhine, and the +capture of the fortress of Kehl. Fortunately Captain Discau awoke, and cut +short my historic recollections, by asking me how much I had done, and +telling me to read it aloud to him. + +I accordingly began to read my narrative slowly and deliberately, thereby +giving myself time to think what I should best do when I came to that part +which became purely personal. To omit it altogether would have been +dangerous, as the slightest glance at the mass of writing would have shown +the deception. There was, then, nothing left, but to invent at the moment +another version, in which Maurice Tiernay never occurred, and the incident +of the Fels Insel should figure as unobtrusively as possible. I was always +a better improvisatore than amanuensis; so that without a moment’s loss of +time I fashioned a new and very different narrative, and detailing the +battle tolerably accurately, _minus_ the share my own heroism had taken in +it. The captain made a few, a very few corrections of my style, in which +the “flourish” and “bom,” figured, perhaps, too conspicuously; and then +told me frankly, that once upon a time he had been fool enough to give +himself great trouble in framing these kind of reports, but that having +served for a short period in the “bureau” of the minister of war, he had +learned better. “In fact,” said he, “a district report is never read! Some +hundreds of them reach the office of the minister every day, and are +safely deposited in the ‘archives’ of the department. They have all, +besides, such a family resemblance, that with a few changes in the name of +the commanding officer, any battle in the Netherlands would do equally +well for one fought beyond the Alps! Since I became acquainted with this +fact, Tiernay, I have bestowed less pains upon the matter, and usually +deputed the task to some smart orderly of the staff.” + +So thought I, I have been writing history for nothing; and Maurice +Tiernay, the real hero of the passage of the Rhine, will be unrecorded and +unremembered, just for want of one honest and impartial scribe to transmit +his name to posterity. The reflection was not a very encouraging one; nor +did it serve to lighten the toil in which I passed many weary hours, +copying out my own precious manuscript. Again and again during that night +did I wonder at my own diffuseness—again and again did I curse the prolix +accuracy of a description that cost such labor to reiterate. It was like a +species of poetical justice on me for my own amplifications; and when the +day broke, and I still sat at my table writing on, at the third copy of +this precious document, I vowed a vow of brevity, should I ever survive to +indite similar compositions. + + + + +Chapter XIII. A Farewell Letter. + + +It was in something less than a week after, that I entered upon my new +career as orderly in the staff, when I began to believe myself the most +miserable of all human beings. On the saddle at sunrise, I never +dismounted, except to carry a measuring-chain, “to step distances,” mark +out intrenchments, and then write away, for hours, long enormous reports, +that were to be models of calligraphy, neatness, and elegance—and never to +be read. Nothing could be less like soldiering than the life I led; and +were it not for the clanking sabre I wore at my side, and the jingling +spurs that decorated my heels, I might have fancied myself a notary’s +clerk. It was part of General Moreau’s plan to strengthen the defenses of +Kehl before he advanced further into Germany; and to this end repairs were +begun upon a line of earth-works, about two leagues to the northward of +the fortress, at a small village called “Ekheim.” In this miserable little +hole, one of the dreariest spots imaginable, we were quartered, with two +companies of “sapeurs” and some of the wagon-train, trenching, digging, +carting earth, sinking wells, and in fact engaged in every kind of labor +save that which seemed to be characteristic of a soldier. + +I used to think that Nancy and the riding-school were the most dreary and +tiresome of all destinies, but they were enjoyments and delight compared +with this. Now it very often happens in life, that when a man grows +discontented and dissatisfied with mere monotony, when he chafes at the +sameness of a tiresome and unexciting existence, he is rapidly approaching +to some critical or eventful point, where actual peril and real danger +assail him, and from which he would willingly buy his escape by falling +back upon that wearisome and plodding life he had so often deplored +before. This case was my own. Just as I had convinced myself that I was +exceedingly wretched and miserable, I was to know there are worse things +in this world than a life of mere uniform stupidity. I was waiting outside +my captain’s door for orders one morning, when at the tinkle of his little +hand-bell I entered the room where he sat at breakfast, with an open +dispatch before him. + +“Tiernay,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “here is an order from the +adjutant-general to send you back under an escort to head-quarters. Are +you aware of any reason for it, or is there any charge against you which +warrants this?” + +“Not to my knowledge, mon capitaine,” said I, trembling with fright, for I +well knew with what severity discipline was exercised in that army, and +how any, even the slightest, infractions met the heaviest penalties. + +“I have never known you to pillage,” continued he; “have never seen you +drink, nor have you been disobedient while under my command; yet this +order could not be issued on light grounds; there must be some grave +accusation against you, and in any case you must go; therefore arrange all +my papers, put every thing in due order, and be ready to return with the +orderly.” + +“You’ll give me a good character, mon capitaine,” said I, trembling more +than ever—“you’ll say what you can for me, I’m sure.” + +“Willingly, if the general or chief were here,” replied he; “but that’s +not so. General Moreau is at Strasbourg. It is General Regnier is in +command of the army; and unless specially applied to, I could not venture +upon the liberty of obtruding my opinion upon him.” + +“Is he so severe, sir?” asked I, timidly. + +“The general is a good disciplinarian,” said he, cautiously, while he +motioned with his hand toward the door, and accepting the hint, I retired. + +It was evening when I re-entered Kehl, under an escort of two of my own +regiment, and was conducted to the “Salle de Police.” At the door stood my +old corporal, whose malicious grin as I alighted revealed the whole story +of my arrest; and I now knew the charge that would be preferred against +me—a heavier there could not be made—was, “disobedience in the field.” I +slept very little that night, and when I did close my eyes, it was to +awake with a sudden start, and believe myself in presence of the +court-martial, or listening to my sentence, as read out by the president. +Toward day, however, I sunk into a heavy, deep slumber, from which I was +aroused by the reveillée of the barracks. + +I had barely time to dress when I was summoned before the “Tribunale +Militaire”—a sort of permanent court-martial, whose sittings were held in +one of the churches of the town. Not even all the terror of my own +precarious position could overcome the effect of old prejudices in my +mind, as I saw myself led up the dim aisle of the church toward the altar +rails, within which, around a large table, were seated a number of +officers, whose manner and bearing evinced but little reverence for the +sacred character of the spot. + +Stationed in a group of poor wretches whose wan looks and anxious glances +told that they were prisoners like myself, I had time to see what was +going forward around me. The president, who alone wore his hat, read from +a sort of list before him the name of a prisoner and that of the witnesses +in the cause. In an instant they were all drawn up and sworn. A few +questions followed, rapidly put, and almost as rapidly replied to. The +prisoner was called on then for his defense: if this occupied many +minutes, he was sure to be interrupted by an order to be brief. Then came +the command to “stand by;” and after a few seconds consultation together, +in which many times a burst of laughter might be heard, the court agreed +upon the sentence, recorded and signed it, and then proceeded with the +next case. + +If nothing in the procedure imposed reverence or respect, there was that +in the dispatch which suggested terror, for it was plain to see that the +court thought more of the cost of their own precious minutes than of the +years of those on whose fate they were deciding. I was sufficiently near +to hear the charges of those who were arraigned, and, for the greater +number, they were all alike. Pillage, in one form or another, was the +universal offending; and from the burning of a peasant’s cottage, to the +theft of his dog or his “poulet,” all came under this head. At last came +number 82—“Maurice Tiernay, hussar of the Ninth.” I stepped forward to the +rails. + +“Maurice Tiernay,” read the president, hurriedly, “accused by Louis +Gaussin, corporal of the same regiment, ‘of willfully deserting his post +while on duty in the field, and in the face of direct orders to the +contrary; inducing others to a similar breach of discipline.’ Make the +change, Gaussin.” + +The corporal stepped forward, and began, + +“We were stationed in detachment on the bank of the Rhine, on the evening +of the 23d—” + +“The court has too many duties to lose its time for nothing,” interrupted +I. “It is all true. I did desert my post; I did disobey orders; and, +seeing a weak point in the enemy’s line, attacked and carried it with +success. The charge is, therefore, admitted by me, and it only remains for +the court to decide how far a soldier’s zeal for his country may be +deserving of punishment. Whatever the result, one thing is perfectly +clear, Corporal Gaussin will never be indicted for a similar misdemeanor.” + +A murmur of voices and suppressed laughter followed this impertinent and +not over discreet sally of mine; and the president calling out, “Proven by +acknowledgment,” told me to “stand by.” I now fell back to my former +place, to be interrogated by my comrades on the result of my examination, +and hear their exclamations of surprise and terror at the rashness of my +conduct. A little reflection over the circumstances would probably have +brought me over to their opinion, and shown me that I had gratuitously +thrown away an opportunity of self-defense; but my temper could not brook +the indignity of listening to the tiresome accusation and the stupid +malevolence of the corporal, whose hatred was excited by the influence I +wielded over my comrades. + +It was long past noon ere the proceedings terminated, for the list was a +full one, and at length the court rose, apparently not sorry to exchange +their tiresome duties for the pleasant offices of the dinner-table. No +sentences had been pronounced, but one very striking incident seemed to +shadow forth a gloomy future. Three, of whom I was one, were marched off, +doubly guarded, before the rest, and confined in separate cells of the +“Salle,” where every precaution against escape too plainly showed the +importance attached to our safe keeping. + +At about eight o’clock, as I was sitting on my bed—if that inclined plane +of wood, worn by the form of many a former prisoner, could deserve the +name—a sergeant entered with the prison allowance of bread and water. He +placed it beside me without speaking, and stood for a few seconds gazing +at me. + +“What age art thou, lad?” said he, in a voice of compassionate interest. + +“Something over fifteen, I believe,” replied I. + +“Hast father and mother?” + +“Both are dead!” + +“Uncles or aunts living?” + +“Neither.” + +“Hast any friends who could help thee?” + +“That might depend upon what the occasion for help should prove, for I +have one friend in the world.” + +“Who is he?” + +“Colonel Mahon, of the Curaissiers.” + +“I never heard of him—is he here?” + +“No; I left him at Nancy; but I could write to him.” + +“It would be too late, much too late.” + +“How do you mean—too late?” asked I, tremblingly. + +“Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening,” replied he, in a low, +hesitating voice. + +“What? the—the—” I could not say the word, but merely imitated the motion +of presenting and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence. + +“What hour is it to take place?” asked I. + +“After evening parade. The sentence must be signed by General Berthier, +and he will not be here before that time.” + +“It would be too late, then, sergeant,” said I, musing, “far too late. +Still I should like to write the letter; I would like to thank him for his +kindness in the past, and show him, too, that I have not been either +unworthy or ungrateful. Could you let me have paper and pen, sergeant?” + +“I can venture so far, lad; but I can not let thee have a light; it is +against orders; and during the day thou’lt be too strictly watched.” + +“No matter let me have the paper and I’ll try to scratch a few lines in +the dark; and thou’lt post it for me, sergeant? I ask thee as a last favor +to do this.” + +“I promise it,” said he, laying his hand on my shoulder. After standing +for a few minutes thus in silence, he started suddenly and left the cell. + +I now tried to eat my supper; but although resolved on behaving with a +stout and unflinching courage throughout the whole sad event, I could not +swallow a mouthful. A sense of choking stopped me at every attempt, and +even the water I could only get down by gulps. The efforts I made to bear +up seemed to have caused a species of hysterical excitement that actually +rose to the height of intoxication, for I talked away loudly to myself, +laughed, and sung. I even jested and mocked myself on this sudden +termination of a career that I used to anticipate as stored with future +fame and rewards. At intervals, I have no doubt that my mind wandered far +beyond the control of reason, but as constantly came back again to a full +consciousness of my melancholy position, and the fate that awaited me. The +noise of the key in the door silenced my ravings, and I sat still and +motionless as the sergeant entered with the pen, ink, and paper, which he +laid down upon the bed, and then as silently withdrew. + +A long interval of stupor, a state of dreary half consciousness, now came +over me, from which I aroused myself with great difficulty to write the +few lines I destined for Colonel Mahon. I remember even now, long as has +been the space of years since that event, full as it has been of stirring +and strange incidents, I remember perfectly the thought which flashed +across me as I sat, pen in hand, before the paper. It was the notion of a +certain resemblance between our actions in this world with the characters +I was about to inscribe upon that paper. Written in darkness and in doubt, +thought I, how shall they appear when brought to the light! Perhaps those +I have deemed the best and fairest shall seem but to be the weakest or the +worst! What need of kindness to forgive the errors, and of patience to +endure the ignorance! At last I began: “Mon Colonel—Forgive, I pray you, +the errors of these lines, penned in the darkness of my cell, and the +night before my death. They are written to thank you ere I go hence, and +to tell you that the poor heart whose beating will soon be still throbbed +gratefully toward you to the last! I have been sentenced to death for a +breach of discipline of which I was guilty. Had I failed in the +achievement of my enterprise by the bullet of an enemy, they would have +named me with honor; but I have had the misfortune of success, and +tomorrow am I to pay its penalty. I have the satisfaction, however, of +knowing that my share in that great day can neither be denied nor evaded; +it is already on record, and the time may yet come when my memory will be +vindicated. I know not if these lines be legible, nor if I have crossed or +recrossed them. If they are blotted they are not my tears have done it, +for I have a firm heart and a good courage; and when the moment comes—”; +here my hand trembled so much, and my brain grew so dizzy, that I lost the +thread of my meaning, and merely jotted down at random a few words, vague, +unconnected, and unintelligible, after which, and by an effort that cost +all my strength, I wrote “MAURICE TIERNEY, late Hussar of the 9th +Regiment.” + +A hearty burst of tears followed the conclusion of this letter; all the +pent-up emotion with which my heart was charged broke out at last, and I +cried bitterly. Intense passions are, happily, never of long duration, and +better still, they are always the precursors of calm. Thus, tranquil, the +dawn of morn broke upon me, when the sergeant came to take my letter, and +apprize me that the adjutant would appear in a few moments to read my +sentence, and inform me when it was to be executed. + +“Thou’lt bear up well, lad; I know thou wilt,” said the poor fellow, with +tears in his eyes. “Thou hast no mother, and thou’lt not have to grieve +for _her_.” + +“Don’t be afraid, sergeant; I’ll not disgrace the old 9th. Tell my +comrades I said so.” + +“I will. I will tell them all! Is this thy jacket, lad?” + +“Yes; what do you want it for?” + +“I must take it away with me. Thou art not to wear it more!” + +“Not wear it, nor die in it; and why not?” + +“That is the sentence, lad; I can not help it. It’s very hard, very cruel; +but so it is.” + +“Then I am to die dishonored, sergeant; is that the sentence?” + +He dropped his head, and I could see that he moved his sleeve across his +eyes; and then, taking up my jacket, he came toward me. + +“Remember, lad, a stout heart; no flinching. Adieu—God bless thee.” He +kissed me on either cheek, and went out. + +He had not been gone many minutes, when the tramp of marching outside +apprized me of the coming of the adjutant, and the door of my cell being +thrown open, I was ordered to walk forth into the court of the prison. Two +squadrons of my own regiment, all who were not on duty, were drawn up, +dismounted, and without arms; beside them stood a company of grenadiers, +and a half battalion of the line, the corps to which the other two +prisoners belonged, and who now came forward, in shirt-sleeves like +myself, into the middle of the court. + +One of my fellow-sufferers was a very old soldier, whose hair and beard +were white as snow; the other was a middle-aged man, of a dark and +forbidding aspect, who scowled at me angrily as I came up to his side, and +seemed as if he scorned the companionship. I returned a glance, haughty +and as full of defiance as his own, and never noticed him after. + +The drum beat a roll, and the word was given for silence in the ranks—an +order so strictly obeyed, that even the clash of a weapon was unheard, and +stepping in front of the line, the Auditeur Militaire read out the +sentences. As for me, I heard but the words “Peine afflictive et +infamante;” all the rest became confusion, shame, and terror co-mingled; +nor did I know that the ceremonial was over, when the troops began to +defile, and we were marched back again to our prison quarters. + + + + +Chapter XIV. A Surprise And An Escape. + + +It is a very common subject of remark in newspapers, and as invariably +repeated with astonishment by the readers, how well and soundly such a +criminal slept on the night before his execution. It reads like a +wonderful evidence of composure, or some not less surprising proof of +apathy or indifference. I really believe it has as little relation to one +feeling as to the other, and is simply the natural consequence of +faculties over-strained, and a brain surcharged with blood; sleep being +induced by causes purely physical in their nature. For myself, I can say +that I was by no means indifferent to life, nor had I any contempt for the +form of death that awaited me. As localities, which have failed to inspire +a strong attachment, become endowed with a certain degree of interest when +we are about to part from them forever, I never held life so desirable as +now that I was going to leave it; and yet, with all this, I fell into a +sleep so heavy and profound, that I never awoke till late in the evening. +Twice was I shaken by the shoulder ere I could throw off the heavy weight +of slumber; and even when I looked up, and saw the armed figures around +me, I could have laid down once more, and composed myself to another +sleep. + +The first thing which thoroughly aroused me, and at once brightened up my +slumbering senses, was missing my jacket, for which I searched every +corner of my cell, forgetting that it had been taken away, as the nature +of my sentence was declared “infamante.” The next shock was still greater, +when two sapeurs came forward to tie my wrists together behind my back; I +neither spoke nor resisted, but in silent submission complied with each +order given me. + +All preliminaries being completed, I was led forward, preceded by a +pioneer, and guarded on either side by two sapeurs of “the guard;” a +muffled drum, ten paces in advance, keeping up a low monotonous rumble as +we went. + +Our way led along the ramparts, beside which ran a row of little gardens, +in which the children of the officers were at play. They ceased their +childish gambols as we drew near, and came closer up to watch us. I could +mark the terror and pity in their little faces as they gazed at me; I +could see the traits of compassion with which they pointed me out to each +other, and my heart swelled with gratitude for even so slight a sympathy. +It was with difficulty I could restrain the emotion of that moment, but +with a great effort I did subdue it, and marched on, to all seeming, +unmoved. A little further on, as we turned the angle of the wall, I looked +back to catch one last look at them. Would that I had never done so! They +had quitted the railings, and were now standing in a group, in the act of +performing a mimic execution. One, without his jacket, was kneeling on the +grass. But I could not bear the sight, and in scornful anger I closed my +eyes, and saw no more. + +A low whispering conversation was kept up by the soldiers around me. They +were grumbling at the long distance they had to march, as the “affair” +might just as well have taken place on the glacis as two miles away. How +different were _my_ feelings—how dear to me was now every minute, every +second of existence; how my heart leaped at each turn of the way, as I +still saw a space to traverse, and some little interval longer to live. + +“And, mayhap, after all,” muttered one dark-faced fellow, “we shall have +come all this way for nothing. There can be no ‘fusillade’ without the +general’s signature, so I heard the adjutant say; and who’s to promise +that he’ll be at his quarters?” + +“Very true,” said another; “he may be absent, or at table.” + +“At table!” cried two or three together; “and what if he were?” + +“If he be,” rejoined the former speaker, “we may go back again for our +pains! I ought to know him well; I was his orderly for eight months, when +I served in the ‘Legers,’ and can tell you, my lads, I wouldn’t be the +officer who would bring him a report, or a return to sign, once he had +opened out his napkin on his knee; and it’s not very far from his +dinner-hour now.” + +What a sudden thrill of hope ran through me! Perhaps I should be spared +for another day. + +“No, no, we’re all in time,” exclaimed the sergeant; “I can see the +general’s tent from this; and there he stands, with all his staff around +him.” + +“Yes; and there go the other escorts—they will be up before us if we don’t +make haste; quick-time, lads. Come along, mon cher,” said he, addressing +me; “thou’rt not tired, I hope.” + +“Not tired!” replied I; “but remember, sergeant, what a long journey I +have before me.” + +“_Pardieu!_ I don’t believe all that rhodomontade about another world,” +said he gruffly; “the republic settled that question.” + +I made no reply. For such words, at such a moment, were the most terrible +of tortures to me. And now we moved on at a brisker pace, and crossing a +little wooden bridge, entered a kind of esplanade of closely-shaven turf, +at one corner of which stood the capacious tent of the commander-in-chief, +for such, in Moreau’s absence, was General Berthier. Numbers of +staff-officers were riding about on duty, and a large traveling-carriage, +from which the horses seemed recently detached, stood before the tent. + +We halted as we crossed the bridge, while the adjutant advanced to obtain +the signature to the sentence. My eyes followed him till they swam with +rising tears, and I could not wipe them away, as my hands were fettered. +How rapidly did my thoughts travel during those few moments. The good old +Père Michel came back to me in memory, and I tried to think of the +consolation his presence would have afforded me; but I could do no more +than think of them. + +“Which is the prisoner Tiernay?” cried a young aid-de-camp, cantering up +to where I was standing. + +“Here, sir,” replied the sergeant, pushing me forward. + +“So,” rejoined the officer, angrily, “this fellow has been writing +letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and +arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your epistolary tastes are like to +cost you dearly, my lad; it had been better for you if writing had been +omitted in your education. Reconduct the others, sergeant, they are +respited; this fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.” + +The other two prisoners gave a short and simultaneous cry of joy as they +fell back, and I stood alone in front of the escort. + +“Parbleu! he has forgotten the signature,” said the adjutant, casting his +eye over the paper: “he was chattering and laughing all the time, with the +pen in his hand, and I suppose fancied that he had signed it.” + +“Nathalie was there, perhaps,” said the aid-de-camp, significantly. + +“She was, and I never saw her looking better. It’s something like eight +years since I saw her last; and I vow she seems not only handsomer, but +fresher and more youthful to-day than then.” + +“Where is she going; have you heard?” + +“Who can tell? Her passport is like a firman; she may travel where she +pleases. The rumor of the day says Italy.” + +“I thought she looked provoked at Moreau’s absence; it seemed like want of +attention on his part, a lack of courtesy she’s not used to.” + +“Very true; and her reception of Berthier was any thing but gracious, +although he certainly displayed all his civilities in her behalf.” + +“Strange days we live in!” sighed the other, “when a man’s promotion hangs +upon the favorable word of a—” + +“Hush! take care! be cautious!” whispered the other. “Let us not forget +this poor fellow’s business. How are you to settle it? Is the signature of +any consequence? The whole sentence all is right and regular.” + +“I shouldn’t like to omit the signature,” said the other, cautiously; “it +looks like carelessness, and might involve us in trouble hereafter.” + +“Then we must wait some time, for I see they are gone to dinner.” + +“So I perceive,” replied the former, as he lighted his cigar, and seated +himself on a bank. “You may let the prisoner sit down, sergeant, and leave +his hands free; he looks wearied and exhausted.” + +I was too weak to speak, but I looked my gratitude; and sitting down upon +the grass, covered my face, and wept heartily. + +Although quite close to where the officers sat together chatting and +jesting, I heard little or nothing of what they said. Already the things +of life had ceased to have any hold upon me; and I could have heard of the +greatest victory, or listened to a story of the most fatal defeat, without +the slightest interest or emotion. An occasional word or a name would +strike upon my ear, but leave no impression nor any memory behind it. + +The military band was performing various marches and opera airs before the +tent where the general dined, and in the melody, softened by distance, I +felt a kind of calm and sleepy repose that lulled me into a species of +ecstasy. + +At last the music ceased to play, and the adjutant, starting hurriedly up, +called on the sergeant to move forward. + +“By Jove!” cried he, “they seem preparing for a promenade, and we shall +get into a scrape if Berthier sees us here. Keep your party yonder, +sergeant, out of sight, till I obtain the signature.” + +And so saying, away he went toward the tent at a sharp gallop. + +A few seconds, and I watched him crossing the esplanade; he dismounted and +disappeared. A terrible choking sensation was over me, and I scarcely was +conscious that they were again tying my hands. The adjutant came out +again, and made a sign with his sword. + +“We are to move on!” said the sergeant, half in doubt. + +“Not at all,” broke in the aid-de-camp; “he is making a sign for you to +bring up the prisoner! There, he is repeating the signal; lead him +forward.” + +I knew very little of how—less still of why—but we moved on in the +direction of the tent, and in a few minutes stood before it. The sounds of +revelry and laughter, the crash of voices, and the clink of glasses, +together with the hoarse bray of the brass band, which again struck up, +all were co-mingled in my brain, as, taking me by the arm, I was led +forward within the tent, and found myself at the foot of a table covered +with all the gorgeousness of silver plate, and glowing with bouquets of +flowers and fruits. In the one hasty glance I gave, before my lids fell +over my swimming eyes, I could see the splendid uniforms of the guests as +they sat around the board, and the magnificent costume of a lady in the +place of honor next the head. + +Several of those who sat at the lower end of the table drew back their +seats as I came forward, and seemed as if desirous to give the general a +better view of me. + +Overwhelmed by the misery of my fate, as I stood awaiting my death, I felt +as though a mere word, a look, would have crushed me but one moment back; +but now, as I stood there, before that group of gazers, whose eyes scanned +me with looks of insolent disdain, or still more insulting curiosity, a +sense of proud defiance seized me, to confront and dare them with glances +haughty and scornful as their own. It seemed to me so base and unworthy a +part to summon a poor wretch before them, as if to whet their new appetite +for enjoyment by the aspect of his misery, that an indignant anger took +possession of me, and I drew myself up to my full height, and stared at +them calm and steadily. + +“So, then!” cried a deep soldier-like voice from the far-end of the table, +which I at once recognized as the general-in-chief’s; “so, then, +gentlemen, we have now the honor of seeing among us the hero of the Rhine! +This is the distinguished individual by whose prowess the passage of the +river was effected, and the Swabian infantry cut off in their retreat! Is +it not true, sir?” said he, addressing me with a savage scowl. + +“I have had my share in the achievement!” said I, with a cool air of +defiance. + +“Parbleu! you are modest, sir. So had every drummer-boy that beat his +tattoo! But yours was the part of a great leader, if I err not?” + +I made no answer, but stood firm and unmoved. + +“How do you call the island which you have immortalized by your valor?” + +“The Fels Insel, sir.” + +“Gentlemen, let us drink to the hero of the Fels Insel,” said he, holding +up his glass for the servant to fill it. “A bumper—a full, a flowing +bumper! And let him also pledge a toast, in which his interest must be so +brief. Give him a glass, Contard.” + +“His hands are tied, mon general.” + +“Then free them at once.” + +The order was obeyed in a second; and I, summoning up all my courage to +seem as easy and indifferent as they were, lifted the glass to my lips, +and drained it off. + +“Another glass, now, to the health of this fair lady, through whose +intercession we owe the pleasure of your company,” said the general. + +“Willingly,” said I; “and may one so beautiful seldom find herself in a +society so unworthy of her!” + +A perfect roar of laughter succeeded the insolence of this speech; amid +which I was half pushed, half dragged, up to the end of the table, where +the general sat. + +“How so, Coquin, do you dare to insult a French general, at the head of +his own staff!” + +“If I did, sir, it were quite as brave as to mock a poor criminal on the +way to his execution!” + +“That is the boy! I know him now! the very same lad!” cried the lady, as, +stooping behind Berthier’s chair, she stretched out her hand toward me. +“Come here; are you not Colonel Mahon’s godson?” + +I looked her full in the face; and whether her own thoughts gave the +impulse, or that something in my stare suggested it, she blushed till her +cheek grew crimson. + +“Poor Charles was so fond of him!” whispered she in Berthier’s ear; and, +as she spoke, the expression of her face at once recalled where I had seen +her, and I now perceived that she was the same person I had seen at table +with Colonel Mahon, and whom I believed to be his wife. + +A low whispering conversation now ensued between the general and her, at +the close of which, he turned to me and said, + +“Madame Merlancourt has deigned to take an interest in you—you are +pardoned. Remember, sir, to whom you owe your life, and be grateful to her +for it.” + +I took the hand she extended toward me, and pressed it to my lips. + +“Madame,” said I, “there is but one favor more I would ask in this world, +and with it I could think myself happy.” + +“But can I grant it, mon cher,” said she, smiling. + +“If I am to judge from the influence I have seen you wield, madame, here +and elsewhere, this petition will easily be accorded.” + +A slight flush colored the lady’s cheek, while that of the general became +dyed red with anger. I saw that I had committed some terrible blunder, but +how, or in what, I knew not. + +“Well, sir,” said Madame Merlancourt, addressing me with a stately +coldness of manner very different from her former tone, “Let us hear what +you ask, for we are already taking up a vast deal of time that our host +would prefer devoting to his friends, what is it you wish?” + +“My discharge from a service, madame, where zeal and enthusiasm are +rewarded with infamy and disgrace; my freedom to be any thing but a French +soldier.” + +“You are resolved, sir, that I am not to be proud of my protégé,” said +she, haughtily; “what words are these to speak in presence of a general +and his officers?” + +“I am bold, madame, as you say, but I am wronged.” + +“How so, sir—in what have you been injured?” cried the general, hastily, +“except in the excessive condescension which has stimulated your +presumption. But we are really too indulgent in this long parley. Madame, +permit me to offer you some coffee under the trees. Contardo, tell the +band to follow us. Gentlemen, we expect the pleasure of your society.” + +And so saying, Berthier presented his arm to the lady, who swept proudly +past without deigning to notice me. In a few minutes the tent was cleared +of all, except the servants occupied in removing the remains of the +dessert, and I fell back unremarked and unobserved, to take my way +homeward to the barracks, more indifferent to life than ever I had been +afraid of death. + +As I am not likely to recur at any length to the somewhat famous person to +whom I owed my life, I may as well state that her name has since occupied +no inconsiderable share of attention in France, and her history, under the +title of “Mémoires d’une Contemporaine,” excited a degree of interest and +anxiety in quarters which one might have fancied far above the reach of +her revelations. At the time I speak of, I little knew the character of +the age in which such influences were all powerful, nor how destinies very +different from mine hung upon the favoritism of “La belle Nathalie.” Had I +known these things, and still more, had I known the sad fate to which she +brought my poor friend, Colonel Mahon, I might have scrupled to accept my +life at such hands, or involved myself in a debt of gratitude to one for +whom I was subsequently to feel nothing but hatred and aversion. It was +indeed a terrible period, and in nothing more so than the fact, that acts +of benevolence and charity were blended up with features of falsehood, +treachery, and baseness, which made one despair of humanity, and think the +very worst of their species. + + + + +Chapter XV. Scraps Of History. + + +Nothing displays more powerfully the force of egotism than the simple +truth that, when any man sets himself down to write the events of his +life, the really momentous occurrences in which he may have borne a part +occupy a conspicuously small place, when each petty incident of a merely +personal nature, is dilated and extended beyond all bounds. In one sense, +the reader benefits by this, since there are few impertinences less +forgivable than the obtrusion of some insignificant name into the +narrative of facts that are meet for history. I have made these remarks in +a spirit of apology to my reader; not alone for the accuracy of my late +detail, but also, if I should seem in future to dwell but passingly on the +truly important facts of a great campaign, in which my own part was so +humble. + +I was a soldier in that glorious army which Moreau led into the heart of +Germany, and whose victorious career would only have ceased when they +entered the capital of the Empire, had it not been for the unhappy +mistakes of Jourdan, who commanded the auxiliary forces in the north. For +nigh three months we advanced steadily and successfully, superior in every +engagement; we only waited for the moment of junction with Jourdan’s army, +to declare the empire our own; when at last came the terrible tidings that +he had been beaten, and that Latour was advancing from Ulm to turn our +left flank, and cut off our communications with France. + +Two hundred miles from our own frontiers—separated from the Rhine by that +terrible Black Forest whose defiles are mere gorges between vast +mountains—with an army fifty thousand strong on one flank, and the +Archduke Charles commanding a force of nigh thirty thousand on the +other—such were the dreadful combinations which now threatened us with a +defeat not less signal than Jourdan’s own. Our strength, however, lay in a +superb army of seventy thousand unbeaten men, led on by one whose name +alone was victory. + +On the 24th of September, the order for retreat was given; the army began +to retire by slow marches, prepared to contest every inch of ground, and +make every available spot a battle-field. The baggage and ammunition were +sent on in front, and two days’ march in advance. Behind, a formidable +rear-guard was ready to repulse every attack of the enemy. Before, +however, entering those close defiles by which his retreat lay, Moreau +determined to give one terrible lesson to his enemy. Like the hunted tiger +turning upon his pursuers, he suddenly halted at Biberach, and ere Latour, +who commanded the Austrians, was aware of his purpose, assailed the +imperial forces with an attack on right, centre, and left together. Four +thousand prisoners and eighteen pieces of cannon were trophies of the +victory. + +The day after this decisive battle our march was resumed, and the +advanced-guard entered that narrow and dismal defile which goes by the +name of the “Valley of Hell,” when our left and right flanks, stationed at +the entrance of the pass, effectually secured the retreat against +molestation. The voltigeurs of St. Cyr crowning the heights as we went, +swept away the light troops which were scattered along the rocky +eminences, and in less than a fortnight our army debouched by Fribourg and +Oppenheim into the valley of the Rhine, not a gun having been lost, not a +caisson deserted, during that perilous movement. + +The Archduke, however, having ascertained the direction of Moreau’s +retreat, advanced by a parallel pass through the Kinzigthal, and attacked +St. Cyr at Nauendorf, and defeated him. Our right flank, severely handled +at Emmendingen, the whole force was obliged to retreat on Huningen, and +once more we found ourselves upon the banks of the Rhine, no longer an +advancing army, high in hope, and flushed with victory, but beaten, +harassed, and retreating! + +The last few days of that retreat presented a scene of disaster such as I +can never forget. To avoid the furious charges of the Austrian cavalry, +against which our own could no longer make resistance, we had fallen back +upon a line of country cut up into rocky cliffs and precipices, and +covered by a dense pine forest. Here, necessarily broken up into small +parties, we were assailed by the light troops of the enemy, led on through +the various passes by the peasantry, whose animosity our own severity had +excited. It was, therefore, a continual hand-to-hand struggle, in which, +opposed as we were to over numbers, well acquainted with every advantage +of the ground, our loss was terrific. It is said that nigh seven thousand +men fell—an immense number, when no general action had occurred. Whatever +the actual loss, such were the circumstances of our army, that Moreau +hastened to propose an armistice, on the condition of the Rhine being the +boundary between the two armies, while Kehl was still to be held by the +French. + +The proposal was rejected by the Austrians, who at once commenced +preparations for a siege of the fortress with forty thousand troops, under +Latour’s command. The earlier months of winter now passed in the labors of +the siege, and on the morning of New Year’s Day the first attack was made; +the second line was carried a few days after, and, after a glorious +defense by Desaix, the garrison capitulated, and evacuated the fortress on +the 9th of the month. Thus, in the space of six short months, had we +advanced with a conquering army into the very heart of the Empire, and now +we were back again within our own frontier; not one single trophy of all +our victories remaining, two-thirds of our army dead or wounded, more than +all, the prestige of our superiority fatally injured, and that of the +enemy’s valor and prowess as signally elevated. + +The short annals of a successful soldier are often comprised in the few +words which state how he was made lieutenant at such a date, promoted to +his company here, obtained his majority there, succeeded to the command of +his regiment at such a place, and so on. Now my exploits may even be more +briefly written as regards this campaign, for whether at Kehl at +Nauendorf, on the Etz, or at Huningen, I ended as I begun—a simple soldier +of the ranks. A few slight wounds, a few still more insignificant words of +praise, were all that I brought back with me; but if my trophies were +small, I had gained considerably both in habits of discipline and +obedience. I had learned to endure, ably and without complaining, the +inevitable hardships of a campaign, and better still, to see, that the +irrepressible impulses of the soldier, however prompted by zeal or +heroism, may oftener mar than promote the more mature plans of his +general. Scarcely had my feet once more touched French ground, than I was +seized with the ague, then raging as an epidemic among the troops, and +sent forward with a large detachment of sick to the Military Hospital of +Strasbourg. + +Here I bethought me of my patron, Colonel Mahon, and determined to write +to him. For this purpose I addressed a question to the Adjutant-general’s +office to ascertain the colonel’s address. The reply was a brief and +stunning one—he had been dismissed the service. No personal calamity could +have thrown me into deeper affliction; nor had I even the sad consolation +of learning any of the circumstances of this misfortune. His death, even +though thereby I should have lost my only friend, would have been a +lighter evil than this disgrace; and coming as did the tidings when I was +already broken by sickness and defeat, more than ever disgusted me with a +soldier’s life. It was then with a feeling of total indifference that I +heard a rumor which at another moment would have filled me with +enthusiasm—the order for all invalids sufficiently well to be removed, to +be drafted into regiments serving in Italy. The fame of Bonaparte, who +commanded that army, had now surpassed that of all the other generals; his +victories paled the glory of their successes, and it was already a mark of +distinction to have served under his command. + +The walls of the hospital were scrawled over with the names of his +victories; rude sketches of Alpine passes, terrible ravines, or snow-clad +peaks met the eye every where; and the one magical name, “Bonaparte,” +written beneath, seemed the key to all their meaning. With him war seemed +to assume all the charms of romance. Each action was illustrated by feats +of valor or heroism, and a halo of glory seemed to shine over all the +achievements of his genius. + +It was a clear, bright morning of March, when a light frost sharpened the +air, and a fair, blue sky overhead showed a cloudless elastic atmosphere, +that the “Invalides,” as we were all called, were drawn up in the great +square of the hospital for inspection. Two superior officers of the staff, +attended by several surgeons and an adjutant, sat at a table in front of +us, on which lay the regimental books and conduct-rolls of the different +corps. Such of the sick as had received severe wounds, incapacitating them +for further service, were presented with some slight reward—a few francs +in money, a greatcoat, or a pair of shoes, and obtained their freedom. +Others, whose injuries were less important, received their promotion, or +some slight increase of pay, these favors being all measured by the +character the individual bore in his regiment, and the opinion certified +of him by his commanding officer. When my turn came and I stood forward, I +felt a kind of shame to think how little claim I could prefer either to +honor or advancement. + +“Maurice Tiernay, slightly wounded by a sabre at Nauendorf—flesh-wound at +Biberach—enterprising and active, but presumptuous and overbearing with +his comrades,” read out the adjutant, while he added a few words I could +not hear, but at which the superior laughed heartily. + +“What says the doctor?” asked he, after a pause. + +“This has been a bad case of ague, and I doubt if the young fellow will +ever be fit for active service—certainly not at present.” + +“Is there a vacancy at Saumur?” asked the general. “I see he has been +employed in the school at Nancy.” + +“Yes, sir; for the third class there is one.” + +“Let him have it, then. Tiernay, you are appointed as aspirant of the +third class at the College of Saumur. Take care that the report of your +conduct be more creditable than what is written here. Your opportunities +will now be considerable, and if well employed, may lead to further honor +and distinction; if neglected or abused, your chances are forfeited +forever.” + +I bowed and retired, as little satisfied with the admonition as elated +with the prospect which converted me from a soldier into a scholar, and, +in the first verge of manhood, threw me back once more into the condition +of a mere boy. + +Eighteen months of my life—not the least happy, perhaps, since in the +peaceful portion I can trace so little to be sorry for—glided over beside +the banks of the beautiful Loire, the intervals in the hours of study +being spent either in the riding-school, or the river, where, in addition +to swimming and diving, we were instructed in pontooning and rafting, the +modes of transporting ammunition and artillery, and the attacks of +infantry by cavalry pickets. + +I also learned to speak and write English and German with great ease and +fluency, besides acquiring some skill in military drawing and engineering. + +It is true that the imprisonment chafed sorely against us, as we read of +the great achievements of our armies in various parts of the world; of the +great battles of Cairo and the Pyramids, of Acre and Mount Thabor; and of +which a holiday and a fête were to be our only share. + +The terrible storms which shook Europe from end to end, only reached us in +the bulletins of new victories; and we panted for the time when we, too, +should be actors in the glorious exploits of France. + +It is already known to the reader that of the country from which my family +came I myself knew nothing. The very little I had ever learned of it from +my father was also a mere tradition; still was I known among my comrades +only as “the Irishman,” and by that name was I recognized, even in the +record of the school, where I was inscribed thus: “Maurice Tiernay, dit +l’Irlandais.” It was on this very simple and seemingly-unimportant fact my +whole fate in life was to turn; and in this wise—But the explanation +deserves a chapter of its own, and shall have it. + +_(To be continued.)_ + + + + + +THE ENCHANTED ROCK. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.) + + +About four miles west-northwest of Cape Clear Island and lighthouse, on +the south-west coast of Ireland, a singularly-shaped rock, called the +Fastnett, rises abruptly and perpendicularly a height of ninety feet above +the sea level in the Atlantic Ocean. It is about nine miles from the +mainland, and the country-people say it is _nine miles_ from _every part_ +of the coast. + +The Fastnett for ages has been in the undisturbed possession of the +cormorant, sea-gull, and various other tribes of sea-fowl, and was also a +noted place for large conger eels, bream, and pollock; but from a +superstitious dread of the place, the fishermen seldom fished near it. +During foggy weather, and when the rock is partially enveloped in mist, it +has very much the appearance of a large vessel under sail—hence no doubt +the origin of all the wonderful tales and traditions respecting the +Fastnett being enchanted, and its celebrated feats. The old people all +along the sea-coast are under the impression that the Fastnett hoists +sails before sunrise on the 1st of May in every year, and takes a cruise +toward the Dursey Islands, at the north entrance of Bantry Bay, a distance +of some forty miles; and that, after dancing several times round the rocks +known to mariners as the Bull, Cow, and Calf, it then shapes its homeward +course, drops anchor at the spot from whence it sailed, and remains +stationary during the remainder of the year. + +The Fastnett, however, it appears, is not the only enchanted spot in that +locality; for at the head of Schull Harbor, about nine miles north of the +rock, on the top of Mount Gabriel—about 1400 feet above the sea-level—is a +celebrated lake, which the people say is so deep, that the longest line +ever made would not reach its bottom. It is also stoutly asserted that a +gentleman once dropped his walking-stick into the lake, and that it was +afterward found by a fisherman near the Fastnett. On another occasion, a +female wishing to get some water from the lake to perform a miraculous +cure on one of her friends, accidentally let fall the jug into the water, +and after several months, the identical jug—it could not be mistaken, part +of the lip being broken off—was also picked up near the Fastnett. For such +reasons the people imagine that there is some mysterious connection +between the rock and the lake, and that they have a subterranean passage +or means of communication. Captain Wolfe, indeed, during his survey of the +coast in 1848, sounded the mysterious pool, and found the bottom with a +line _seven feet long_; but the people shake their heads at the idea, and +say it was all _freemasonry_ on the part of the captain, and ask how he +accounts for the affair of the stick and jug? It will be some time, I +presume, before this puzzling question can be solved to the satisfaction +of all parties; and the traditions of the stick and jug, and many other +extraordinary occurrences, are likely to be handed down to succeeding +generations. The lake, or bog-hole, must therefore be left alone in its +glory; but, alas! not so with the Fastnett. + +No more will it hoist sail for its Walpurgie trip, and cruise to the +Durseys, for it is now _firmly moored_; and in the hands of man the +wonderful Fastnett is reduced to a simple isolated rock in the Atlantic +Ocean. During the awful shipwrecks in the winters of 1846 and 1847, but +little assistance was derived from the Cape Clear light, which is too +elevated, and is often totally obscured by fog, and this drew attention to +the Fastnett Rock as a more eligible site for a pharos, being in the +immediate route of all outward and homeward-bound vessels: but the great +difficulty was to effect a landing, and make the necessary surveys; its +sides being almost perpendicular, and continually lashed by a heavy surge +or surf. After many attempts. Captain Wolfe did effect a landing; and +having made the necessary survey, and reported favorably as to its +advantages, it was determined by the Ballast Board to erect on it a +lighthouse forthwith. Operations were commenced in the summer of 1847, by +sinking or excavating a circular shaft about twelve feet deep in the solid +rock; holes were then drilled, in which were fixed strong iron shafts for +the framework of the house; and then the masons began to rear the edifice. +The workmen found it pleasant enough during the summer and autumn of 1847, +and lived in tents on the summit of the rock, and looked over the mainland +with the aid of a glass, like so many of their predecessors—the +cormorants. + +In the spring of 1848, however, when operations were resumed, after a +cessation of the works for the winter, the scene changed. It began to blow +very hard from the northwest; and the men secured their building, which +was now several feet above the rocks, as well as they could, and covered +it over with strong and heavy beams of timber, leaving a small aperture +for ingress and egress, and then awaited in silence the result. During the +night the wind increased, and the sea broke with such fury over the whole +rock, that the men imagined every succeeding wave to be commissioned to +sweep them into the abyss. It only extinguished their fire, however, and +carried off most of their provisions, together with sundry heavy pieces of +cast-iron, a large blacksmith’s anvil, and the crane with which the +building materials were lifted on the rock. The storm lasted upward of a +week, during which time no vessel or boat could approach; and the crew of +this island-ship remained drenched with water, and nearly perished with +cold in a dark hole, with nothing to relieve their hunger but water-soaked +biscuit. But the wind at length suddenly shifted, the sea moderated, and +they were enabled eventually to crawl out of their hole more dead than +alive. In a few days a boat approached as near as possible, and by the aid +of ropes fastened round their waists, they were drawn one by one from the +rock through the boiling surf. The men speedily recovered, and have since +raised the building some twenty feet above the ground: the extreme height +is to be sixty feet. This is the last adventure of the Enchanted Rock; but +we trust a brilliant history is before it, in which, instead of expending +its energies in idle cruises, it will act the part of the beneficent +preserver of life and property. + + + + + +THE FORCE OF FEAR. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.) + + +At the close of the winter of 1825-6, about dusk in the afternoon, just as +the wealthy dealers in the Palais Royal at Paris were about lighting their +lamps and putting up their shutters (the practice of the major part of +them at nightfall), a well-known money-changer sat behind his counter +alone, surrounded by massive heaps of silver and gold, the glittering and +sterling currency of all the kingdoms of Europe. He had well-nigh closed +his operations for the day, and was enjoying in anticipation the prospect +of a good dinner. Between the easy-chair upon which he reclined in perfect +satisfaction, and the door which opened into the north side of the immense +quadrangle of which the splendid edifice above-mentioned is composed, +arose a stout wire partition, reaching nearly to the ceiling, and resting +upon the counter, which traversed the whole length of the room. Thus he +was effectually cut off from all possibility of unfriendly contact from +any of his occasional visitors; while a small sliding-board that ran in +and out under the wire partition served as the medium of his peculiar +commerce. Upon this he received every coin, note, or draft presented for +change; and having first carefully examined it, returned its value by the +same conveyance, in the coin of France, or indeed of any country required. +Behind him was a door communicating with his domestic chambers, and in the +middle of the counter was another, the upper part of which formed a +portion of the wire partition above described. + +The denizen of this little chamber had already closed his outer shutters, +and was just on the point of locking up his doors, and retiring to his +repast, when two young men entered. They were evidently Italians, from +their costume and peculiar dialect. Had it been earlier in the day, when +there would have been sufficient light to have discerned their features +and expression, it is probable that our merchant would have defeated their +plans, for he was well skilled in detecting the tokens of fraud or design +in the human countenance. But they had chosen their time too +appropriately. One of them, advancing toward the counter, demanded change +in French coin for an English sovereign, which he laid upon the sliding +board, and passed through the wire partition. The moneychanger rose +immediately, and having ascertained that the coin was genuine, returned +its proper equivalent by the customary mode of transfer. The Italians +turned as if to leave the apartment, when he who had received the money +suddenly dropped the silver, as though accidentally, upon the floor. As it +was now nearly dark, it was scarcely to be expected that they could find +the whole of the pieces without the assistance of a light. This the +unconscious merchant hastened to supply; and unlocking, without suspicion, +the door of the partition between them, stooped with a candle over the +floor in search of the lost coin. In this position the unfortunate man was +immediately assailed with repeated stabs from a poniard, and he at length +fell, after a few feeble and ineffectual struggles, senseless, and +apparently lifeless, at the feet of his assassins. + +A considerable time elapsed ere, by the fortuitous entrance of a stranger, +he was discovered in this dreadful situation; when it was found that the +assassins, having first helped themselves to an almost incredible amount +of money, had fled, without any thing being left by which a clew might +have been obtained to their retreat. + +The unfortunate victim of their rapacity and cruelty was, however, not +dead. Strange as it may appear, although he had received upward of twenty +wounds, several of which plainly showed that the dagger had been driven to +the very hilt, he survived; and in a few months after the event, was again +to be seen in his long-accustomed place at the changer’s board. In vain +had the most diligent search been made by the military police of Paris for +the perpetrators of this detestable deed. The villains had eluded all +inquiry and investigation, and would in all probability have escaped +undiscovered with their booty but for a mutually-cherished distrust of +each other. Upon the first and complete success of their plan, the +question arose, how to dispose of their enormous plunder, amounting to +more than a hundred thousand pounds. Fearful of the researches of the +police, they dared not retain it at their lodgings. To trust a third party +with their secret was not to be thought of. At length, after long and +anxious deliberation, they agreed to conceal the money outside the +barriers of Paris until they should have concocted some safe plan for +transporting it to their own country. This they accordingly did, burying +the treasure under a tree about a mile from the Barrière d’Enfer. But they +were still as far as ever from a mutual understanding. When they +separated, on any pretense, each returned to the spot which contained the +stolen treasure, where of course he was sure to find the other. Suspicion +thus formed and fed soon grew into dislike and hatred, until at length, +each loathing the sight of the other, they agreed finally to divide the +booty, and then eternally to separate, each to the pursuit of his own +gratification. It then became necessary to carry the whole of the money +home to their lodgings in Paris, in order that it might, according to +their notions, be equitably divided. + +The reader must here be reminded that there exists in Paris a law relative +to wines and spirituous liquors which allows them to be retailed at a much +lower price without the barriers than that at which they are sold within +the walls of the city. This law has given rise, among the lower orders of +people, to frequent attempts at smuggling liquors in bladders concealed +about their persons, often in their hats. The penalty for the offense was +so high, that it was very rarely enforced, and practically it was very +seldom, indeed, that the actual loss incurred by the offending party was +any thing more than the paltry venture, which he was generally permitted +to abandon, making the best use of his heels to escape any further +punishment. The gensdarmes planted at the different barriers generally +made a prey of the potables which they captured, and were consequently +interested in keeping a good look-out for offenders. It was this vigilance +that led to the discovery of the robbers; for, not being able to devise +any better plan for the removal of the money than that of secreting it +about their persons, they attempted thus to carry out their object. But as +one of them, heavily encumbered with the golden spoils, was passing +through the Barrière d’Enfer, one of the soldier-police who was on duty as +sentinel, suspecting, from his appearance and hesitating gait, that he +carried smuggled liquors in his hat, suddenly stepped behind him and +struck it from his head with his halberd. What was his astonishment to +behold, instead of the expected bladder of wine or spirits, several small +bags of gold and rolls of English bank-notes! The confusion and +prevarication of the wretch, who made vain and frantic attempts to recover +the property, betrayed his guilt, and he was immediately taken into +custody, together with his companion, who, following at a very short +distance, was unhesitatingly pointed out by his cowardly and bewildered +confederate as the owner of the money. No time was lost in conveying +intelligence of their capture to their unfortunate victim, who immediately +identified the notes as his own property, and at the first view of the +assassins swore distinctly to the persons of both—to the elder, as having +repeatedly stabbed him; and to the younger, as his companion and +coadjutor. + +The criminals were in due course of time tried, fully convicted, and, as +was to be expected, sentenced to death by the guillotine; but, owing to +some technical informality in the proceedings, the doom of the law could +not be carried into execution until the sentence of the court had been +confirmed upon appeal. This delay afforded time and opportunity for some +meddling or interested individual—either moved by the desire of making a +cruel experiment, or else by the hope of obtaining a reversal of the +capital sentence against the prisoners—to work upon the feelings of the +unfortunate money-changer. A few days after the sentence of death had been +pronounced, the unhappy victim received a letter from an unknown hand, +mysteriously worded, and setting forth, in expressions that seemed to him +fearfully prophetic, that the thread of his own destiny was indissolubly +united with that of his condemned assassins. It was evidently out of their +power to take away _his_ life; and it was equally out of his power to +survive _them_, die by the sentence of the law, or how or when they might; +it became clear—so argued this intermeddler—that the same moment which saw +the termination of their lives, would inevitably be the last of his own. +To fortify his arguments, the letter-writer referred to certain mystic +symbols in the heavens. Now though the poor man could understand nothing +of the trumpery diagrams which were set forth as illustrating the truth of +the fatal warning thus conveyed to him, and though his friends universally +laughed at the trick as a barefaced attempt of some anonymous impostor to +rob justice of her due, it nevertheless made a deep impression upon his +mind. Ignorant of every thing but what related immediately to his own +money-getting profession, he had a blind and undefined awe of what he +termed the supernatural sciences, and he inwardly thanked the kind monitor +who had given him at least a chance of redeeming his days. + +He immediately set about making application to the judges, in order to get +the decree of death changed into a sentence to the galleys for life. He +was equally surprised and distressed to find that they treated his +petition with contempt, and ridiculed his fears. So far from granting his +request, after repeated solicitations, they commanded him in a peremptory +manner to appear no more before them. Driven almost to despair, he +resolved upon petitioning the king; and after much expense and toil, he at +length succeeded in obtaining an audience of Charles X. All was in vain. A +crime so enormous, committed with such cool deliberation, left no opening +for the plea of mercy: every effort he made only served to strengthen the +resolution of the authorities to execute judgment. Finding all his efforts +in vain, he appeared to resign himself despairingly to his fate. Deprived +of all relish even for gain, he took to his bed, and languished in +hopeless misery, and as the time for the execution of the criminals +approached, lapsed more and more into terror and dismay. + +It was on a sultry afternoon, in the beginning of June, 1826, that the +writer of this brief narrative—then a not too thoughtful lad, in search of +employment in Paris—hurried, together with a party of sight-seeing English +workmen, to the Place de Grève to witness the execution of the two +assassins of the money-changer. Under the rays of an almost insupportable +sun, an immense crowd had congregated around the guillotine; and it was +not without considerable exertion, and a bribe of some small amount, that +standing-places were at length obtained within a few paces of the deathful +instrument, upon the flat top of the low wall which divides the ample area +of the Place de Grève from the river Seine. + +Precisely at four o’clock the sombre cavalcade approached. Seated upon a +bench in a long cart, between two priests, sat the wretched victims of +retributive justice. The crucifix was incessantly exhibited to their view, +and presented to their lips to be kissed, by their ghostly attendants. +After a few minutes of silent and horrible preparation, the elder advanced +upon the platform of the guillotine. With livid aspect and quivering lips, +he gazed around in unutterable agony upon the sea of human faces; then +lifting his haggard eyes to heaven, he demanded pardon of God and the +people for the violation of the great prerogative of the former and the +social rights of the latter, and besought most earnestly the mercy of the +Judge into whose presence he was about to enter. In less than two minutes +both he and his companion were headless corpses, and in a quarter of an +hour no vestige, save a few remains of sawdust, was left of the terrible +drama that had been enacted. Soon, however, a confused murmur pervaded the +crowd—a report that the victim of cruelty and avarice had realized the +dread presentiment of his own mind, and justified the prediction contained +in the anonymous letter he had received. On inquiry, this was found to be +true. As the signal rung out for execution, the unhappy man, whom +twenty-two stabs of the dagger had failed to kill, expired in a paroxysm +of terror—adding one more to the many examples already upon record of the +fatal force of fear upon an excited imagination. + + + + + +LADY ALICE DAVENTRY; OR, THE NIGHT OF CRIME. (FROM THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY +MAGAZINE.) + + +Daventry Hall, near the little village of the same name in Cumberland, is +the almost regal residence of the Cliffords; yet it does not bear their +name, nor, till within the last quarter of a century, had it come into +their possession. The tragical event which consigned it to the hands of a +distant branch of the Daventry family is now almost forgotten by its +occupants, but still lingers in the memory of some of humbler rank, who, +in days gone by, were tenants under Sir John Daventry, the last of a long +line of baronets of that name. Few men have entered life under happier +auspices: one of the oldest baronets in the kingdom, in one sense, but +just of age, in the other, possessed of an unencumbered rent roll of +£20,000 per annum, he might probably have selected his bride from the +fairest of the English aristocracy; but when he was twenty-three he +married the beautiful and poor daughter of an officer residing in his +vicinity. It was a love-match on his side—one partly of love, parly of +ambition, on hers; their union was not very long, neither was it very +happy, and when Lady Daventry died, leaving an infant daughter to his +care, at the expiration of his year of mourning he chose as his second +wife the wealthy and high-born widow of the county member. This was a +_marriage de convenance_, and might have perhaps proved a fortunate one, +as it secured to Sir John a wife suited to uphold his dignity and the +style of his establishment, at the same time conferring on the little +Clara the care of a mother, and the society of a playmate in the person of +Charles Mardyn, Lady Daventry’s son by her first marriage. But the +marriage of convenience did not end more felicitously than the marriage of +love—at the end of six months Sir John found himself a second time a +widower. His position was now a somewhat unusual one—at twenty-seven he +had lost two wives, and was left the sole guardian of two children, +neither past the age of infancy; Clara Daventry was but two years old, +Charles Mardyn three years her senior. Of these circumstances Sir John +made what he conceived the best, provided attendants and governesses for +the children, consigned them to the seclusion of the Hall, while he +repaired to London, procured a superb establishment, was famed for the +skill of his cooks, and the goodness of his wines, and for the following +eighteen years was an _habitué_ of the clubs, and courted by the élite of +London society; and this, perhaps, being a perfectly blameless course, and +inflicting as little of any sort of trouble or annoyance as possible, it +must needs excite our surprise if we do not find it producing +corresponding fruits. Eighteen years make some changes every where. During +these, Clara Daventry had become a woman, and Charles Mardyn, having +passed through Eton and Cambridge, had for the last two years emulated his +stepfather’s style of London life. Mr. Mardyn had left his fortune at the +disposal of his widow, whom he had foolishly loved, and Lady Daventry, at +her death, divided the Mardyn estates between her husband and son—an +unfair distribution, and one Charles was not disposed to pardon. He was +that combination so often seen—the union of talent to depravity; of such +talent as the union admits—talent which is never first-rate, though to the +many it appears so; it is only unscrupulous, and consequently, has at its +command, engines which virtue dares not use. Selfish and profligate, he +was that mixture of strong passions and indomitable will, with a certain +strength of intellect, a winning manner, and noble appearance. Clara +possessed none of these external gifts. Low and insignificant looking, her +small, pale features, narrow forehead, and cunning gray eyes, harmonized +with a disposition singularly weak, paltry, and manoeuvring. Eighteen +years had altered Sir John Daventry’s appearance less than his mind; he +had grown more corpulent, and his features wore a look of sensual +indulgence, mingled with the air of authority of one whose will, even in +trifles, has never been disputed. But in the indolent voluptuary of +forty-five little remained of the good-humored, careless man of +twenty-seven. Selfishness is an ill-weed, that grows apace; Sir John +Daventry, handsome, gifted with _l’air distingué_ and thoroughly _répandu_ +in society, was a singularly heartless and selfish sensualist. Such +changes eighteen years had wrought, when Clara was surprised by a visit +from her father. It was more than two years since he had been at the Hall, +and the news he brought was little welcome to her. He was about to marry a +third time—his destined bride was Lady Alice Mortimer, the daughter of a +poor though noble house, and of whose beauty, though now past the first +bloom of youth, report had reached even Clara’s ears. From Mardyn, too, +she had heard of Lady Alice, and had fancied that he was one of her many +suitors. Her congratulations on the event were coldly uttered; in truth, +Clara had long been accustomed to regard herself as the heiress, and +eventually, the mistress of that princely estate where she had passed her +childhood; this was the one imaginative dream in a cold, worldly mind. She +did not desire riches to gratify her vanity, or to indulge in pleasures. +Clara Daventry’s temperament was too passionless to covet it for these +purposes; but she had accustomed herself to look on these possessions as +her right, and to picture the day when, through their far extent, its +tenants should own her rule. Besides, Mardyn had awoke, if not a feeling +of affection, in Clara Daventry’s breast, at least a wish to possess him—a +wish in which all the sensuous part of her nature (and in that cold +character there was a good deal that was sensuous) joined. She had +perception to know her own want of attractions, and to see that her only +hope of winning this gay and brilliant man of fashion was the value her +wealth might be of in repairing a fortune his present mode of living was +likely to scatter—a hope which, should her father marry, and have a male +heir, would fall to the ground. In due time the papers announced the +marriage of Sir John Daventry to the Lady Alice Mortimer. They were to +spend their honeymoon at Daventry. The evening before the marriage, +Charles Mardyn arrived at the Hall; it was some time since he had last +been there; it was a singular day to select for leaving London, and Clara +noticed a strange alteration in his appearance, a negligence of dress, and +perturbation of manner unlike his ordinary self-possession, that made her +think that, perhaps, he had really loved her destined step-mother. Still, +if so, it was strange his coming to the Hall. The following evening +brought Sir John and Lady Alice Daventry to their bridal home. The Hall +had been newly decorated for the occasion, and, in the general confusion +and interest, Clara found herself degraded from the consideration she had +before received. Now the Hall was to receive a new mistress, one graced +with title, and the stamp of fashion. These are offenses little minds can +hardly be thought to overlook; and as Clara Daventry stood in the spacious +hall to welcome her stepmother to her home, and she who was hence-forward +to take the first place there, the Lady Alice, in her rich traveling +costume, stood before her, the contrast was striking—the unattractive, +ugly girl, beside the brilliant London beauty—the bitter feelings of envy +and resentment, that then passed through Clara’s mind cast their shade on +her after destiny. During the progress of dinner, Clara noticed the +extreme singularity of Mardyn’s manner; noticed also the sudden flush of +crimson that dyed Lady Alice’s cheek on first beholding him, which was +followed by an increased and continued paleness. There was at their +meeting, however, no embarrassment on his part—nothing but the well-bred +ease of the man of the world was observable in his congratulations; but +during dinner Charles Mardyn’s eyes were fixed on Lady Alice with the +quiet stealthiness of one calmly seeking to penetrate through a mystery; +and, despite her efforts to appear unconcerned, it was evident she felt +distressed by his scrutiny. The dinner was soon dispatched; Lady Alice +complained of fatigue, and Clara conducted her to the boudoir designed for +her private apartment. As she was returning she met Mardyn. + +“Is Lady Alice in the boudoir?” he asked. + +“Yes,” she replied, “you do not want her?” + +Without answering, he passed on, and, opening the door, Charles Mardyn +stood before the Lady Alice Daventry, his stepfather’s wife. + +She was sitting on a low stool, and in a deep reverie, her cheek resting +on one of her fairy-like hands. She was indeed a beautiful woman. No +longer very young—she was about thirty, but still very lovely, and +something almost infantine in the arch innocence of expression that +lighted a countenance cast in the most delicate mould—she looked, in every +feature, the child of rank and fashion; so delicate, so fragile, with +those _petites_ features, and that soft pink flesh, and pouting coral +lips; and, in her very essence, she had all those qualities that belong to +a spoiled child of fashion—wayward, violent in temper, capricious, and +volatile. She started from her reverie: she had not expected to see +Mardyn, and betrayed much emotion at his abrupt entrance; for, as though +in an agony of shame, she buried her face in her hands, and turned away +her head, yet her attitude was very feminine and attractive, with the +glossy ringlets of rich brown hair falling in a shower over the fair soft +arms, and the whole so graceful in its defenselessness, and the +forbearance it seemed to ask. Yet, whatever Mardyn’s purpose might be, it +did not seem to turn him from it; the sternness on his countenance +increased as he drew a chair, and, sitting down close beside her, waited +in silence, gazing at his companion till she should uncover her face. At +length the hands were dropped, and, with an effort at calmness, Lady Alice +looked up, but again averted her gaze as she met his. + +“When we last met, Lady Alice, it was under different circumstances,” he +said, sarcastically. She bowed her head, but made no answer. + +“I fear,” he continued, in the same tone, “my congratulations may not have +seemed warm enough on the happy change in your prospects; they were +unfeigned, I assure you.” Lady Alice colored. + +“These taunts are uncalled for, Mardyn,” she replied, faintly. + +“No; that would be unfair, indeed,” he continued, in the same bitter tone, +“to Lady Alice Daventry, who has always displayed such consideration for +all my feelings.” + +“You never seemed to care,” she rejoined, and the woman’s pique betrayed +itself in the tone—“You never tried to prevent it.” + +“Prevent what?” + +She hesitated, and did not reply. + +“Fool!” he exclaimed, violently, “did you think that if one word of mine +could have stopped your marriage, that word would have been said? Listen, +Lady Alice: I loved you once, and the proof that I did is the hate I now +bear you. If I had not loved you, I should now feel only contempt. For a +time I believed that you had for me the love you professed. You chose +differently; but though that is over, do not think that all is. I have +sworn to make you feel some of the misery you caused me. Lady Alice +Daventry, do you doubt that that oath shall be kept?” + +His violence had terrified her—she was deadly pale, and seemed ready to +faint; but a burst of tears relieved her. + +“I do not deserve this,” she said; “I did love you—I swore it to you, and +you doubted me.” + +“Had I no reason?” he asked. + +“None that you did not cause yourself; your unfounded jealousy, your +determination to humble me, drove me to the step I took.” + +The expression of his countenance somewhat changed; he had averted his +face so that she could not read its meaning, and over it passed no sign of +relenting, but a look more wholly triumphant than it had yet worn. When he +turned to Lady Alice it was changed to one of mildness and sorrow. + +“You will drive me mad, Alice,” he uttered, in a low, deep voice. “May +heaven forgive me if I have mistaken you; you told me you loved me.” + +“I told you the truth,” she rejoined, quickly. + +“But how soon that love changed,” he said, in a half-doubting tone, as if +willing to be convinced. + +“It never changed!” she replied, vehemently. “You doubted—you were +jealous, and left me. I never ceased to love you.” + +“You do not love me now?” he asked. + +She was silent; but a low sob sounded through the room, and Charles Mardyn +was again at her feet; and, while the marriage-vows had scarce died from +her lips, Lady Alice Daventry was exchanging forgiveness with, and +listening to protestations of love from the son of the man to whom, a few +hours before, she had sworn a wife’s fidelity. + +It is a scene which needs some explanation; best heard, however, from +Mardyn’s lips. A step was heard along the passage, and Mardyn, passing +through a side-door, repaired to Clara’s apartment. He found her engaged +on a book. Laying it down, she bestowed on him a look of inquiry as he +entered. + +“I want to speak to you, Clara,” he said. + +Fixing her cold gray eyes on his face, she awaited his questions. + +“Has not this sudden step of Sir John’s surprised you?” + +“It has,” she said, quietly. + +“Your prospects are not so sure as they were?” + +“No, they are changed,” she said, in the same quiet tone, and impassive +countenance. + +“And you feel no great love to your new stepmother?” + +“I have only seen Lady Alice once,” she replied, fidgeting on her seat. + +“Well, you will see her oftener now,” he observed. “I hope she will make +the Hall pleasant to you.” + +“You have some motive in this conversation,” said Clara, calmly. “You may +trust me, I do not love Lady Alice sufficiently to betray you.” + +And now her voice had a tone of bitterness surpassing Mardyn’s; he looked +steadily at her; she met and returned his gaze, and that interchange of +looks seemed to satisfy both, Mardyn at once began: + +“Neither of us have much cause to like Sir John’s new bride; she may strip +you of a splendid inheritance, and I have still more reason to detest her. +Shortly after my arrival in London, I met Lady Alice Mortimer. I had heard +much of her beauty—it seemed to me to surpass all I had heard. I loved +her; she seemed all playful simplicity and innocence; but I discovered she +had come to the age of calculation, and that though many followed, and +praised her wit and beauty, I was almost the only one who was serious in +wishing to marry Lord Mortimer’s poor and somewhat _passée_ daughter. She +loved me, I believe, as well as she could love any one. That was not the +love I gave, or asked in return. In brief, I saw through her sheer +heartlessness, the first moment I saw her waver between the wealth of an +old sensualist, and my love. I left her, but with an oath of vengeance; in +the pursuit of that revenge it will be your interest to assist. Will you +aid me?” + +“How can I?” she asked. + +“It is not difficult,” he replied. “Lady Alice and I have met to-night; +she prefers me still. Let her gallant bridegroom only know this, and we +have not much to fear.” + +Clara Daventry paused, and, with clenched hands, and knit brow, ruminated +on his words—familiar with the labyrinthine paths of the plotter, she was +not long silent. + +“I think I see what you mean,” she said. “And I suppose you have provided +means to accomplish your scheme?” + +“They are provided for us. Where could we find materials more made to our +hands?—a few insinuations, a conversation overheard, a note conveyed +opportunely—these are trifles, but trifles are the levers of human +action.” + +There was no more said then; each saw partly through the insincerity and +falsehood of the other, yet each knew they agreed in a common object. +These were strange scenes to await a bride, on the first eve in her new +home. + +Two or three months have passed since these conversations. Sir John +Daventry’s manner has changed to his bride: he is no longer the lover, but +the severe, exacting husband. It may be that he is annoyed at all his +long-confirmed bachelor habits being broken in upon, and that, in time, he +will become used to the change, and settle down contentedly in his new +capacity; but yet something more than this seems to be at the bottom of +his discontent. Since a confidential conversation, held over their wine +between him and Charles Mardyn, his manner had been unusually captious. +Mardyn had, after submitting some time, taken umbrage at a marked insult, +and set off for London. On Lady Alice, in especial, her husband spent his +fits of ill-humor. With Clara he was more than ever friendly; her position +was now the most enviable in that house. But she strove to alleviate her +stepmother’s discomforts by every attention a daughter could be supposed +to show, and these proofs of amiable feeling seemed to touch Sir John, and +as the alienation between him and his wife increased, to cement an +attachment between Clara and her father. + +Lady Alice had lately imparted to her husband a secret that might be +supposed calculated to fill him with joyous expectations, and raise hopes +of an heir to his vast possessions; but the communication had been +received in sullen silence, and seemed almost to increase his savage +sternness—treatment which stung Lady Alice to the quick; and when she +retired to her room, and wept long and bitterly over this unkind reception +of news she had hoped would have restored his fondness, in those tears +mingled a feeling of hate and loathing to the author of her grief. Long +and dreary did the next four months appear to the beautiful Lady of +Daventry, who, accustomed to the flattery and adulation of the London +world, could ill-endure the seclusion and harsh treatment of the Hall. + +At the end of that time, Charles Mardyn again made his appearance; the +welcome he received from Sir John was hardly courteous. Clara’s manner, +too, seemed constrained; but his presence appeared to remove a weight from +Lady Alice’s mind, and restore her a portion of her former spirits. From +the moment of Mardyn’s arrival, Sir John Daventry’s manner changed to his +wife: he abandoned the use of sarcastic language, and avoided all occasion +of dispute with her, but assumed an icy calmness of demeanor, the more +dangerous, because the more clear-sighted. He now confided his doubts to +Clara; he had heard from Mardyn that his wife had, before her marriage, +professed an attachment to him. In this, though jestingly alluded to, +there was much to work on a jealous and exacting husband. The contrast in +age, in manner, and appearance, was too marked, not to allow of the +suspicion that his superiority in wealth and position had turned the scale +in his favor—a suspicion which, cherished, had grown to be the demon that +allowed him no peace of mind, and built up a fabric fraught with +wretchedness on this slight foundation. All this period Lady Alice’s +demeanor to Mardyn was but too well calculated to deepen these suspicions. +Now, too, had come the time to strike a decisive blow. In this Clara was +thought a fitting instrument. + +“You are indeed unjust,” she said, with a skillful assumption of +earnestness; “Lady Alice considers she should be a mother to Charles—they +meet often; it is that she may advise him, She thinks he is +extravagant—that he spends too much time in London, and wishes to make the +country more agreeable to him.” + +“Yes, Clary, I know she does; she would be glad to keep the fellow always +near her.” + +“You mistake, sir, I assure you; I have been with them when they were +together; their language has been affectionate, but as far as the +relationship authorizes.” + +“Our opinions on that head differ, Clary; she deceived me, and by —— she +shall suffer for it. She never told me she had known him; the fellow +insulted me by informing me when it was too late. He did not wish to +interfere—it was over now—he told me with a sneer.” + +“He was wounded by her treatment; so wounded, that, except as your wife, +and to show you respect, I know he would never have spoken to her. But if +your doubts can not be hushed, they may be satisfactorily dispelled.” + +“How—tell me?” + +“Lady Alice and Charles sit every morning in the library; there are +curtained recesses there, in any of which you may conceal yourself, and +hear what passes.” + +“Good—good; but if you hint or breathe to them—” + +“I merely point it out,” she interrupted, “as a proof of my perfect belief +in Charles’s principle and Lady Alice’s affection for you. If a word +passes that militates against that belief, I will renounce it.” + +A sneer distorted Sir John’s features. When not blinded by passion, he saw +clearly through character and motives. He had by this discerned Clara’s +dislike to Lady Alice, and now felt convinced she suggested the scheme as +she guessed he would have his suspicions confirmed. He saw thus far, but +he did not see through a far darker plot—he did not see that, in the deep +game they played against him, Charles and Clara were confederates. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +That was a pleasant room; without, through bayed windows, lay a wide and +fertile prospect of sunny landscape; within, it was handsomely and +luxuriously furnished. There were books in gorgeous bindings; a range of +marble pillars swept its length; stands of flowers, vases of agate and +alabaster, were scattered on every side; and after breakfast Mardyn and +Lady Alice made it their sitting-room. The morning after the scheme +suggested by Clara, they were sitting in earnest converse, Lady Alice, +looking pale and care-worn, was weeping convulsively. + +“You tell me you must go,” she said; “and were it a few months later, I +would forsake all and accompany you. But for the sake of my unborn infant, +you must leave me. At another time return, and you may claim me.” + +“Dear Alice,” he whispered softly, “dear, dear Alice, why did you not know +me sooner? Why did you not love me more, and you would now have been my +own, my wife?” + +“I was mad,” she replied, sadly; “but I have paid the penalty of my sin +against you. The last year has been one of utter misery to me. If there is +a being on earth I loathe, it is the man I must call my husband; my hatred +to him is alone inferior to my love for you. When I think what I +sacrificed for him,” she continued, passionately, “the bliss of being your +wife, resigned to unite myself to a vapid sensualist, a man who was a +spendthrift of his passions in youth, and yet asks to be loved, as if the +woman most lost to herself could feel love for him.” + +It was what he wished. Lady Alice had spoken with all the extravagance of +woman’s exaggeration; her companion smiled; she understood its meaning. + +“You despise, me,” she said, “that I could marry the man of whom I speak +thus.” + +“No,” he replied; “but perhaps you judge Sir John harshly. We must own he +has some cause for jealousy.” + +Despite his guarded accent, something smote on Lady Alice’s ear in that +last sentence. She turned deadly pale—was she deceived? But in a moment +the sense of her utter helplessness rushed upon her. If he were false, +nothing but destruction lay before her—she desperately closed her eyes on +her danger. + +“You are too generous,” she replied. “If I had known what I sacrificed—” + +Poor, wretched woman, what fear was in her heart as she strove to utter +words of confidence. He saw her apprehensions, and drawing her toward him, +whispered loving words, and showered burning kisses on her brow. She leant +her head on his breast, and her long hair fell over his arm as she lay +like a child in his embrace. + +A few minutes later the library was empty, when the curtains that shrouded +a recess near where the lovers had sat were drawn back, and Sir John +Daventry emerged from his concealment. His countenance betrayed little of +what passed within; every other feeling was swallowed up in a thirst for +revenge—a thirst that would have risked life itself to accomplish its +object—for his suspicions had gone beyond the truth, black, dreadful as +was that truth to a husband’s ears, and he fancied that his unborn infant +owed its origin to Charles Mardyn; when, for that infant’s sake, where no +other consideration could have restrained her, Lady Alice had endured her +woman’s wrong, and while confessing her love for Mardyn, refused to listen +to his solicitations, or to fly with him; and the reference she had made +to this, and which he had overheard, appeared to him but a base design to +palm the offspring of her love to Mardyn as the heir to the wealth and +name of Daventry. + +It wanted now but a month of Lady Alice’s confinement, and even Mardyn and +Clara were perplexed and indecisive as to the effect their stratagem had +upon Sir John. No word or sign escaped him to betray what passed within—he +seemed stricken with sudden age, so stern and hard had his countenance +become, so fixed his icy calmness. They knew not the volcanoes that burned +beneath their undisturbed surface. A sudden fear fell upon them; they were +but wicked—they were not great in wickedness. Much of what they had done +appeared to them clumsy and ill-contrived; yet their very fears lest they +might be seen through urged on another attempt, contrived to give +confirmation to Sir John’s suspicions, should his mind waver. So great at +this time was Mardyn’s dread of detection that he suddenly left the Hall. +He know Sir John’s vengeance, if once roused, would be desperate, and +feared some attempts on his life. In truth his position was a perilous +one, and this lull of fierce elements seemed to forerun some terrible +explosion—where the storm might spend its fury was as yet hid in darkness. +Happy was it for the Lady Alice Daventry that she knew none of these +things, or hers would have been a position of unparalleled wretchedness, +as over the plotters, the deceived, and the foredoomed ones, glided on the +rapid moments that brought them nearer and nearer, till they stood on the +threshold of crime and death. + +And now, through the dark channels of fraud and jealousy, we have come to +the eve of that strange and wild page in our story, which long attached a +tragic interest to the hails of Daventry, and swept all but the name of +that ancient race into obscurity. + +On the fifteenth of December, Lady Alice Daventry was confined of a son. +All the usual demonstrations of joy were forbidden by Sir John, on the +plea of Lady Alice’s precarious situation. Her health, weakened by the +events of the past year, had nearly proved unequal to this trial of her +married life, and the fifth morning after her illness was the first on +which the physician held out confident hopes of her having strength to +carry her through. Up to that time the survival of the infant had been a +matter of doubt; but on that morning, as though the one slender thread had +bound both to existence, fear was laid aside, and calmness reigned through +the mansion of Daventry. On that morning, too, arrived a letter directed +to “The Lady Alice Daventry.” A dark shade flitted over Sir John’s face as +he read the direction; then placing it among his other letters reserved +for private perusal, he left the room. + +The day wore on, each hour giving increasing strength to the Lady Alice +and her boy-heir. During its progress, it was noticed, even by the +servants, that their master seemed unusually discomposed, and that his +countenance wore an expression of ghastly paleness. As he sat alone, after +dinner, he drank glass after glass of wine, but they brought no flush to +his cheek—wrought no change in his appearance; some mightier spirit seemed +to bid defiance to the effects of drink. At a late hour he retired to his +room. The physician had previously paid his last visit to the chamber of +his patient; she was in a calm sleep, and the last doubt as to her +condition faded from his mind, as, in a confident tone, he reiterated his +assurance to the nurse-tender “that she might lie down and take some +rest—that nothing more was to be feared.” + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +The gloom of a December’s night had closed, dark and dreary, around the +Hall, while, through the darkness, the wind drove the heavy rain against +the easements; but, undisturbed by the rain and winds, the Lady Alice and +her infant lay in a tranquil sleep; doubt and danger had passed from them; +the grave had seemed to yawn toward the mother and child, but the clear +color on the transparent cheek, the soft and regular breathing caught +through the stillness of the chamber, when the wind had died in the +distance, gave assurance to the nurse that all danger was past; and, +wearied with the watching of the last four nights, she retired to a closet +opening from Lady Alice’s apartment, and was soon buried in the heavy +slumber of exhaustion. + +That profound sleep was rudely broken through by wild, loud cries, +reaching over the rage of the elements, which had now risen to a storm. +The terrified woman staggered to the bedroom, to witness there a fearful +change—sudden, not to be accounted for. A night-lamp shed its dim light +through the apartment on a scene of horror and mystery. All was silence +now—and the Lady Alice stood erect on the floor, half shrouded in the +heavy curtains of the bed, and clasping her infant in her arms. By this +time the attendants, roused from sleep, had reached the apartment, and +assisted in taking the child from its mother’s stiff embrace; it had +uttered no cry, and when they brought it to the light, the blaze fell on +features swollen and lifeless—it was dead in its helplessness—dead by +violence, for on its throat were the marks of strong and sudden pressure; +but how, by whom, was a horrid mystery. They laid the mother on the bed, +and as they did so, a letter fell from her grasp—a wild fit of delirium +succeeded, followed by a heavy swoon, from which the physician failed in +awaking her—before the night had passed, Lady Alice Daventry had been +summoned to her rest. The sole clew to the events of that night was the +letter which had fallen from Lady Alice; it the physician had picked up +and read, but positively refused to reveal its contents, more than to hint +that they betrayed guilt that rendered his wife and child’s removal more a +blessing than a misfortune to Sir John Daventry. Yet somehow rumors were +heard that the letter was in Charles Mardyn’s hand; that it had fallen in +Sir John’s way, and revealed to him a guilty attachment between Mardyn and +his wife; but how it came into her hands, or how productive of such a +catastrophe as the destruction of her infant, her frenzy, and death, +remained unknown: but one further gleam of light was ever thrown on that +dark tragedy. The nurse-tender, who had first come to her mistress’s +assistance, declared that, as she entered the room, she had heard steps in +quick retreat along the gallery leading from Lady Alice’s room, and a few +surmised that, in the dead of night, her husband had placed that letter in +her hand, and told her he knew her guilt. This was but conjecture—a wild +and improbable one, perhaps. + +Charles Mardyn came not again to the Hall. What he and Clara Daventry +thought of what had passed, was known only to themselves. A year went on, +and Clara and her father lived alone—a year of terror to the former, for +from that terrible night her father had become subject to bursts of savage +passion that filled her with alarm for her own safety: these, followed by +long fits of moody silence, rendered her life, for a year, harassed and +wretched; but then settling into confirmed insanity, released her from his +violence. Sir John Daventry was removed to an asylum, and Clara was +mistress of the Hall. Another year passed, and she became the wife of +Charles Mardyn. It was now the harvest of their labors, and reaped as such +harvests must be. The pleasures and amusements of a London life had grown +distasteful to Mardyn—they palled on his senses, and he sought change in a +residence at the Hall; but here greater discontent awaited him. The force +of conscience allowed them not happiness in a place peopled with such +associations: they were childless, they lived in solitary state, unvisited +by those of their own rank, who were deterred from making overtures of +intimacy by the stories that were whispered affixing discredit to his +name; his pride and violent temper were ill fitted to brook this neglect; +in disgust, they left Daventry, and went to Mardyn Park, an old seat left +him by his mother, on the coast of Dorsetshire. It was wildly situated, +and had been long uninhabited; and in this lonely residence the cup of +Clara’s wretchedness was filled to overflowing. In Mardyn there was now no +trace left of the man who had once captivated her fancy; prematurely old, +soured in temper, he had become brutal and overbearing; for Clara he had +cast off every semblance of decency, and indifference was now usurped by +hate and violence; their childless condition was made a constant, source +of bitter reproach from her husband. Time brought no alleviation to this +state of wretchedness, but rather increased their evil passions and mutual +abhorrence. They had long and bitterly disputed one day, after dinner, and +each reminded the other of their sins with a vehemence of reproach that, +from the lips of any other, must have, overwhelmed the guilty pair with +shame and terror. Driven from the room by Mardyn’s unmanly violence and +coarse epithets, Clara reached the drawing-room, and spent some hours +struggling with the stings of conscience aroused by Mardyn’s taunts. They +had heard that morning of Sir John Daventry’s death, and the removal of +the only being who lived to suffer for their sin had seemed but to add a +deeper gloom to their miserable existence—the time was past when any thing +could bid them hope. Her past career passed through the guilty woman’s +mind, and filled her with dread, and a fearful looking out for judgment. +She had not noticed how time had fled, till she saw it was long past +Mardyn’s hour for retiring, and that he had not come up stairs yet. +Another hour passed, and then a vague fear seized upon her mind—she felt +frightened at being alone, and descended to the parlor. She had brought no +light with her, and when she reached the door she paused; all in the house +seemed so still she trembled, and turning the lock, entered the room. The +candles had burnt out, and the faint red glare of the fire alone shone +through the darkness; by the dim light she saw that Mardyn was sitting, +his arms folded on the table, and his head reclined as if in sleep. She +touched him, he stirred not, and her hand, slipping from his shoulder, +fell upon the table and was wet; she saw that a decanter had been +overturned, and fancied Mardyn had been drinking, and fallen asleep; she +hastened from the room for a candle. As she seized a light burning in the +passage, she saw that the hand she had extended was crimsoned with blood. +Almost delirious with terror, she regained the room. The light from her +hand fell on the table—it was covered with a pool of blood, that was +falling slowly to the floor. With a wild effort she raised her husband—his +head fell on her arm—the throat was severed from ear to ear—the +countenance set, and distorted in death. + +In that moment the curse of an offended God worked its final vengeance on +guilt—Clara Mardyn was a lunatic. + + + + + +MIRABEAU. AN ANECDOTE OF HIS PRIVATE LIFE. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH +JOURNAL.) + + +The public life as well as the private character of Mirabeau are +universally known, but the following anecdote has not, we believe, been +recorded in any of the biographies. The particulars were included in the +brief furnished to M. de Galitzane, advocate-general in the parliament of +Provence, when he was retained for the defense of Madame Mirabeau in her +husband’s process against her. M. de Galitzane afterward followed the +Bourbons into exile, and returned with them in 1814; and it is on his +authority that the story is given as fact. + +Mirabeau had just been released from the dungeon of the castle of +Vincennes near Paris. He had been confined there for three years and a +half, by virtue of that most odious mandate, a _lettre-de-cachet_. His +imprisonment had been of a most painful nature; and it was prolonged at +the instance of his father, the Marquis de Mirabeau. On his being +reconciled to his father, the confinement terminated, in the year 1780, +when Mirabeau was thirty-one years of age. + +One of his father’s conditions was, that Mirabeau should reside for some +time at a distance from Paris; and it was settled that he should go on a +visit to his brother-in-law, Count du Saillant, whose estate was situated +a few leagues from the city of Limoges, the capital of the Limousin. +Accordingly, the count went to Vincennes to receive Mirabeau on the day of +his liberation, and they pursued their journey at once with all speed. + +The arrival of Mirabeau at the ancient manorial château created a great +sensation in that remote part of France. The country gentlemen residing in +the neighborhood had often heard him spoken of as a remarkable man, not +only on account of his brilliant talents, but also for his violent +passions; and they hastened to the château to contemplate a being who had +excited their curiosity to an extraordinary pitch. The greater portion of +these country squires were mere sportsmen, whose knowledge did not extend +much beyond the names and qualities of their dogs and horses, and in whose +houses it would have been almost in vain to seek for any other book than +the local almanac, containing the list of the fairs and markets, to which +they repaired with the utmost punctuality, to loiter away their time, talk +about their rural affairs, dine abundantly, and wash down their food with +strong Auvergne wine. + +Count du Saillant was quite of a different stamp from his neighbors. He +had seen the world, he commanded a regiment, and at that period his +château was perhaps the most civilized country residence in the Limousin. +People came from a considerable distance to visit its hospitable owner; +and among the guests there was a curious mixture of provincial oddities, +clad in their quaint costumes. At that epoch, indeed, the young Lismousin +noblemen, when they joined their regiments, to don their sword and +epaulets for the first time, were very slightly to be distinguished, +either by their manners or appearance, from their rustic retainers. + +It will easily be imagined, then, that Mirabeau, who was gifted with +brilliant natural qualities, cultivated and polished by education—a man, +moreover, who had seen much of the world, and had been engaged in several +strange and perilous adventures—occupied the most conspicuous post in this +society, many of the component members whereof seemed to have barely +reached the first degrees in the scale of civilization. His vigorous +frame; his enormous head, augmented in bulk by a lofty frizzled +_coiffure_; his huge face, indented with scars, and furrowed with seams, +from the effect of small-pox injudiciously treated in his childhood; his +piercing eyes, the reflection of the tumultuous passions at war within +him; his mouth, whose expression indicated in turn irony, disdain, +indignation, and benevolence; his dress, always carefully attended to, but +in an exaggerated style, giving him somewhat the air of a traveling +charlatan decked out with embroidery, large frill, and ruffles; in short, +this extraordinary-looking individual astonished the country-folks even +before he opened his mouth. But when his sonorous voice was heard, and his +imagination, heated by some interesting subject of conversation, imparted +a high degree of energy to his eloquence, some of the worthy rustic +hearers felt as though they were in the presence of a saint, others in +that of a devil; and according to their several impressions, they were +tempted either to fall down at his feet, or to exorcise him by making the +sign of the cross, and uttering a prayer. + +Seated in a large antique arm-chair, with his feet stretched out on the +floor, Mirabeau often contemplated, with a smile playing on his lips, +those men who seemed to belong to the primitive ages; so simple, frank, +and at the same time clownish, were they in their manners. He listened to +their conversations, which generally turned upon the chase, the exploits +of their dogs, or the excellence of their horses, of whose breed and +qualifications they were very proud. Mirabeau entered freely into their +notions; took an interest in the success of their sporting projects; +talked, too, about crops; chestnuts, of which large quantities are +produced in the Limousin; live and dead stock; ameliorations in husbandry; +and so forth; and he quite won the hearts of the company by his +familiarity with the topics in which they felt the most interest, and by +his good nature. + +This monotonous life was, however, frequently wearisome to Mirabeau; and +in order to vary it, and for the sake of exercise, after being occupied +for several hours in writing, he was in the habit of taking a +fowling-piece, according to the custom of the country, and putting a book +into his game-bag, he would frequently make long excursions on foot in +every direction. He admired the noble forests of chestnut-trees which +abound in the Limousin; the vast meadows, where numerous herds of cattle +of a superior breed are reared; and the running streams by which that +picturesque country is intersected. He generally returned to the château +long after sunset, saying that night scenery was peculiarly attractive to +him. + +It was during and after supper that those conversations took place for +which Mirabeau supplied the principal and the most interesting materials. +He possessed the knack of provoking objections to what he might advance, +in order to combat them, as he did with great force of logic and in +energetic language; and thus he gave himself lessons in argument, caring +little about his auditory, his sole aim being to exercise his mental +ingenuity and to cultivate eloquence. Above all, he was fond of discussing +religious matters with the curé of the parish. Without displaying much +latitudinarianism, he disputed several points of doctrine and certain +pretensions of the church so acutely, that the pastor could say but little +in reply. This astonished the Limousin gentry, who, up to that time, had +listened to nothing but the drowsy discourses of their curés, or the +sermons of some obscure mendicant friars, and who placed implicit faith in +the dogmas of the church. The faith of a few was shaken, but the greater +number of his hearers were very much tempted to look upon the visitor as +an emissary of Satan sent to the château to destroy them. The curé, +however, did not despair of eventually converting Mirabeau. + +At this period several robberies had taken place at no great distance from +the château: four or five farmers had been stopped shortly after nightfall +on their return from the market-towns, and robbed of their purses. Not one +of these persons had offered any resistance, for each preferred to make a +sacrifice rather than run the risk of a struggle in a country full of +ravines, and covered with a rank vegetation very favorable to the exploits +of brigands, who might be lying in wait to massacre any individual who +might resist the one detached from the band to demand the traveler’s money +or his life. These outrages ceased for a short time, but they soon +recommenced, and the robbers remained undiscovered. + +One evening, about an hour after sunset, a guest arrived at the château. +He was one of Count du Saillant’s most intimate friends, and was on his +way home from a neighboring fair. This gentleman appeared to be very +thoughtful, and spoke but little, which surprised every body, inasmuch as +he was usually a merry companion. His gasconades had frequently roused +Mirabeau from his reveries, and of this he was not a little proud. He had +not the reputation of being particularly courageous, however, though he +often told glowing tales about his own exploits; and it must be admitted +that he took the roars of laughter with which they were usually received +very good-humoredly. + +Count du Saillant being much surprised at this sudden change in his +friend’s manner, took him aside after supper, and begged that he would +accompany him to another room. When they were there alone, he tried in +vain for a long time to obtain a satisfactory answer to his anxious +inquiries as to the cause of his friend’s unwonted melancholy and +taciturnity. At length the visitor said—“Nay, nay; you would never believe +it. You would declare that I was telling you one of my fables, as you are +pleased to call them; and perhaps _this_ time we might fall out.” + +“What do you mean?” cried Count de Saillant; “this seems to be a serious +affair. Am _I_, then, connected with your presentiments?” + +“Not exactly _you_; but—” + +“What does this _but_ mean? Has it any thing to do with my wife? Explain +yourself.” + +“Not the least in the world. Madame du Saillant is in nowise concerned in +the matter: but—” + +“_But!_—_but!_ you tire me out with your _buts_. Are you resolved still to +worry me with your mysteries? Tell me at once what has occurred—what has +happened to you?” + +“Oh, nothing—nothing at all. No doubt I was frightened.” + +“Frightened!—and at what? By whom? For God’s sake, my dear friend, do not +prolong this painful state of uncertainty.” + +“Do you really wish me to speak out?” + +“Not only so, but I demand this of you as an act of friendship.” + +“Well, I was stopped to-night at about the distance of half a league from +your château.” + +“Stopped! In what way? By whom?” + +“Why, stopped as people are stopped by footpads. A gun was leveled at me; +I was peremptorily ordered to deliver up my purse; I threw it down on the +ground, and galloped off. Do not ask me any more questions.” + +“Why not? I wish to know all. Should you know the robber again? Did you +notice his figure and general appearance?” + +“It being dark, I could not exactly discover: I can not positively say. +However, it seems to me—” + +“_What_ seems to you? What or whom do you think you saw?” + +“I never can tell _you_.” + +“Speak—speak; you can not surely wish to screen a malefactor from +justice?” + +“No; but if the said malefactor should be—” + +“If he were my own son, I should insist upon your telling me.” + +“Well, then, it appeared to me that the robber was your brother-in-law, +MIRABEAU! But I might be mistaken; and, as I said before, fear—” + +“Impossible: no, it can not be. Mirabeau a footpad! No, no. You _are_ +mistaken, my good friend.” + +“Certainly—certainly.” + +“Let us not speak any more of this,” said Count du Saillant. “We will +return to the drawing-room, and I hope you will be as gay as usual; if +not, I shall set you down as a mad-man. I will so manage that our absence +shall not be thought any thing of.” And the gentlemen re-entered the +drawing room, one a short time before the other. + +The visitor succeeded in resuming his accustomed manner; but the count +fell into a gloomy reverie, in spite of all his efforts. He could not +banish from his mind the extraordinary story he had heard: it haunted him; +and at last, worn out with the most painful conjectures, he again took his +friend aside, questioned him afresh, and the result was, that a plan was +agreed upon for solving the mystery. It was arranged that M. De —— should +in the course of the evening mention casually, as it were, that he was +engaged on a certain day to meet a party at a friend’s house to dinner, +and that he purposed coming afterward to take a bed at the château, where +he hoped to arrive at about nine in the evening. The announcement was +accordingly made in the course of conversation, when all the guests were +present—good care being taken that it should be heard by Mirabeau, who at +the time was playing a game of chess with the curé. + +A week passed away, in the course of which a farmer was stopped and robbed +of his purse; and at length the critical night arrived. + +Count du Saillant was upon the rack the whole evening; and his anxiety +became almost unbearable when the hour for his friend’s promised arrival +had passed without his having made his appearance. Neither had Mirabeau +returned from his nocturnal promenade. Presently a storm of lightning, +thunder, and heavy rain came on; in the midst of it the bell at the gate +of the court-yard rang loudly. The count rushed out of the room into the +court-yard, heedless of the contending elements; and before the groom +could arrive to take his friend’s horse, the anxious host was at his side. +His guest was in the act of dismounting. + +“Well,” said M. De ——, “I have been stopped. It is really he. I recognized +him perfectly.” + +Not a word more was spoken then; but as soon as the groom had led the +horse to the stables, M. De —— rapidly told the count that, during the +storm, and as he was riding along, a man, who was half-concealed behind a +very large tree, ordered him to throw down his purse. At that moment a +flash of lightning enabled him to discover a portion of the robber’s +person, and M. De —— rode at him; but the robber retreated a few paces, +and then leveling his gun at the horseman, cried with a powerful voice, +which it was impossible to mistake, “Pass on, or you are a dead man!” +Another flash of lightning showed the whole of the robber’s figure: it was +Mirabeau, whose voice had already betrayed him! The wayfarer, having no +inclination to be shot, put spurs to his horse, and soon reached the +château. + +The count enjoined strict silence, and begged of his friend to avoid +displaying any change in his usual demeanor when in company with the other +guests; he then ordered his valet to come again to him as soon as Mirabeau +should return. Half an hour afterward Mirabeau arrived. He was wet to the +skin, and hastened to his own room; he told the servant to inform the +count that he could not join the company at the evening meal, and begged +that his supper might be brought to his room; and he went to bed as soon +as he had supped. + +All went on as usual with the party assembled below, excepting that the +gentleman who had had so unpleasant an adventure on the road appeared more +gay than usual. + +When his guests had all departed, the master of the house repaired alone +to his brother-in-law’s apartment. He found him fast asleep, and was +obliged to shake him rather violently before he could rouse him. + +“What’s the matter? Who’s there? What do you want with me?” cried +Mirabeau, staring at his brother-in-law, whose eyes were flashing with +rage and disgust. + +“What do I want? I want, to tell you that you are a wretch!” + +“A fine compliment, truly!” replied Mirabeau, with the greatest coolness. +“It was scarcely worth while to awaken me only to abuse me: go away, and +let me sleep.” + +“_Can_ you sleep after having committed so bad an action? Tell me—where +did you pass the evening? Why did you not join us at the supper-table?” + +“I was wet through—tired—harassed: I had been overtaken by the storm. Are +you satisfied now? Go, and let me get some sleep: do you want to keep me +chattering all night?” + +“I insist upon an explanation of your strange conduct. You stopped +Monsieur De —— on his way hither this evening: this is the second time you +have attacked that gentleman, for he recognized you as the same man who +robbed him a week ago. You have turned highwayman, then!” + +“Would it not have been all in good time to tell me this to-morrow +morning?” said Mirabeau, with inimitable _sang-froid_. “Supposing that I +_did_ stop your friend, what of that?” + +“That you are a wretch!” + +“And that you are a fool, my dear Du Saillant. Do you imagine that it was +for the sake of his money that I stopped this poor country squire? I +wished to put him to the proof, and to put myself to the proof. I wished +to ascertain what degree of resolution was necessary in order to place +one’s self in formal opposition to the most sacred laws of society: the +trial was a dangerous one; but I have made it several times. I am +satisfied with myself—but your friend is a coward.” He then felt in the +pocket of his waistcoat, which lay on a chair by his bedside, and drawing +a key from it, said, “Take this key, open my _scrutoire_, and bring me the +second drawer on the left hand.” + +The count, astounded at so much coolness, and carried away by an +irresistible impulse—for Mirabeau spoke with the greatest +firmness—unlocked the cabinet, and brought the drawer to Mirabeau. It +contained nine purses; some made of leather, others of silk; each purse +was encircled by a label on which was written a date—it was that of the +day on which the owner had been stopped and robbed; the sum contained in +the purse was also written down. + +“You see,” said Mirabeau, “that I did not wish to reap any pecuniary +benefit from my proceedings. A timid person, my dear friend, could never +become a highwayman; a soldier who fights in the ranks does not require +half so much courage as a footpad. _You_ are not the kind of man to +understand me, therefore I will not attempt to make myself more +intelligible. You would talk to me about honor—about religion; but these +have never stood in the way of a well-considered and a firm resolve. Tell +me, Du Saillant, when you lead your regiment into the heat of battle, to +conquer a province to which he whom you call your master has no right +whatever, do you consider that you are performing a better action than +mine, in stopping your friend on the king’s highway, and demanding his +purse?” + +“I obey without reasoning,” replied the count. + +“And I reason without obeying, when obedience appears to me to be contrary +to reason,” rejoined Mirabeau. “I study all kinds of social positions, in +order to appreciate them justly. I do not neglect even those positions or +cases which are in decided opposition to the established order of things; +for established order is merely conventional, and may be changed when it +is generally admitted to be faulty. Such a study is a dangerous, but it is +a necessary one for him who wishes to gain a perfect knowledge of men and +things. You are living within the boundary of the law, whether it be for +good or evil. I study the law, and I endeavor to acquire strength enough +to combat it if it be bad when the proper time shall arrive.” + +“You wish for a convulsion then?” cried the count. + +“I neither wish to bring it about nor do I desire to witness it; but +should it come to pass through the force of public opinion, I would second +it to the full extent of my power. In such a case you will hear me spoken +of. Adieu. I shall depart to-morrow; but pray leave me now, and let me +have a little sleep.” + +Count du Saillant left the room without saying another word. Very early on +the following morning Mirabeau was on his way to Paris. + + + + + +TERRESTRIAL MAGNETISM. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.) + + +It is proposed in the following article to give the reader some idea of +one of the greatest and most extensive scientific works going on at the +present time in this country—namely, the examination of the phenomenon of +the earth’s magnetism; but before doing so, it will be necessary to make a +few prefatory observations respecting magnetism generally. + +The attractive power of the natural magnet or loadstone over fragments of +iron seems to have been known from the remotest antiquity. It is +distinctly referred to by ancient writers, and Pliny mentions a chain of +iron rings suspended from one another, the first being upheld by a +loadstone. It is singular that although the common properties of the +loadstone were known, and even studied, during the dark ages, its +directive power, or that of a needle touched or rubbed by it, seems to be +the discovery of modern times, notwithstanding the claims of the Chinese +and Arabians to an early acquaintance with this peculiarity. + +There is no doubt that the mariner’s compass was known in the twelfth +century, for several authors of that period make special allusion to it; +but centuries elapsed before its variation from pointing precisely to the +poles became noticed. If a magnet be suspended by a thread, in such a +manner as to enable it to move freely, it will, when all other magnetic +bodies are entirely removed from it, settle in a fixed position, which, in +this country, is about 25° to the west of north; this deviation of the +needle from the north is called its variation. Again, if, in place of +suspending a magnetized needle, making it move horizontally on a pivot, we +balance it upon a horizontal axis, as the beam of a pair of scales, we +shall find that it no longer remains horizontal, but that one end will +incline downward, or, as it is called, _dip_, and this dip or inclination +from a horizontal line is about 70° in this country. + +Thus we are presented with two distinct magnetical phenomena: 1. The +variation or declination of the needle; 2. Its dip or inclination; and to +these we may add the intensity or force which draws the needle from +pointing to the north, and which varies in different latitudes. These +phenomena constitute what has been called terrestrial magnetism. + +Recent writers, and among them the great philosopher Humboldt, have shown +that in all probability the declination or variation of the magnet was +known as early as the twelfth century; but this important discovery has +been generally ascribed to Columbus. His son Ferdinand states that on the +14th September 1492, his father, when about 200 leagues from the island of +Ferro, noticed for the first time the variation of the needle. “A +phenomenon,” says Washington Irving, “that had never before been +remarked.” “He perceived,” adds this author, “about nightfall that the +needle, instead of pointing to the north star, varied half a point, or +between five and six degrees, to the northwest, and still more on the +following morning. Struck with this circumstance, he observed it +attentively for three days, and found that the variation increased as he +advanced. He at first made no mention of this phenomenon, knowing how +ready his people were to take alarm; but it soon attracted the attention +of the pilots, and filled them with consternation. It seemed as if the +laws of nature were changing as they advanced, and that they were entering +another world, subject to unknown influences. They apprehended that the +compass was about to lose its mysterious virtues; and without this guide, +what was to become of them in a vast and trackless ocean? Columbus tasked +his science and ingenuity for reasons with which to allay their terrors. +He told them that the direction of the needle was not the polar star, but +to some fixed and invisible point: the variation was not caused by any +failing in the compass, but because this point, like the heavenly bodies, +had its changes and revolutions, and every day described a circle round +the pole. The high opinion that the pilots entertained of Columbus as a +profound astronomer gave weight to his theory, and their alarm subsided.” + +Thus, although it is possible that the variation of the needle had been +noticed before the time of Columbus, it is evident that he had discovered +the amount of the variation, and that it varied in different latitudes. +The great philosopher Humboldt observes on this point, that “Columbus has +not only the incontestible merit of having first discovered a line without +magnetic variation, but also of having, by his considerations on the +progressive increase of westerly declination in receding from that line, +given the first impulse to the study of terrestrial magnetism in Europe.” + +With respect to the dip or inclination of the magnetic needle, which must +be regarded as the other element of magnetic direction, there is little +doubt that it was known long before the period usually assigned as the +date of its discovery—namely, in 1576; for it is difficult to conceive how +the variation of the needle should be observed and noted, and not its +deviation from a horizontal line. In the above year a person of the name +of Robert Norman, who styled himself “hydrographer,” published a book +containing an account of this phenomenon. The title of this work is +sufficiently curious to be quoted. It runs: “The New Attractive; +containing a short Discourse of the Magnes or Loadstone, and amongst +others his Virtues, of a neue discovered Secret and Subtill Propertie, +concerning the Declination of the Needle touched therewith under the +Plaine of the Horizon, now first found out by Robert Norman, +Hydrographer.” In the third chapter we are told “by what meanes the rare +and straunge declyning of the needle from the plaine of the horison was +first found.” + +“Having made many and diuers compasses, and using always to finish and end +them before I touched the needle, I found continually that after I had +touched the yrons with the stone, that presently the north point thereof +would bend or declyne downwards under the horison in some quantity, +insomuch that I was constrained to putt some small piece of waxe in the +south parts thereof, to counterpoise this declyning, and to make it equal +againe. Which effecte hauing many times passed my hands without any greate +regarde thereunto, as ignorant of any such properties in the stone, and +not before hauing heard or read of any such matter, it chanced at length +that there came to my handes an instrument to be made with a needle of +sixe inches long, which needle, after I had polished, cutt off at full +length, and made it to stand leuel upon the pinn, so that nothing rested +but only the touching of it with the stone. When I hadde touched the same, +presently the north part thereof declyned down in such sort, that being +constrained to cut away some of that part to make it equall againe in the +end, I cut it too short, and so spoiled the needle wherein I had taken so +much paines. + +“Hereby being straken into some cholar, I applyed myself to seek farther +into this effecte; and making certain learned and expert men, my friends, +acquainted in this matter, they advised me to frame some instrument to +make some exact triall how much the needle touched with the stone would +declyne, or what greatest angle it would make with the plaine of the +horison.” + +The author then proceeds to give a number of experiments which he made +with his instrument, and which may be regarded as the dipping-needle in +its first and rudest form. By it he found the inclination or dip to be 71° +50’. + +It is remarkable, that until within the last seventy years, it appears to +have been the received opinion that the intensity of terrestrial magnetism +was the same at all parts of the earth’s surface; or, in other words, that +in all countries the needle was similarly affected. And yet few things are +more inconstant; for, not only is the magnetic force widely different in +various parts of our globe, but the magnetic condition itself is one of +swift and ceaseless change. + +The first person who attempted to collect and generalize observations on +the variation of the needle, was Robert Halley, who constructed a chart, +showing a series of lines drawn through the points or places where the +needle exhibited the same variation. This chart was published in 1700, and +was preceded by some exceedingly curious papers, communicated to the Royal +Society, in which he expresses his belief that he has put it past doubt +that the globe of the earth is one great magnet, having four magnetic +poles or points of attraction, two near each pole of the equator; and that +in those parts of the world which lie adjacent to any one of those +magnetical poles, the needle is chiefly governed thereby, the nearest pole +being always predominant over the more remote. + +The great importance of collecting as much information as possible +respecting the laws of magnetism, with a view to the proper understanding +of its effects, was fully understood by Halley, as the following passage, +taken from one of his papers, read before the Royal Society in 1692, +singularly attests: “The nice determination of the variation, and several +other particulars in the magnetic system, is reserved for a remote +posterity. All that we can hope to do is, to leave behind us observations +that may be confided in, and to propose hypotheses which after-ages may +examine, amend, or refute; only here I must take leave to recommend to all +masters of ships, and all others, lovers of natural truths, that they use +their utmost diligence to make, or procure to be made, observations of +these variations in all parts of the world, as well in the north as south +latitude, after the laudable custom of our East India commanders; and that +they please to communicate them to the Royal Society, in order to leave as +complete a history as may be to those that are hereafter to compare all +together, and to complete and perfect this abstruse theory.” + +Halley’s theory, or rather hypothesis, which regarded our globe as a great +piece of clockwork, by which the poles of an internal magnet were carried +round in a cycle of determinate but unknown period, was so far confirmed, +that his variation chart had been hardly forty years completed, when, by +the effect of these changes, it had already become obsolete; and to +satisfy the requirements of navigation, it became necessary to reconstruct +it. This was performed by the aid of various observations furnished by the +Commissioners of the Navy, and the East India, Africa, and Hudson’s Bay +Companies. But the chart was far from satisfactory, and, in consequence of +the discordant nature of the observations, no dependence could be placed +on it. + +No further steps were taken to ascertain the magnetism of the earth until +the close of the last century, when the French government undertook the +first comprehensive experimental inquiry on the subject. When the +exploring expedition of La Pérouse was organized, the French Academy of +Sciences prepared instructions for the expedition, containing a +recommendation that observations with the dipping-needle should be made at +stations widely remote, as a test of the equality or difference of the +magnetic intensity; suggesting also, with a sagacity anticipating the +result, that such observations should particularly be made at those parts +of the earth where the dip was greatest, and where it was least. The +experiments, whatever their results may have been, which, in compliance +with this recommendation, were made in the expedition of La Pérouse, +perished in its general catastrophe, neither ships nor navigators having +ever been heard of; but the instructions survived. + +Our knowledge of the laws of magnetism was not increased until 1811, when, +on the occasion of a prize proposed by the Royal Danish Academy, M. +Hansteen, whose attention had for many years been turned to magnetic +phenomena, undertook its re-examination. With indefatigable labor M. +Hansteen traced back the history of the subject, and filled up the +interval from Halley’s time, and even from an earlier epoch (1600). The +results appeared in his very remarkable and celebrated work, published in +1819, entitled, “Upon the Magnetism of the Earth;” in which he clearly +demonstrates, by a great number of facts, the fluctuation which the +magnetical element has undergone during the last two centuries, confirming +in great detail the position of Halley—that the whole magnetical system is +in motion; that the moving force is very great, extending its effects from +pole to pole; and its that motion is not sudden, but gradual and regular. + +In the magnetic atlas which accompanies M. Hansteen’s work there is a +variation chart for 1787, showing the magnetic force at that period. In +this chart the western line of no variation, or that which passes through +all places on the globe when the needle points to the true north, begins +in latitude 60° to the west of Hudson’s Bay; proceeds in a southeast +direction through the North American Lakes, passes the Antilles and Cape +St. Roque, till it reaches the South Atlantic Ocean, when it cuts the +meridian of Greenwich in about 65° of south latitude. This line of no +variation is extremely regular, being almost straight, till it bends round +the eastern part of South America, a little south of the equator. The +eastern line of no variation is exceedingly irregular, being full of +curves and contortions of the most extraordinary kind, indicating plainly +the action of local magnetic forces. It begins in latitude 60° south, +below New Holland; crosses that island through its centre; extends through +the Indian Archipelago with a double sinuosity, so as to cross the equator +three times—first passing north of it to the east of Borneo, then +returning to it, and passing south between Sumatra and Borneo, and then +crossing it again south of Ceylon, from which it passes to the east +through the Yellow Sea. It then stretches along the coast of China, making +a semicircular sweep to the west, till it reaches the latitude of 71°, +when it descends again to the south, and returns northwards with a great +semicircular bend, which terminates in the White Sea. Thus it is +demonstrated that in the northern hemisphere the general motion of the +variation lines is from west to east, in the southern hemisphere from east +to west. + +A great impetus was given to the study of terrestrial magnetism by the +publication of M. Hansteen’s labors; and the various arctic expeditions +sent out by the country did much toward making us acquainted with the laws +of magnetism in the northern regions. One of these expeditions led to the +discovery of the north magnetic pole, or that point where the +dipping-needle assumes a vertical position. The discovery was made by +Captain Sir James Ross, who sailed with his uncle Sir John Ross, in a +voyage undertaken in search of a northwest passage. He left his uncle’s +ship with a party for the sole purpose of reaching this interesting +magnetical point, which a series of observations assured him could not be +very far distant. The following extract from his journal communicating his +discovery will be read with interest. Under the date of the 31st of May +1831, he writes: “We were now within fourteen miles of the calculated +position of the magnetic pole, and my anxiety, therefore, did not permit +me to do or endure any thing which might delay my arrival at the long +wished-for spot. I resolved, therefore, to leave behind the greater part +of our baggage and provisions, and to take onward nothing more than was +strictly necessary, lest bad weather or other accidents should be added to +delay, or lest unforeseen circumstances, still more untoward, should +deprive me entirely of the high gratification which I could not but look +to in accomplishing this most-desired object. We commenced, therefore, a +most rapid march, comparatively disencumbered as we now were; and +persevering with all our might, we reached the calculated place at eight +in the morning of the 1st of June. The amount of the dip, as indicated by +my dipping-needle, was 89° 59’, being thus within one minute of the +vertical; while the proximity at least of this magnetic pole, if not its +actual existence where we stood, was further confirmed by the total +inaction of the several horizontal needles then in my possession. These +were suspended in the most delicate manner possible, but there was not one +which showed the slightest effort to move from the position in which it +was placed—a fact which even the most moderately-informed of readers must +know to be one which proves that the centre of attraction lies at a very +small horizontal distance, if at any. The land at this place is very low +near the coast, but it rises into ridges of fifty or sixty feet high about +a mile inland. We could have wished that a place so important had +possessed more of mark or note. But nature had here erected no monument to +denote the spot that she had chosen as the centre of one of her great and +dark powers. We had abundance of materials for building in the fragments +of limestone that covered the beach, and we therefore erected a cairn of +some magnitude, under which we buried a canister containing a record of +the interesting fact, only regretting that we had not the means of +constructing a pyramid of more importance, and of strength sufficient to +stand the assaults of time and of the Esquimaux.” The latitude of this +spot is 70° 5’ 17", and its longitude 96° 46’ 45" west. The reader may +remember that during his late arctic voyage in search of Sir John +Franklin, Sir James Ross was extremely anxious to revisit this interesting +locality, which he was at one time not very distant from; but which, as +the places of magnetic intensity are continually changing, he would no +longer have found representing the north magnetic pole. It is not a little +remarkable that during Sir John Ross’s voyage, Mr. Barlow, who had been +long engaged investigating the laws of magnetism, had constructed a +magnetical map, in which he laid down a point which he described as that +where, in all probability, the dipping-needle would be perpendicular, and +which is the very spot where Sir James Ross ascertained the north magnetic +pole to exist. + +But valuable and interesting as were the observations made by navigators +in different parts if the globe, yet philosophers began to perceive that, +without some definite plan of proceeding, the mere multiplication of +random observations made here and there at irregular periods was not the +course most likely to lead to desired results, and to make us acquainted +with the mysterious laws of magnetism. The establishment of national +observatories for the registration of magnetical observations became +absolutely necessary; and the illustrious Humboldt, to whom every branch +of science owes so much, gave the first impulse to this great undertaking. +During the course of his memorable voyages and travels in various parts of +the globe, the observation of the magnetic phenomena in all their +particulars occupied a large portion of his attention; and as the +commencement of any great work is always an epoch of rare and lasting +interest, we shall give the philosopher’s own words on the subject: “When +the first proposal to establish a system of observatories forming a +network of stations, all provided with similar instruments, was made by +myself, I could hardly entertain the hope that I should actually live to +see the time when, thanks to the united activity of excellent physicists +and astronomers, and especially to the munificent and persevering support +of two governments—the Russian and the British, both hemispheres should be +covered with magnetic observatories. In 1806 and 1807 my friend M. +Altmanns and myself frequently observed the march of the declination +needle at Berlin for five or six days and nights consecutively, from hour +to hour, and often from half hour to half hour, particularly at the +equinoxes and solstices. I was persuaded that continuous uninterrupted +observations during several days and nights were preferable to detached +observations continued during an interval of many months.” + +Political disturbances, always ruinous to the calm researches of the man +of science, for many years prevented Humboldt carrying his wishes into +effect; and it was not until 1828 that he was enabled to erect a small +observatory at Berlin, whose more immediate object was to institute a +series of simultaneous observations at concerted hours at Berlin, Paris, +and Freiburg. In 1829 magnetic stations were established throughout +Northern Asia, in connection with an expedition to that country which +emanated from the Russian government; and in 1832 M. Gauss, the +illustrious founder of a general theory of terrestrial magnetism, +established a magnetic observatory at Göttingen, which was completed in +1834, and furnished with his ingenious instruments. + +In 1836 Baron Humboldt addressed a long and highly-interesting letter to +the Duke of Sussex, then president of the Royal Society, urging the +establishment of regular magnetical stations in the British possessions in +North America, Australia, the Cape of Good Hope, and between the tropics, +not only for the observation of the momentary perturbations of the needle, +but also for that of its periodical and secular movements. This appeal was +nobly responded to. + +The Royal Society, in conjunction with the British Association, called on +government to advance the necessary funds to establish magnetical +observatories at Greenwich, and in various parts of the British +possessions; and in 1839-40 magnetical establishments were in activity at +St. Helena, the Cape of Good Hope, Canada, and Van Diemen’s Land. The +munificence of the directors of the East India Company founded and +furnished, at the request of the Royal Society, magnetic observatories at +Simla, Madras, Bombay, and Singapore, and the observations will be +published in a similar form to those of the British observatories. We will +now briefly describe the scheme of observations, and the manner of making +them in the different observatories. + +Each observatory is supplied with three magnetometers, or bars of +magnetized steel, delicately suspended by threads of raw silk, which +measure the magnetical declination, horizontal intensity, and vertical +force—and such astronomical apparatus as is required for ascertaining the +time and the true meridian. To these have also been added in each case a +most complete and perfect set of meteorological instruments, carefully +compared with the standards in possession of the Royal Society, not only +for the purpose of affording the necessary corrections of the magnetic +observations, but also with a view to obtaining at each station, at very +little additional cost and trouble, a complete series of meteorological +observations. In order that the observations may be made at the same +periods of time, it was resolved that the mean time at Göttingen should be +employed at all the stations, without any regard to the apparent times of +day at the stations themselves. Each day is supposed to be divided into +twelve equal portions of two hours each, commencing at all the stations at +the same instants of absolute time, which are called the magnetic hours. +At the commencement of each period of two hours throughout the day and +night, with the exception of Sundays, the magnetometers are observed, and +the meteorological instruments read off. Independently of these +observations, others are made at stated periodical intervals every two +minutes and a half during twenty-four hours. These are known by the name +of “turn-day observations.” Printed forms for registering the observations +have been prepared with great care, in order that a complete form of +registry may be preserved—a point of great importance, when it is +remembered that all the observations made at the different stations must +eventually be reduced and analyzed. A singularly felicitous adaptation of +photography has been carried into effect with the magnetometers. By means +of mirrors attached to their arms, reflected light is cast on +highly-sensitive photographic paper wound round a cylinder moved by +clockwork, and the slightest variation of the magnets is registered with +the greatest accuracy. + +The period has not yet arrived for reaping the fruits of all the labor +carried on in the magnetic observatories at home and abroad, but already +certain results have been deduced from the observations which are highly +interesting. It appears that if the globe be divided into an eastern and a +western hemisphere by a plane coinciding with the meridians of 100° and +280°, the western hemisphere, or that comprising the Americas and the +Pacific Ocean, has a much higher magnetic intensity distributed generally +over its surface than the eastern hemisphere, containing Europe and +Africa, and the adjacent part of the Atlantic Ocean. The distribution of +the magnetic intensity in the intertropical regions of the globe affords +evidence of two governing magnetic centres in each hemisphere. The highest +magnetic intensity which has been observed is more than twice as great as +the lowest. It had long been known that in Europe the north end of a +magnet suspended horizontally (meaning by the north end that which is +directed toward the north) moves to the east from the night until between +seven and eight o’clock in the morning, when an opposite movement +commences, and the north end of the magnet moves to the west. Recent +observations have shown that a similar movement takes place at the same +hours of local time in North America, and that it is general in the middle +latitudes of the northern hemisphere; but to show the capricious nature of +magnetism, it may be mentioned, that although in the southern portion of +the globe the movement of the magnet in the contrary direction is constant +throughout the year, yet at St. Helena the peculiar feature of the diurnal +is, that during one half of the year the movement of the north end of the +magnet corresponds in direction with the movement which is taking place in +the northern hemisphere, while in the other half of the year the direction +corresponds with that which is taking place in the southern hemisphere. + +Another striking result of these investigations is the estimate of the +total magnetic power of the earth as compared with a steel bar magnetized +one pound in weight. This proportion is calculated as +8,464,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 1, which, supposing the magnetic force +uniformly distributed, will be found to amount to about six such bars to +every cubic yard of the earth’s surface. + +Thus measured, it will be seen how tremendously mysterious is the power of +magnetism, and how potent an influence it must possess over animate and +inanimate nature! And not one of its least wonderful mysteries is its +singular exception to the character of stability and permanence. The +configuration of our globe, the distribution of temperature in its +interior, the tides and currents of the ocean, the general course of +winds, and the affections of climate—all these are appreciably constant. +But magnetism, that subtle, undefinable fluid, is perpetually undergoing a +change, and of so rapid a nature, that it becomes necessary to assume +epochs, which ought not to be more than ten years apart, to which every +observation should be reduced. The extreme importance of knowing the exact +amount of magnetic variation can scarcely be overrated for maritime +purposes; and the establishment of a complete magnetical theory, based on +an extensive series of observations, must be regarded as a desideratum by +the first nautical country. + +The numerous magnetical surveys that have been made by our government, +taken in conjunction with those in progress on the continent of Europe, +and particularly in the Austrian dominions, give a full promise of the +speedy realization of M. Humboldt’s wish, so earnestly expressed, that the +materials of the first general magnetic map of the globe should be +assembled; and even permit the anticipation, that the first normal epoch +of such a map will be but little removed from the present year. + + + + + +EARLY HISTORY OF THE USE OF COAL. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.) + + +Bituminous matter, if not the carboniferous system itself, exists +abundantly on the banks of the Euphrates. In the basin of the Nile coal +has been recently detected. It occurs sparingly in some of the states of +Greece; and Theophrastus, in his “History of Stones,” refers to mineral +coal (_lithanthrax_) being found in Liguria and in Elis, and used by the +smiths; the stones are earthy, he adds, but kindle and burn like wood +coals (the _anthrax_). But by none of the Oriental nations does it appear +that the vast latent powers and virtues of the mineral were thus early +discovered, so as to render it an object of commerce or of geological +research. What the Romans termed _lapis ampelites_, is generally +understood to mean our cannel coal, which they used not as fuel, but in +making toys, bracelets, and other ornaments; while their _carbo_, which +Pliny describes as _vehementer perlucet_, was simply the petroleum or +naphtha, which issues so abundantly from all the tertiary deposits. Coal +is found in Syria, and the term frequently occurs in the Sacred Writings. +But there is no reference any where in the inspired record as to digging +or boring for the mineral—no directions for its use—no instructions as to +its constituting a portion of the promised treasures of the land. In their +burnt-offerings, wood appears uniformly to have been employed; in +Leviticus, the term is used as synonymous with fire, where it is said that +“the priests shall lay the parts in order upon the wood”—that is, on the +fire which is upon the altar. And in the same manner for all domestic +purposes, wood and charcoal were invariably made use of. Doubtless the +ancient Hebrews would be acquainted with _natural_ coal, as in the +mountains of Lebanon, whither they continually resorted for their timber, +seams of coal near Beirout were seen to protrude through the +superincumbent strata in various directions. Still there are no traces of +pits or excavations into the rock to show that they duly appreciated the +extent and uses of the article.... For many reasons it would seem that, +among modern nations, the primitive Britons were the first to avail +themselves of the valuable combustible. The word by which it is designated +is not of Saxon, but of British extraction, and is still employed to this +day by the Irish, in their form of _o-gual_, and in that of _kolan_ by the +Cornish. In Yorkshire, stone hammers and hatchets have been found in old +mines, showing that the early Britons worked coals before the invasion of +the Romans. Manchester, which has risen upon the very ashes of the +mineral, and grown to all its wealth and greatness under the influence of +its heat and light, next claims the merit of the discovery. Portions of +coal have been found under, or imbedded in the sand of a Roman way, +excavated some years ago for the construction of a house, and which at the +time were ingeniously conjectured by the local antiquaries to have been +collected for the use of the garrison stationed on the route of these +warlike invaders at Mancenion, or the Place of Tents. Certain it is that +fragments of coal are being constantly, in the district, washed out and +brought down by the Medlock and other streams, which break from the +mountains through the coal strata. The attention of the inhabitants would +in this way be the more early and readily attracted by the glistening +substance. Nevertheless, for long after, coal was but little valued or +appreciated, turf and wood being the common articles of consumption +throughout the country. About the middle of the ninth century, a grant of +land was made by the Abbey of Peterborough, under the restriction of +certain payments in kind to the monastery, among which are specified sixty +carts of wood, and as showing their comparative worth, only twelve carts +of pit coal. Toward the end of the thirteenth century, Newcastle is said +to have traded in the article, and by a charter of Henry III., of date +1284, a license is granted to the burgesses to dig for the mineral. About +this period, coals for the first time began to be imported into London, +but were made use of only by smiths, brewers, dyers, and other artisans, +when, in consequence of the smoke being regarded as very injurious to the +public health, parliament petitioned the king, Edward I., to prohibit the +burning of coal, on the ground of being an intolerable nuisance. A +proclamation was granted, conformable to the prayer of the petition; and +the most severe inquisitorial measures were adopted to restrict or +altogether abolish the use of the combustible, by fine, imprisonment, and +destruction of the furnaces and workshops! They were again brought into +common use in the time of Charles I., and have continued to increase +steadily with the extension of the arts and manufactures, and the +advancing tide of population, till now, in the metropolis and suburbs, +coals are annually consumed to the amount of about three million of tons. +The use of coal in Scotland seems to be connected with the rise of the +monasteries.... Under the regime of domestic rule at Dunfermline, coals +were worked in the year 1291—at Dysart and other places along the Fife +coast, about half a century later—and generally in the fourteenth and +fifteenth centuries the inhabitants were assessed in coals to the churches +and chapels, which, after the Reformation, have still continued to be paid +in many parishes. Boethius records that in his time the inhabitants of +Fife and the Lothians dug “a black stone,” which, when kindled, gave out a +heat sufficient to melt iron.—_Rev. Dr. Anderson’s Course of Creation._ + + + + + +JENNY LIND. BY FREDRIKA BREMER. + + +There was once a poor and plain little girl dwelling in a little room in +Stockholm, the capital of Sweden. She was a poor little girl indeed, then; +she was lonely and neglected, and would have been very unhappy, deprived +of the kindness and care so necessary to a child, if it had not been for a +peculiar gift. The little girl had a fine voice, and in her loneliness, in +trouble or in sorrow, she consoled herself by singing. In fact she sang to +all she did; at her work, at her play, running or resting, she always +sang. + +The woman who had her in care went out to work during the day, and used to +lock in the little girl, who had nothing to enliven her solitude but the +company of a cat. The little girl played with her cat and sang. Once she +sat by the open window and stroked her cat and sang, when a lady passed +by. She heard the voice and looked up and saw the little singer. She asked +the child several questions, went away, and came back several days later, +followed by an old music master, whose name was Crelius. He tried the +little girl’s musical ear and voice, and was astonished. He took her to +the director of the Royal Opera of Stockholm, then a Count Puhe, whose +truly generous and kind heart was concealed by rough speech and a morbid +temper. Crelius introduced his little pupil to the count, and asked him to +engage her as “_élève_ for the opera.” “You ask a foolish thing!” said the +count, gruffly, looking disdainfully down on the poor little girl. “What +shall we do with that ugly thing? see what feet she has? And then her +face? She will never be presentable. No, we can not take her. Away with +her!” + +The music master insisted, almost indignantly. “Well,” exclaimed he at +last, “if you will not take her, poor as I am, I will take her myself, and +have her educated for the scene; such another ear as she has for music is +not to be found in the world!” + +The count relented. The little girl was at last admitted into the school +for _élèves_, at the Opera, and with some difficulty a simple gown of +black bombazine was procured for her. The care of her musical education +was left to an able master, Mr. Albert Breg, director of the song school +of the Opera. + +Some years later, at a comedy given by the _élèves_ of the theatre, +several persons were struck by the spirit and life with which a very young +_élève_ acted the part of a beggar-girl in the play. Lovers of genial +nature were charmed, pedants almost frightened. It was our poor little +girl, who had made her first appearance, now about fourteen years of age, +frolicksome and full of fun as a child. + +A few years still later, a young debutante was to sing for the first time +before the public in Weber’s Freischutz. At the rehearsal preceding the +representation of the evening, she sang in a manner which made the members +of the orchestra at once lay down their instruments to clap their hands in +rapturous applause. It was our poor, plain little girl here again, who now +had grown up and was to appear before the public in the role of Agatha. I +saw her at the evening representation. She was then in the prime of youth, +fresh, bright, and serene as a morning in May—perfect in form—her hands +and her arms peculiarly graceful—and lovely in her whole appearance, +through the expression of her countenance, and the noble simplicity and +calmness of her manners. In fact she was charming. We saw not an actress, +but a young girl full of natural geniality and grace. She seemed to move, +speak, and sing without effort or art. All was nature and harmony. Her +song was distinguished especially by its purity, and the power of soul +which seemed to swell in her tones. Her “mezzo voice” was delightful. In +the night scene where Agatha, seeing her lover come, breathes out her joy +in rapturous song, our young singer on turning from the window, at the +back of the theatre, to the spectators again, was pale for joy. And in +that pale joyousness she sang with a burst of outflowing love and life +that called forth, not the mirth, but the tears of the auditors. + +From this time she was the declared favorite of the Swedish public, whose +musical tastes and knowledge are said not to be surpassed. And, year after +year, she continued so, though, after a time, her voice, being +overstrained, lost somewhat of its freshness, and the public being +satiated, no more crowded the house when she was singing. Still, at that +time, she could be heard singing and playing more delightfully than ever +in Pamina (in Zauberflote) or in Anna Bolena, though the opera was almost +deserted. She evidently sang for the pleasure of the song. + +By that time she went to take lessons of Garcia, in Paris, and so give the +finishing touch to her musical education. There she acquired that warble +in which she is said to have been equalled by no singer, and which could +be compared only to that of the soaring and warbling lark, if the lark had +a soul. + +And then the young girl went abroad and sang on foreign shores and to +foreign people. She charmed Denmark, she charmed Germany, she charmed +England. She was caressed and courted every where, even to adulation. At +the courts of kings, the houses of the great and noble, she was feasted as +one of the grandees of nature and art. She was covered with laurels and +jewels. But friends wrote of her, “In the midst of these splendors she +only thinks of her Sweden, and yearns for her friends and her people.” + +One dusky October night, crowds of people (the most part, by their dress, +seemed to belong to the upper classes of society) thronged on the shore of +the Baltic harbor at Stockholm. All looked toward the sea. There was a +rumor of expectance and pleasure. Hours passed away, and the crowds still +gathered, and waited and looked out eagerly toward the sea. At length a +brilliant rocket rose joyfully, far out at the entrance of the harbor, and +was greeted with a general buzz on the shore. + +“There she comes! there she is!” A large steamer now came whelming on its +triumphant way through the flocks of ships and boats lying in the harbor, +toward the shore of the “Skeppsbero.” Flashing rockets marked its way in +the dark as it advanced. The crowds on the shore pressed forward as if to +meet it. Now the leviathan of the waters was heard thundering nearer and +nearer; now it relented, now again pushed on, foaming and splashing; now +it lay still. And, there on the front of the deck, was seen by the light +of lamps and rockets, a pale, graceful young woman, her eyes brilliant +with tears, and lips radiant with smiles, waving her handkerchief to her +friends and countrymen on shore. + +It was she again—our poor, plain, neglected little girl of former days—who +now came back in triumph to her fatherland. But no more poor, no more +plain, no more neglected. She had become rich; she had in her slender +person the power to charm and inspire multitudes. + +Some days later, we read in the papers of Stockholm, an address to the +public written by the beloved singer, stating, with noble simplicity, that +“as she once more had the happiness to be in her native land, she would be +glad to sing again to her countrymen, and that the income of the operas in +which she was this season to appear, would be devoted to raise a fund for +a school where _élèves_ for the theatre would be educated to virtue and +knowledge.” The intelligence was received as it deserved, and of course +the Opera was crowded every night the beloved singer sang there. The first +time she again appeared in Somnambula (one of her favorite roles), the +public, after the curtain was dropped, called her back with great +enthusiasm, and received her, when she appeared, with a roar of hurrahs. +In the midst of the burst of applause a clear and melodious warbling was +heard. The hurrahs were hushed instantly. And we saw the lovely singer +standing with her arms slightly extended, somewhat bowing forward, +graceful as a bird on its branch warbling, warbling as no bird ever did, +from note to note—and on every one a clear, strong, soaring warble—until +she fell into the retournelle of her last song, and again sang that joyful +and touching strain, + + + “No thought can conceive how I feel at my heart.” + + + + + +MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON. (FROM +BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.) + + + + +Book I.—Initial Chapter: Showing How My Novel Came To Be Written. + + +SCENE, _the Hall in Uncle Roland’s Tower_; TIME, _night_; SEASON, +_winter_. + +Mr. Caxton is seated before a great geographical globe, which he is +turning round leisurely, and “for his own recreation,” as, according to +Sir Thomas Browne, a philosopher should turn round the orb, of which that +globe professes to be the representation and effigies. My mother having +just adorned a very small frock with a very smart braid, is holding it out +at arm’s length, the more to admire the effect. Blanche, though leaning +both hands on my mother’s shoulder, is not regarding the frock, but +glances toward PISISTRATUS, who, seated near the fire leaning back in his +chair, and his head bent over his breast, seems in a very bad humor. Uncle +Roland, who has become a great novel reader, is deep in the mysteries of +some fascinating Third Volume. Mr. Squills has brought _The Times_ in his +pocket for his own special profit and delectation, and is now bending his +brows over “the state of the money market” in great doubt whether railway +shares can possibly fall lower. For Mr. Squills, happy man! has large +savings, and does not know what to do with his money; or, to use his own +phrase, “how to buy in at the cheapest, in order to sell out at the +dearest.” + +Mr. Caxton, musingly.—“It must have been a monstrous long journey. It +would be somewhere hereabouts, I take it, that they would split off.” + +My Mother, mechanically, and in order to show Austin that she paid him the +compliment of attending to his remarks.—“Who split off, my dear?” + +“Bless me, Kitty,” said my father, in great admiration, “you ask just the +question which it is most difficult to answer. An ingenious speculator on +races contends that the Danes, whose descendants make the chief part of +our northern population (and, indeed, if his hypothesis could be correct, +we must suppose all the ancient worshipers of Odin), are of the same +origin as the Etrurians. And why, Kitty? I just ask you, why?” + +My mother shook her head thoughtfully, and turned the frock to the other +side of the light. + +“Because, forsooth,” cried my father, exploding—“because the Etrurians +called their gods ‘the Æsar,’ and the Scandinavians called theirs the +Æsir, or Aser! And where do you think he puts their cradle?” + +“Cradle!” said my mother, dreamily; “it must be in the nursery.” + +MR. CAXTON.—“Exactly—in the nursery of the human race—just here,” and my +father pointed to the globe; “bounded, you see, by the River Helys, and in +that region which, taking its name from Ees, or As (a word designating +light or fire), has been immemorially called _Asia_. Now, Kitty, from Ees +or As, our ethnological speculator would derive not only Asia, the land, +but Æser or Aser, its primitive inhabitants. Hence, he supposes the origin +of the Etrurians, and the Scandinavians. But, if we give him so much, we +must give him more, and deduce from the same origin the Es of the Celt, +and the Ized of the Persian, and—what will be of more use to him, I dare +say, poor man, than all the rest put together—the Æs of the Romans, that +is, the God of Copper-Money—a very powerful household god he is to this +day!” + +My mother looked musingly at her frock, as if she were taking my father’s +proposition into serious consideration. + +“So, perhaps,” resumed my father, “and not unconformably with sacred +records, from one great parent horde came all these various tribes, +carrying with them the name of their beloved Asia; and whether they +wandered north, south, or west, exalting their own emphatic designation of +‘Children of the Land of Light’ into the title of gods. And to think +(added Mr. Caxton pathetically, gazing upon that speck in the globe on +which his forefinger rested), to think how little they changed for the +better when they got to the Don, or entangled their rafts amidst the +icebergs of the Baltic—so comfortably off as they were here, if they could +but have staid quiet!” + +“And why the deuce could not they?” asked Mr. Squills. + +“Pressure of population, and not enough to live upon, I suppose,” said my +father. + +PISISTRATUS, sulkily.—“More probably they did away with the Corn Laws, +sir.” + +“Papæ!” quoth my father, “that throws a new light on the subject.” + +PISISTRATUS, full of his grievances, and not caring three straws about the +origin of the Scandinavians—“I know that if we are to lose £500 every year +on a farm which we hold rent-free, and which the best judges allow to be a +perfect model for the whole country, we had better make haste, and turn +Æsar, or Aser, or whatever you call them, and fix a settlement on the +property of other nations, otherwise, I suspect, our probable settlement +will be on the parish.” + +MR. SQUILLS, who, it must be remembered, is an enthusiastic +free-trader—“You have only got to put more capital on the land.” + +PISISTRATUS.—“Well, Mr. Squills, as you think so well of that investment, +put _your_ capital on it. I promise that you shall have every shilling of +profit.” + +MR. SQUILLS, hastily retreating behind _The Times_—“I don’t think the +Great Western can fall any lower: though it _is_ hazardous—I can but +venture a few hundreds—” + +PISISTRATUS.—“On our land, Squills? Thank you.” + +MR. SQUILLS.—“No, no—any thing but that—on the Great Western.” + +Pisistratus relapses into gloom. Blanche steals up coaxingly, and gets +snubbed for her pains. + +A pause. + +MR. CAXTON.—“There are two golden rules of life: one relates to the mind, +and the other to the pockets. The first is—If our thoughts get into a low, +nervous, aguish condition, we should make them change the air; the second +is comprised in the proverb, ‘it is good to have two strings to one’s +bow.’ Therefore, Pisistratus, I tell you what you must do—write a book!” + +PISISTRATUS.—“Write a book!—Against the abolition of the Corn Laws? Faith, +sir, the mischief’s done. It takes a much better pen than mine to write +down an act of Parliament.” + +MR. CAXTON.—“I only said, ‘Write a book.’ All the rest is the addition of +your own headlong imagination.” + +PISISTRATUS, with the recollection of the great book rising before +him—“Indeed, sir, I should think that that would just finish us!” + +MR. CAXTON, not seeming to heed the interruption—“A book that will sell! A +book that will prop up the fall of prices! A book that will distract your +mind from its dismal apprehensions, and restore your affection to your +species, and your hopes in the ultimate triumph of sound principles—by the +sight of a favorable balance at the end of the yearly accounts. It is +astonishing what a difference that little circumstance makes in our views +of things in general. I remember when the bank, in which Squills had +incautiously left £1000, broke; one remarkably healthy year, that he +became a great alarmist, and said that the country was on the verge of +ruin; whereas, you see now, when, thanks to a long succession of sickly +seasons, he has a surplus capital to risk in the Great Western—he is +firmly persuaded that England was never in so prosperous a condition.” + +MR. SQUILLS, rather sullenly.—“Pooh, pooh.” + +MR. CAXTON.—“Write a book, my son—write a book. Need I tell you that Money +or Moneta, according to Hyginus, was the mother of the Muses? Write a +book.” + +BLANCHE and my MOTHER, in full chorus.—“yes, Sisty—a book—a book! you must +write a book!” + +“I am sure,” quoth my Uncle Roland, slamming down the volume he had just +concluded, “he could write a devilish deal better book than this; and how +I come to read such trash, night after night, is more than I could +possibly explain to the satisfaction of any intelligent jury, if I were +put into a witness-box, and examined in the mildest manner by my own +counsel.” + +MR. CAXTON.—“You see that Roland tells us exactly what sort of a book it +shall be.” + +PISISTRATUS.—“Trash, sir?” + +MR. CAXTON.—“No—that is not necessarily trash—but a book of that class +which, whether trash or not, people can’t help reading. Novels have become +a necessity of the age. You must write a novel.” + +PISISTRATUS, flattered, but dubious.—“A novel! But every subject on which +novels can be written is preoccupied. There are novels on low life, novels +of high life, military novels, naval novels, novels philosophical, novels +religious, novels historical, novels descriptive of India, the Colonies, +Ancient Rome, and the Egyptian Pyramids. From what bird, wild eagle, or +barn-door fowl, can I + + + ‘Pluck one unwearied plume from Fancy’s wing?’ ” + + +MR. CAXTON, after a little thought.—“You remember the story which +Trevanion (I beg his pardon, Lord Ulswater) told us the other night. That +gives you something of the romance of real life for your plot—puts you +chiefly among scenes with which you are familiar, and furnishes you with +characters which have been very sparingly dealt with since the time of +Fielding. You can give us the country squire, as you remember him in your +youth: it is a specimen of a race worth preserving—the old idiosyncrasies +of which are rapidly dying off, as the railways bring Norfolk and +Yorkshire within easy reach of the manners of London. You can give us the +old-fashioned parson, as in all essentials he may yet be found—but before +you had to drag him out of the great Puseyite sectarian bog; and, for the +rest, I really think that while, as I am told, many popular writers are +doing their best, especially in France, and perhaps a little in England, +to set class against class, and pick up every stone in the kennel to shy +at a gentleman with a good coat on his back, something useful might be +done by a few good humored sketches of those innocent criminals a little +better off than their neighbors, whom, however we dislike them, I take it +for granted we shall have to endure, in one shape or another, as long as +civilization exists; and they seem, on the whole, as good in their present +shape, as we are likely to get, shake the dice-box of society how we +will.” + +PISISTRATUS.—“Very well said, sir; but this rural country gentleman life +is not so new as you think. There’s Washington Irving—” + +MR. CAXTON.—“Charming—but rather the manners of the last century than +this. You may as well cite Addison and Sir Roger de Coverley.” + +PISISTRATUS.—“_Tremaine_ and _De Vere_.” + +MR. CAXTON.—“Nothing can be more graceful, nor more unlike what I mean. +The Pales and Terminus I wish you to put up in the fields are familiar +images, that you may cut out of in oak tree—not beautiful marble statues, +on porphyry pedestals twenty feet high.” + +PISISTRATUS.—“Miss Austin; Mrs. Gore in her masterpiece of _Mrs. +Armytage;_ Mrs. Marsh, too; and then (for Scottish manners) Miss Ferrier!” + +MR. CAXTON, growing cross.—“Oh, if you can not treat on bucolics but what +you must hear some Virgil or other cry ‘Stop thief!’ you deserve to be +tossed by one of your own ‘short-horns.’ (Still more contemptuously)—I am +sure I don’t know why we spend so much money on sending our sons to school +to learn Latin, when that Anachronism of yours, Mrs. Caxton, can’t even +construe a line and a half of Phædrus. Phædrus, Mrs. Caxton—a book which +is in Latin what Goody Two Shoes is in the vernacular!” + +MRS. CAXTON, alarmed and indignant.—“Fie, Austin! I am sure you can +construe Phædras, dear!” + +Pisistratus prudently preserves silence. + +MR. CAXTON.—“I’ll try him— + + + “Sua cuique quum sit animi cogitatio + Colorque proprius.” + + +What does that mean?” + +PISISTRATUS, smiling.—“That every man has some coloring matter within him, +to give his own tinge to—” + +“His own novel,” interrupted my father! “_Contentus peragis_.” + +During the latter part of this dialogue, Blanche had sewn together three +quires of the best Bath paper, and she now placed them on a little table +before me, with her own inkstand and steel pen. + +My mother put her finger to her lip, and said, “Hush!” my father returned +to the cradle of the Æsar; Captain Roland leant his cheek on his hand, and +gazed abstractedly on the fire; Mr. Squills fell into a placid doze; and, +after three sighs that would have melted a heart of stone, I rushed +into—MY NOVEL. + + + + +Chapter II. + + +“There has never been occasion to use them since I’ve been in the parish,” +said Parson Dale. + +“What does that prove?” quoth the Squire, sharply, and looking the Parson +full in the face. + +“Prove!” repeated Mr. Dale—with a smile of benign, yet too conscious +superiority—“What does experience prove?” + +“That your forefathers were great blockheads, and that their descendant is +not a whit the wiser.” + +“Squire,” replied the Parson, “although that is a melancholy conclusion, +yet if you mean it to apply universally, and not to the family of the +Dales in particular, it is not one which my candor as a reasoner, and my +humility as a mortal, will permit me to challenge.” + +“I defy you.” said Mr. Hazeldean, triumphantly. “But to stick to the +subject, which it is monstrous hard to do when one talks with a parson, I +only just ask you to look yonder, and tell me on your conscience—I don’t +even say as a parson, but as a parishioner—whether you ever saw a more +disreputable spectacle?” + +While he spoke, the Squire, leaning heavily on the Parson’s left shoulder, +extended his cane in a line parallel with the right eye of that +disputatious ecclesiastic, so that he might guide the organ of sight to +the object he had thus unflatteringly described. + +“I confess,” said the Parson, “that, regarded by the eye of the senses, it +is a thing that in its best day had small pretensions to beauty, and is +not elevated into the picturesque even by neglect and decay. But, my +friend, regarded by the eye of the inner man—of the rural philosopher and +parochial legislator—I say it is by neglect and decay that it is rendered +a very pleasing feature in what I may call ‘the moral topography of a +parish.’ ” + +The Squire looked at the Parson as if he could have beaten him; and +indeed, regarding the object in dispute not only with the eye of the outer +man, but the eye of law and order, the eye of a country gentleman and a +justice of the peace, the spectacle _was_ scandalously disreputable. It +was moss-grown; it was worm-eaten; it was broken right in the middle; +through its four socketless eyes, neighbored by the nettle, peered the +thistle:—the thistle!—a forest of thistles!—and, to complete the +degradation of the whole, those thistles had attracted the donkey of an +itinerant tinker; and the irreverent animal was in the very act of taking +his luncheon out of the eyes and jaws of—THE PARISH STOCKS. + +The Squire looked as if he could have beaten the Parson; but as he was not +without some slight command of temper, and a substitute was luckily at +hand, he gulped down his resentment and made a rush—at the donkey! + +Now the donkey was hampered by a rope to its forefeet, to the which was +attached a billet of wood called technically “a clog,” so that it had no +fair chance of escape from the assault its sacrilegious luncheon had +justly provoked. But, the ass turning round with unusual nimbleness at the +first stroke of the cane, the Squire caught his foot in the rope, and went +head over heels among the thistles. The donkey gravely bent down, and +thrice smelt or sniffed its prostrate foe; then, having convinced itself +that it had nothing farther to apprehend for the present, and very willing +to make the best of the reprieve, according to the poetical admonition, +“Gather your rosebuds while you may,” it cropped a thistle in full bloom, +close to the ear of the Squire; so close indeed, that the Parson thought +the ear was gone; and with the more probability, inasmuch as the Squire, +feeling the warm breath of the creature, bellowed out with all the force +of lungs accustomed to give a View-hallo! + +“Bless me, is it gone?” said the Parson, thrusting his person between the +ass and the squire. + +“Zounds and the devil!” cried the Squire, rubbing himself as he rose to +his feet. + +“Hush,” said the parson gently “What a horrible oath!” + +“Horrible oath! If you had my nankeens on,” said the Squire, still rubbing +himself, “and had fallen into a thicket of thistles with a donkey’s teeth +within an inch of your ear!” + +“It is not gone—then?” interrupted the Parson. + +“No—that is, I think not,” said the Squire dubiously; and he clapped his +hand to the organ in question. “No! it is not gone!” + +“Thank Heaven!” said the good Clergyman kindly. + +“Hum,” growled the Squire, who was now once more engaged in rubbing +himself. “Thank Heaven indeed, when I am as full of thorns as a porcupine! +I should just like to know what use thistles are in the world.” + +“For donkeys to eat, if you will let them, Squire,” answered the Parson. + +“Ugh, you beast!” cried Mr. Hazeldean, all his wrath reawakened, whether +by the reference to the donkey species, or his inability to reply to the +Parson, or perhaps by some sudden prick too sharp for humanity—especially +humanity in nankeens—to endure without kicking; “Ugh, you beast!” he +exclaimed, shaking his cane at the donkey, who, at the interposition of +the Parson, had respectfully recoiled a few paces, and now stood switching +its thin tail, and trying vainly to lift one of its fore legs—for the +flies teased it. + +“Poor thing!” said the Parson pityingly. “See, it has a raw place on the +shoulder, and the flies have found out the sore.” + +“I am devilish glad to hear it,” said the Squire vindictively. + +“Fie, fie!” + +“It is very well to say ‘Fie, fie.’ It was not you who fell among the +thistles. What’s the man about now, I wonder?” + +The Parson had walked toward a chestnut tree that stood on the village +green—he broke off a bough—returned to the donkey—whisked away the flies, +and then tenderly placed the broad leaves over the sore, as a protection +from the swarms. The donkey turned round its head, and looked at him with +mild wonder. + +“I would bet a shilling,” said the Parson, softly, “that this is the first +act of kindness thou hast met with this many a day. And slight enough it +is, Heaven knows.” + +With that the Parson put his hand into his pocket, and drew out an apple. +It was a fine large rose-cheeked apple: one of the last winter’s store, +from the celebrated tree in the parsonage garden, and he was taking it as +a present to a little boy in the village who had notably distinguished +himself in the Sunday school. “Nay, in common justice, Lenny Fairfield +should have the preference,” muttered the Parson. The ass pricked up one +of its ears, and advanced its head timidly. “But Lenny Fairfield would be +as much pleased with twopence: and what could twopence do to thee?” The +ass’s nose now touched the apple. “Take it in the name of Charity,” quoth +the Parson, “Justice is accustomed to be served last.” And the ass took +the apple. “How had you the heart?” said the Parson, pointing to the +Squire’s cane. + +The ass stopped munching, and looked askant at the Squire. + +“Pooh! eat on; he’ll not beat thee now!” + +“No,” said the Squire apologetically. “But, after all, he is not an Ass of +the Parish; he is a vagrant, and he ought to be pounded. But the pound is +in as bad a state as the stocks, thanks to your new-fashioned doctrines.” + +“New-fashioned!” cried the Parson almost indignantly, for he had a great +disdain of new fashions. “They are as old as Christianity; nay, as old as +Paradise, which you will observe is derived from a Greek, or rather a +Persian word, and means something more than ‘garden,’ corresponding +(pursued the Parson rather pedantically) with the Latin _vivarium_—viz. +grove or park full of innocent dumb creatures. Depend on it, donkeys were +allowed to eat thistles there.” + +“Very possibly,” said the Squire drily. “But Hazeldean, though a very +pretty village, is not Paradise. The stocks shall be mended to-morrow—ay, +and the pound too—and the next donkey found trespassing shall go into it, +as sure as my name’s Hazeldean.” + +“Then,” said the Parson gravely, “I can only hope that the next parish may +not follow your example; or that you and I may never be caught straying!” + + + + +Chapter III. + + +Parson Dale and Squire Hazeldean parted company; the latter to inspect his +sheep, the former to visit some of his parishioners, including Lenny +Fairfield, whom the donkey had defrauded of his apple. + +Lenny Fairfield was sure to be in the way, for his mother rented a few +acres of grass land from the Squire, and it was now hay-time. And Leonard, +commonly called Lenny, was an only son, and his mother a widow. The +cottage stood apart, and somewhat remote, in one of the many nooks of the +long green village lane. And a thoroughly English cottage it was—three +centuries old at least; with walls of rubble let into oak frames, and duly +whitewashed every summer, a thatched roof, small panes of glass, and an +old doorway raised from the ground by two steps. There was about this +little dwelling all the homely rustic elegance which peasant life admits +of: a honeysuckle was trained over the door; a few flower-pots were placed +on the window-sills; the small plot of ground in front of the house was +kept with great neatness, and even taste; some large rough stones on +either side the little path having been formed into a sort of rockwork, +with creepers that were now in flower; and the potato-ground was screened +from the eye by sweet peas and lupine. Simple elegance all this, it is +true; but how well it speaks for peasant and landlord, when you see that +the peasant is fond of his home, and has some spare time and heart to +bestow upon mere embellishment. Such a peasant is sure to be a bad +customer to the ale-house, and a safe neighbor to the Squire’s preserves. +All honor and praise to him, except a small tax upon both, which is due to +the landlord! + +Such sights were as pleasant to the Parson as the most beautiful +landscapes of Italy can be to the dilettante. He paused a moment at the +wicket to look around him, and distended his nostrils voluptuously to +inhale the smell of the sweet peas, mixed with that of the new-mown hay in +the fields behind, which a slight breeze bore to him. He then moved on, +carefully scraped his shoes, clean and well polished as they were—for Mr. +Dale was rather a beau in his own clerical way—on the scraper without the +door, and lifted the latch. + +Your virtuoso looks with artistical delight on the figure of some nymph +painted on an Etruscan vase, engaged in pouring out the juice of the grape +from her classic urn. And the Parson felt as harmless, if not as elegant a +pleasure, in contemplating Widow Fairfield brimming high a glittering can, +which she designed for the refreshment of the thirsty hay-makers. + +Mrs. Fairfield was a middle-aged, tidy woman, with that alert precision of +movement which seems to come from an active orderly mind; and as she now +turned her head briskly at the sound of the Parson’s footsteps, she showed +a countenance prepossessing, though not handsome—a countenance from which +a pleasant hearty smile, breaking forth at that moment effaced some lines +that, in repose, spoke “of sorrows, but of sorrows past;” and her cheek, +paler than is common to the complexions even of the fair sex, when born +and bred amidst a rural population, might have favored the guess that the +earlier part of her life had been spent in the languid air and +“within-doors” occupation of a town. + +“Never mind me,” said the Parson, as Mrs. Fairfield dropped her quick +courtesy, and smoothed her apron; “if you are going into the hayfield, I +will go with you; I have something to say to Lenny—an excellent boy.” + +WIDOW.—“Well, sir, and you are kind to say to it—but he is.” + +PARSON.—“He reads uncommonly well, he writes tolerably; he is the best lad +in the whole school at his catechism and in the Bible lessons; and I +assure you, when I see his face at church, looking up so attentively, I +fancy that I shall read my sermon all the better for such a listener!” + +WIDOW, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.—“’Deed, sir, when my +poor Mark died, I never thought I could have lived on as I have done. But +that boy is so kind and good, that when I look at him sitting there in +dear Mark’s chair, and remember how Mark loved him, and all he used to say +to me about him, I feel somehow or other as if my goodman smiled on me, +and would rather I was not with him yet, till the lad had grown up, and +did not want me any more.” + +PARSON, looking away, and after a pause.—“You never hear any thing of the +old folks at Lansmere?” + +“’Deed, sir, sin’ poor Mark died, they han’t noticed me, nor the boy; +but,” added the widow, with all a peasant’s pride, “it isn’t that I wants +their money; only it’s hard to feel strange like to one’s own father and +mother!” + +PARSON.—“You must excuse them. Your father, Mr. Avenel, was never quite +the same man after that sad event—but you are weeping, my friend, pardon +me:—your mother is a little proud; but so are you, though in another way.” + +WIDOW.—“I proud! Lord love ye, sir, I have not a bit of pride in me! and +that’s the reason they always looked down on me.” + +PARSON.—“Your parents must be well off, and I shall apply to them in a +year or two on behalf of Lenny, for they promised me to provide for him +when he grew up, as they ought.” + +WIDOW, with flashing eyes.—“I am sure, sir, I hope you will do no such +thing; for I would not have Lenny beholden to them as has never given him +a kind word sin’ he was born!” + +The Parson smiled gravely and shook his head at poor Mrs. Fairfield’s +hasty confutation of her own self-acquittal from the charge of pride, but +he saw that it was not the time or moment for effectual peace-making in +the most irritable of all rancors, viz., that nourished against one’s +nearest relations. He therefore dropped that subject, and said, “Well, +time enough to think of Lenny’s future prospects: meanwhile we are +forgetting the hay-makers. Come.” + +The widow opened the back door, which led across a little apple orchard +into the fields. + +PARSON.—“You have a pleasant place here, and I see that my friend Lenny +should be in no want of apples. I had brought him one, but I have given it +away on the road.” + +WIDOW.—“Oh, sir, it is not the deed—it is the will; as I felt when the +Squire, God bless him! took two pounds off the rent the year he—that is, +Mark—died.” + +PARSON.—“If Lenny continues to be such a help to you, it will not be long +before the Squire may put the two pounds on again.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the widow simply; “I hope he will.” + +“Silly woman!” muttered the Parson. “That’s not exactly what the +schoolmistress would have said. You don’t read nor write, Mrs. Fairfield; +yet you express yourself with great propriety.” + +“You know Mark was a schollard, sir, like my poor, poor, sister; and +though I was a sad stupid girl afore I married, I tried to take after him +when we came together.” + + + + +Chapter IV. + + +They were now in the hayfield, and a boy of about sixteen, but like most +country lads, to appearance much younger than he was, looked up from his +rake, with lively blue eyes, beaming forth under a profusion of brown +curly hair. + +Leonard Fairfield was indeed a very handsome boy—not so stout nor so ruddy +as one would choose for the ideal of rustic beauty; nor yet so delicate in +limb and keen in expression as are those children of cities, in whom the +mind is cultivated at the expense of the body; but still he had the health +of the country in his cheeks, and was not without the grace of the city in +his compact figure and easy movements. There was in his physiognomy +something interesting from its peculiar character of innocence and +simplicity. You could see that he had been brought up by a woman, and much +apart from familiar contact with other children; and such intelligence as +was yet developed in him, was not ripened by the jokes and cuffs of his +coevals, but fostered by decorous lecturings from his elders, and good +little boy maxims in good little boy books. + +PARSON.—“Come hither, Lenny. You know the benefit of school, I see: it can +teach you nothing better than to be a support to your mother.” + +LENNY, looking down sheepishly, and with a heightened glow over his +face.—“Please, sir, that may come one of these days.” + +PARSON—“That’s right Lenny. Let me see! why, you must be nearly a man. How +old are you?” + +Lenny looks up inquiringly at his mother. + +PARSON.—“You ought to know, Lenny; speak for yourself. Hold your tongue, +Mrs. Fairfield.” + +LENNY, twirling his hat, and in great perplexity.—“Well, and there is +Flop, neighbor Dutton’s old sheep-dog. He be very old now.” + +PARSON.—“I am not asking Flop’s age, but your own.” + +“’Deed, sir, I have heard say as how Flop and I were pups together. That +is, I—I—” + +For the Parson is laughing, and so is Mrs. Fairfield; and the haymakers, +who have stood still to listen, are laughing too. And poor Lenny has quite +lost his head, and looks as if he would like to cry. + +PARSON, patting the curly locks, encouragingly.—“Never mind; it is not so +badly answered after all. And how old is Flop?” + +LENNY.—“Why, he must be fifteen year and more.” + +PARSON.—“How old, then, are you?” + +LENNY, looking up with a beam of intelligence.—“Fifteen year and more!” + +Widow sighs and nods her head. + +“That’s what we call putting two and two together,” said the Parson. “Or, +in other words,” and here he raised his eyes majestically toward the +haymakers—“in other words—thanks to his love for his book—simple as he +stands here, Lenny Fairfield has shown himself capable of INDUCTIVE +RATIOCINATION.” + +At those words, delivered _ore rotundo_, the haymakers ceased laughing. +For even in lay matters they held the Parson to be an oracle, and words so +long must have a great deal in them. + +Lenny drew up his head proudly. + +“You are very fond of Flop, I suppose?” + +“’Deed he is,” said the widow, “and of all poor dumb creatures.” + +“Very good. Suppose, my lad, that you had a fine apple, and that you met a +friend who wanted it more than you; what would you do with it?” + +“Please you, sir, I would give him half of it.” + +The Parson’s face fell. “Not the whole, Lenny?” + +Lenny considered. “If he was a friend, sir, he would not like me to give +him all!” + +“Upon my word, Master Leonard, you speak so well, that I must e’en tell +the truth. I brought you an apple, as a prize for good conduct in school. +But I met by the way a poor donkey, and some one beat him for eating a +thistle; so I thought I would make it up by giving him the apple. Ought I +only to have given him the half?” + +Lenny’s innocent face became all smile; his interest was aroused. “And did +the donkey like the apple?” + +“Very much,” said the Parson, fumbling in his pocket, but thinking of +Leonard Fairfield’s years and understanding; and moreover, observing, in +the pride of his heart, that there were many spectators to his deed, he +thought the meditated twopence not sufficient, and he generously produced +a silver sixpence. + +“There, my man, that will pay for the half apple which you would have kept +for yourself.” The Parson again patted the curly locks, and, after a +hearty word or two with the other haymakers, and a friendly “Good-day” to +Mrs. Fairfield, struck into a path that led toward his own glebe. + +He had just crossed the stile, when he heard hasty but timorous feet +behind him. He turned, and saw his friend Lenny. + +LENNY, half crying, and holding out the sixpence.—“Indeed, sir, I would +rather not. I would have given all to the Neddy.” + +PARSON.—“Why, then, my man, you have a still greater right to the +sixpence.” + +LENNY.—“No, sir; ’cause you only gave it to make up for the half apple. +And if I had given the whole, as I ought to have done, why, I should have +had no right to the sixpence. Please, sir, don’t be offended; do take it +back, will you?” + +The Parson hesitated. And the boy thrust the sixpence into his hand, as +the ass had poked his nose there before in quest of the apple. + +“I see,” said Parson Dale, soliloquizing, “that if one don’t give Justice +the first place at the table, all the other Virtues eat up her share.” + +Indeed, the case was perplexing. Charity, like a forward impudent baggage +as she is, always thrusting herself in the way, and taking other people’s +apples to make her own little pie, had defrauded Lenny of his due; and now +Susceptibility, who looks like a shy, blush-faced, awkward Virtue in her +teens—but who, nevertheless, is always engaged in picking the pockets of +her sisters, tried to filch from him his lawful recompense. The case was +perplexing; for the Parson held Susceptibility in great honor, despite her +hypocritical tricks, and did not like to give her a slap in the face, +which might frighten her away forever. So Mr. Dale stood irresolute, +glancing from the sixpence to Lenny, and from Lenny to the sixpence. + +“_Buon giorno_—good-day to you,” said a voice behind, in an accent +slightly but unmistakably foreign, and a strange-looking figure presented +itself at the stile. + +Imagine a tall and exceedingly meagre man, dressed in a rusty suit of +black—the pantaloons tight at the calf and ankle, and there forming a +loose gaiter over thick shoes buckled high at the instep; an old cloak, +lined with red, was thrown over one shoulder, though the day was sultry; a +quaint, red, outlandish umbrella, with a carved brass handle, was thrust +under one arm, though the sky was cloudless; a profusion of raven hair, in +waving curls that seemed as fine as silk, escaped from the sides of a +straw-hat of prodigious brim; a complexion sallow and swarthy, and +features which, though not without considerable beauty to the eye of the +artist, were not only unlike what we fair, well-fed, neat-faced Englishmen +are wont to consider comely, but exceedingly like what we are disposed to +regard as awful and Satanic—to wit, a long hooked nose, sunken cheeks, +black eyes, whose piercing brilliancy took something wizard-like and +mystical from the large spectacles through which they shone; a mouth round +which played an ironical smile, and in which a physiognomist would have +remarked singular shrewdness and some closeness, complete the picture: +imagine this figure, grotesque, peregrinate, and to the eye of a peasant +certainly diabolical, then perch it on the stile in the midst of those +green English fields, and in sight of that primitive English village; +there let it sit straddling, its long legs dangling down, a short German +pipe emitting clouds from one corner of those sardonic lips, its dark eyes +glaring through the spectacles full upon the Parson, yet askant upon Lenny +Fairfield. Lenny Fairfield looked exceedingly frightened. + +“Upon my word, Dr. Riccabocca,” said Mr. Dale, smiling, “you come in good +time to solve a very nice question in casuistry;” and herewith the Parson +explained the case, and put the question—“Ought Lenny Fairfield to have +the sixpence, or ought he not?” + +“_Cospetto_!” said the doctor. “If the hen would but hold her tongue, +nobody would know that she had laid an egg.” + + + + +Chapter V. + + +“Granted,” said the Parson; “but what follows? The saying is good, but I +don’t see the application.” + +“A thousand pardons!” replied Dr. Riccabocca, with all the urbanity of an +Italian; “but it seems to me, that if you had given the sixpence to the +_fanciullo_—that is, to this good little boy—without telling him the story +about the donkey, you would never have put him and yourself into this +awkward dilemma.” + +“But, my dear sir,” whispered the Parson, mildly, as he inclined his lips +to the Doctor’s ear, “I should then have lost the opportunity of +inculcating a moral lesson—you understand.” + +Dr. Riccabocca shrugged his shoulders, restored his pipe to his mouth, and +took a long whiff. It was a whiff eloquent, though cynical—a whiff +peculiar to your philosophical smoker—a whiff that implied the most +absolute but the most placid incredulity as to the effect of the Parson’s +moral lesson. + +“Still you have not given us your decision,” said the Parson, after a +pause. + +The doctor withdrew the pipe. “_Cospetto!_” said he. “He who scrubs the +head of an ass wastes his soap.” + +“If you scrubbed mine fifty times over with those enigmatical proverbs of +yours,” said the Parson, testily, “you would not make it any the wiser.” + +“My good sir,” said the Doctor, bowing low from his perch on the stile, “I +never presumed to say that there were more asses than one in the story; +but I thought that I could not better explain my meaning, which is simply +this—you scrubbed the ass’s head, and therefore you must lose the soap. +Let the _fanciullo_ have the sixpence; and a great sum it is, too, for a +little boy, who may spend it all upon pocket-money!” + +“There, Lenny—you hear?” said the Parson, stretching out the sixpence. But +Lenny retreated, and cast on the umpire a look of great aversion and +disgust. + +“Please, Master Dale,” said he, obstinately, “I’d rather not.” + +“It is a matter of feeling, you see,” said the Parson, turning to the +umpire; “and I believe the boy is right.” + +“If it is a matter of feeling,” replied Dr. Riccabocca, “there is no more +to be said on it. When Feeling comes in at the door, Reason has nothing to +do but to jump out of the window.” + +“Go, my good boy,” said the Parson, pocketing the coin; “but stop! give me +your hand first. _There_—I understand you—good-by!” + +Lenny’s eyes glistened as the Parson shook him by the hand, and, not +trusting himself to speak, he walked off sturdily. The Parson wiped his +forehead, and sat himself down on the stile beside the Italian. The view +before them was lovely, and both enjoyed it (though not equally) enough to +be silent for some moments. On the other side the lane, seen between gaps +in the old oaks and chestnuts that hung over the moss-grown pales of +Hazeldean Park, rose gentle verdant slopes, dotted with sheep and herds of +deer; a stately avenue stretched far away to the left, and ended at the +right hand, within a few yards of a ha-ha that divided the park from a +level sward of table-land gay with shrubs and flower-plots, relieved by +the shade of two mighty cedars. And on this platform, only seen in part, +stood the squire’s old-fashioned house, red brick, with stone mullions, +gable-ends, and quaint chimney-pots. On this side the road, immediately +facing the two gentlemen, cottage after cottage whitely emerged from the +curves in the lane, while, beyond, the ground declining gave an extensive +prospect of woods and cornfields, spires and farms. Behind, from a belt of +lilacs and evergreens, you caught a peep of the parsonage-house, backed by +woodlands, and a little noisy rill running in front. The birds were still +in the hedgerows, only as if from the very heart of the most distant +woods, there came now and then the mellow note of the cuckoo. + +“Verily,” said Mr. Dale softly, “my lot has fallen on a goodly heritage.” + +The Italian twitched his cloak over him, and sighed almost inaudibly. +Perhaps he thought of his own Summer Land, and felt that amidst all that +fresh verdure of the North, there was no heritage for the stranger. + +However, before the Parson could notice the sigh or conjecture the cause, +Dr. Riccabocca’s thin lips took an expression almost malignant. + +“_Per Bacco!_” said he; “in every country I find that the rooks settle +where the trees are the finest. I am sure that, when Noah first landed on +Ararat, he must have found some gentleman in black already settled in the +pleasantest part of the mountain, and waiting for his tenth of the cattle +as they came out of the ark.” + +The Parson turned his meek eyes to the philosopher, and there was in them +something so deprecating rather than reproachful, that Dr. Riccabocca +turned away his face, and refilled his pipe. Dr. Riccabocca abhorred +priests; but though Parson Dale was emphatically a parson, he seemed at +that moment so little of what Dr. Riccabocca understood by a priest, that +the Italian’s heart smote him for his irreverent jest on the cloth. +Luckily at this moment there was a diversion to that untoward commencement +of conversation, in the appearance of no less a personage than the donkey +himself—I mean the donkey who ate the apple. + + + + +Chapter VI. + + +The Tinker was a stout swarthy fellow, jovial and musical withal, for he +was singing a stave as he flourished his staff, and at the end of each +_refrain_ down came the staff on the quarters of the donkey. The tinker +went behind and sung, the donkey went before and was thwacked. + +“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr. Riccabocca; “in mine it is not the +ass that walks first in the procession, who gets the blows.” + +The Parson jumped from the stile, and, looking over the hedge that divided +the field from the road—“Gently, gently,” said he; “the sound of the stick +spoils the singing! O Mr. Sprott, Mr. Sprott! a good man is merciful to +his beast.” + +The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend, for it stopped +short, pricked one ear wistfully, and looked up. + +The Tinker touched his hat, and looked up too. “Lord bless your reverence! +he does not mind it, he likes it. I vould not hurt thee; vould I, Neddy?” + +The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps a fly had settled on the +sore, which the chestnut leaves no longer protected. + +“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott,” said the Parson, more +politely, I fear, than honesty—for he had seen enough of that +cross-grained thing called the human heart, even in the little world of a +country parish, to know that it requires management, and coaxing, and +flattering, to interfere successfully between a man and his own donkey—“I +am sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he has already got a sore on his +shoulder as big as my hand, poor thing!” + +“Lord love ’un! yes; that vas done a playing with the manger, the day I +gave ’un oats!” said the Tinker. + +Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyed the ass. The ass +pricked up his other ear, and surveyed Dr. Riccabocca. In that mutual +survey of physical qualifications, each being regarded according to the +average symmetry of its species, it may be doubted whether the advantage +was on the side of the philosopher. + +The Parson had a great notion of the wisdom of his friend, in all matters +not immediately ecclesiastical. + +“Say a good word for the donkey!” whispered he. + +“Sir,” said the Doctor, addressing Mr. Sprott, with a respectful +salutation, “there’s a great kettle at my house—the Casino—which wants +soldering: can you recommend me a Tinker?” + +“Why, that’s all in my line,” said Sprott, “and there ben’t a Tinker in +the country that I vould recommend like myself, thof I say it.” + +“You jest, good sir,” said the Doctor, smiling pleasantly. “A man who +can’t mend a hole in his own donkey, can never demean himself by patching +up my great kettle.” + +“Lord, sir!” said the Tinker, archly, “if I had known that poor Neddy had +had two sitch friends in court, I’d have seen he was a gintleman, and +treated him as sitch.” + +“_Corpo di Bacco_.” quoth the Doctor, “though that jest’s not new, I think +the Tinker comes very well out of it.” + +“True; but the donkey!” said the Parson, “I’ve a great mind to buy it.” + +“Permit me to tell you an anecdote in point,” said Dr. Riccabocca. + +“Well?” said the Parson, interrogatively. + +“Once in a time,” pursued Riccabocca, “the Emperor Adrian, going to the +public baths, saw an old soldier, who had served under him, rubbing his +back against the marble wall. The emperor, who was a wise, and therefore a +curious, inquisitive man, sent for the soldier, and asked him why he +resorted to that sort of friction. ‘Because,’ answered the veteran, ‘I am +too poor to have slaves to rub me down.’ The emperor was touched, and gave +him slaves and money. The next day, when Adrian went to the baths, all the +old men in the city were to be seen rubbing themselves against the marble +as hard as they could. The emperor sent for them, and asked them the same +question which he had put to the soldier; the cunning old rogues, of +course, made the same answer. ‘Friends,’ said Adrian, ‘since there are so +many of you, you will just rub one another!’ Mr. Dale, if you don’t want +to have all the donkeys in the county with holes in their shoulders, you +had better not buy the Tinker’s!” + +“It is the hardest thing in the world to do the least bit of good,” +groaned the Parson, as he broke a twig off the hedge nervously, snapped it +in two, and flung the fragments on the road—one of them hit the donkey on +the nose. If the ass could have spoken Latin, he would have said, “_Et tu, +Brute!_” As it was, he hung down his ears, and walked on. + +“Gee hup,” said the Tinker, and he followed the ass. Then stopping, he +looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the Parson’s eyes were gazing +mournfully on his _protégé_, “Never fear, your reverence,” cried the +Tinker kindly; “I’ll not spite ’un.” + + + + +Chapter VII. + + +“Four o’clock,” cried the Parson, looking at his watch; “half-an-hour +after dinner-time, and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual, +because of the fine trout the Squire sent us. Will you venture on what our +homely language calls ‘pot luck,’ Doctor?” + +Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially if Italians, was by no +means inclined to the credulous view of human nature. Indeed, he was in +the habit of detecting self-interest in the simplest actions of his +fellow-creatures. And when the Parson thus invited him to pot luck, he +smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for Mrs. Dale enjoyed the +reputation of having what her friends styled “her little tempers.” And, as +well-bred ladies rarely indulge “little tempers” in the presence of a +third person, not of the family, so Dr. Riccabocca instantly concluded +that he was invited to stand between the pot and the luck! Nevertheless—as +he was fond of trout, and a much more good-natured man than he ought to +have been according to his principles—he accepted the hospitality; but he +did so with a sly look from over his spectacles, which brought a blush +into the guilty cheeks of the Parson. Certainly Riccabocca had for once +guessed right in his estimate of human motives. + +The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and +entered the parsonage lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sate on watch +for their master, sprung toward him barking; and the sound drew the notice +of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash window +which opened on the lawn. Now, O reader! I know that in thy secret heart, +thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in the sacred arcana of the +domestic hearth, betrayed by the author; thou art saying to thyself, “A +pretty way to conciliate little tempers indeed, to add to the offense of +spoiling the fish the crime of bringing an unexpected friend to eat it. +Pot luck, quotha, when the pot’s boiled over this half hour!” + +But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O reader, learn that both the +author and Parson Dale knew very well what they were about. + +Dr. Riccabocca was the special favorite of Mrs. Dale, and the only person +in the whole country who never put her out, by dropping in. In fact, +strange though it may seem at first glance, Dr. Riccabocca had that +mysterious something about him which we of his own sex can so little +comprehend, but which always propitiates the other. He owed this, in part, +to his own profound but hypocritical policy; for he looked upon woman as +the natural enemy to man—against whom it was necessary to be always on the +guard; whom it was prudent to disarm by every species of fawning servility +and abject complaisance. He owed it also, in part, to the compassionate +and heavenly nature of the angels whom his thoughts thus villainously +traduced—for women like one whom they can pity without despising; and +there was something in Signor Riccabocca’s poverty, in his loneliness, in +his exile, whether voluntary or compelled, that excited pity; while, +despite the threadbare coat, the red umbrella, and the wild hair, he had, +especially when addressing ladies, that air of gentleman and cavalier +which is or was more innate in an educated Italian, of whatever rank, than +perhaps in the highest aristocracy of another country in Europe. For, +though I grant that nothing is more exquisite than the politeness of your +French marquis of the old _régime_—nothing more frankly gracious than the +cordial address of a highbred English gentleman—nothing more kindly +prepossessing than the genial good-nature of some patriarchal German, who +will condescend to forget his sixteen quarterings in the pleasure of doing +you a favor—yet these specimens of the suavity of their several nations +are rare; whereas blandness and polish are common attributes with your +Italian. They seem to have been immemorially handed down to him, from +ancestors emulating the urbanity of Cæsar, and refined by the grace of +Horace. + +“Dr. Riccabocca consents to dine with us,” cried the Parson, hastily. + +“If madame permit?” said the Italian, bowing over the hand extended to +him, which, however, he forebore to take, seeing it was already full of +the watch. + +“I am only sorry that the trout must be quite spoiled,” began Mrs. Dale, +plaintively. + +“It is not the trout one thinks of when one dines with Mrs. Dale,” said +the infamous dissimulator. + +“But I see James coming to say that dinner is ready?” observed the Parson. + +“He said _that_ three quarters of an hour ago, Charles dear,” retorted +Mrs. Dale, taking the arm of Dr. Riccabocca. + + + + +Chapter VIII. + + +While the Parson and his wife are entertaining their guest, I propose to +regale the reader with a small treatise apropos of that “Charles dear,” +murmured by Mrs. Dale;—a treatise expressly written for the benefit of THE +DOMESTIC CIRCLE. + +It is an old jest that there is not a word in the language that conveys so +little endearment as the word “dear.” But though the saying itself, like +most truths, be trite and hackneyed, no little novelty remains to the +search of the inquirer into the varieties of inimical import comprehended +in that malign monosyllable. For instance, I submit to the experienced +that the degree of hostility it betrays is in much proportioned to its +collocation in the sentence. When, gliding indirectly through the rest of +the period, it takes its stand at the close, as in that “Charles dear” of +Mrs. Dale—it has spilt so much of its natural bitterness by the way that +it assumes even a smile, “amara lento temperet risu.” Sometimes the smile +is plaintive, sometimes arch. _Ex. gr._ + +(_Plaintive_.) + +“I know very well that whatever I do is wrong, Charles dear.” + +“Nay, I am only glad you amused yourself so much without me, Charles +dear.” + +“Not quite so loud! If you had, but my poor head, Charles dear,” &c. + +(_Arch_.) + +“If you _could_ spill the ink any where but on the best table-cloth, +Charles dear!” + +“But though you must always have your own way, you are not _quite +faultless_, own, Charles dear,” &c. + +In this collocation occur many dears, parental as well as conjugal; +as—“Hold up your head and don’t look quite so cross, dear.” + +“Be a good boy for once in your life—that’s a dear,” &c. + +When the enemy stops in the middle of the sentence, its venom is naturally +less exhausted. _Ex. gr._ + +“Really, I must say, Charles dear, that you are the most fidgety person,” +&c. + +“And if the house bills were so high last week, Charles dear, I should +just like to know whose fault it was—that’s all.” + +“Do you think, Charles dear, that you could put your feet any where except +upon the chintz sofa?” + +“But you know, Charles dear, that you care no more for me and the children +than,” &c. + +But if the fatal word spring up, in its primitive freshness, at the head +of the sentence, bow your head to the storm. It then assumes the majesty +of “my” before it; is generally more than simple objurgation—it prefaces a +sermon. My candor obliges me to confess that this is the mode in which the +hateful monosyllable is more usually employed by the marital part of the +one flesh; and has something about it of the odious assumption of the +Petruchian _pater-familias_—the head of the family—boding, not perhaps +“peace, and love, and quiet life,” but certainly “awful rule and right +supremacy.” _Ex. gr._ + +“My dear Jane—I wish you would just put by that everlasting tent-stitch, +and listen to me for a few moments,” &c. + +“My dear Jane—I wish you would understand me for once—don’t think I am +angry—no, but I am hurt. You must consider,” &c. + +“My dear Jane—I don’t know if it is your intention to ruin me; but I only +wish you would do as all other women do who care three straws for their +husbands’ property,” &c. + +“My dear Jane—I wish you to understand that I am the last person in the +world to be jealous; but I’ll be d—d if that puppy, Captain Prettyman,” +&c. + +Now, if that same “dear” could be thoroughly raked and hoed out of the +connubial garden, I don’t think that the remaining nettles would signify a +button. But even as it was, Parson Dale, good man, would have prized his +garden beyond all the bowers which Spenser and Tasso have sung so +musically, though there had not been a single specimen of “dear,” whether +the dear _humilis_, or the dear _superba_, the dear _pallida_, _rubra_, or +_nigra_; the dear _umbrosa_, _florens_, _spicata_; the dear _savis_, or +the dear _horrida_; no, not a single dear in the whole horticulture of +matrimony which Mrs. Dale had not brought to perfection; but this, +fortunately, was far from being the case. The _dears_ of Mrs. Dale were +only wild flowers, after all. + + + + +Chapter IX. + + +In the cool of the evening, Dr. Riccabocca walked home across the fields. +Mr. and Mrs. Dale had accompanied him half way; and as they now turned +back to the Parsonage, they looked behind, to catch a glimpse of the tall, +outlandish figure, winding slowly through the path amidst the waves of the +green corn. + +“Poor man!” said Mrs. Dale, feelingly; “and the button was off his +wristband! What a pity he has nobody to take care of him! He seems very +domestic. Don’t you think, Charles, it would be a great blessing if we +could get him a good wife?” + +“Um,” said the Parson; “I doubt if he values the married state as he +ought.” + +“What do you mean, Charles? I never saw a man more polite to ladies in my +life.” + +“Yes, but—” + +“But what? You are always so mysterious, Charles dear.” + +“Mysterious! No, Carry; but if you could hear what the Doctor says of the +ladies sometimes.” + +“Ay, when you men get together, my dear. I know what that means—pretty +things you say of us. But you are all alike; you know you are, love!” + +“I am sure,” said the Parson, simply, “that I have good cause to speak +well of the sex—when I think of you, and my poor mother.” + +Mrs. Dale, who, with all her “tempers,” was an excellent woman, and loved +her husband with the whole of her quick little heart, was touched. She +pressed his hand, and did not call him _dear_ all the way home. + +Meanwhile the Italian passed the fields, and came upon the high-road about +two miles from Hazeldean. On one side stood an old-fashioned solitary inn, +such as English inns used to be before they became railway hotels—square, +solid, old-fashioned, looking so hospitable and comfortable, with their +great signs swinging from some elm tree in front, and the long row of +stables standing a little back, with a chaise or two in the yard, and the +jolly landlord talking of the crops to some stout farmer, who has stopped +his rough pony at the well-known door. Opposite this inn, on the other +side the road, stood the habitation of Dr. Riccabocca. + +A few years before the date of these annals, the stage-coach, on its way +to London, from a seaport town, stopped at the inn, as was its wont, for a +good hour, that its passengers might dine like Christian Englishmen—not +gulp down a basin of scalding soup, like everlasting heathen Yankees, with +that cursed railway whistle shrieking like a fiend in their ears! It was +the best dining-place on the whole road, for the trout in the neighboring +rill were famous, and so was the mutton which came from Hazeldean Park. + +From the outside of the coach had descended two passengers who, alone, +insensible to the attractions of mutton and trout, refused to dine—two +melancholy-looking foreigners, of whom one was Signor Riccabocca, much the +same as we see him now, only that the black suit, was less threadbare, the +tall form less meagre, and he did not then wear spectacles; and the other +was his servant. They would walk about while the coach stopped. Now the +Italian’s eye had been caught by a mouldering dismantled house on the +other side the road, which nevertheless was well situated; half-way up a +green hill, with its aspect due south, a little cascade falling down +artificial rock-work, and a terrace with a balustrade, and a few broken +urns and statues before its Ionic portico; while on the roadside stood a +board, with characters already half effaced, implying that the house was +to be “Let unfurnished, with or without land.” + +The abode that looked so cheerless, and which had so evidently hung long +on hand, was the property of Squire Hazeldean. It had been built by his +grandfather on the female side—a country gentleman who had actually been +in Italy (a journey rare enough to boast of in those days), and who, on +his return home, had attempted a miniature imitation of an Italian villa. +He left an only daughter and sole heiress, who married Squire Hazeldean’s +father; and since that time, the house, abandoned by its proprietors for +the larger residence of the Hazeldeans, had been uninhabited and +neglected. Several tenants, indeed, had offered themselves: but your +Squire is slow in admitting upon his own property a rival neighbor. Some +wanted shooting. “That,” said the Hazeldeans, who were great sportsmen and +strict preservers, “was quite out of the question.” Others were fine folks +from London. “London servants,” said the Hazeldeans, who were moral and +prudent people, “would corrupt their own, and bring London prices.” +Others, again, were retired manufacturers, at whom the Hazeldeans turned +up their agricultural noses. In short, some were too grand, and others too +vulgar. Some were refused because they were known so well: “Friends are +best at a distance,” said the Hazeldeans. Others because they were not +known at all: “No good comes of strangers,” said the Hazeldeans. And +finally, as the house fell more and more into decay, no one would take it +unless it was put into thorough repair: “As if one was made of money!” +said the Hazeldeans. In short, there stood the house unoccupied and +ruinous; and there, on its terrace, stood the two forlorn Italians, +surveying it with a smile at each other, as, for the first time since they +set foot in England, they recognized, in dilapidated pilasters and broken +statues, in a weed-grown terrace and the remains of an orangery, something +that reminded them of the land they had left behind. + +On returning to the inn, Dr. Riccabocca took the occasion of learning from +the innkeeper (who was indeed a tenant of the Squire’s) such particulars +as he could collect; and a few days afterward Mr. Hazeldean received a +letter from a solicitor of repute in London, stating that a very +respectable foreign gentleman had commissioned him to treat for Clump +Lodge, otherwise called the “Casino;” that the said gentleman did not +shoot—lived in great seclusion—and, having no family, did not care about +the repairs of the place, provided only it were made weather-proof—if the +omission of more expensive reparations could render the rent suitable to +his finances, which were very limited. The offer came at a fortunate +moment—when the steward had just been representing to the Squire the +necessity of doing something to keep the Casino from falling into positive +ruin, and the Squire was cursing the fates which had put the Casino into +an entail—so that he could not pull it down for the building materials. +Mr. Hazeldean therefore caught at the proposal even as a fair lady, who +has refused the best offers in the kingdom, catches at last at some +battered old captain on half-pay, and replied that, as for rent, if the +solicitor’s client was a quiet respectable man, he did not care for that. +But that the gentleman might have it for the first year rent free, on +condition of paying the taxes and putting the place a little in order. If +they suited each other, they could then come to terms. Ten days +subsequently to this gracious reply, Signor Riccabocca and his servant +arrived; and, before the year’s end, the Squire was so contented with his +tenant that he gave him a running lease of seven, fourteen, or twenty-one +years, at a rent nearly nominal, on condition that Signor Riccabocca would +put and maintain the place in repair, barring the roof and fences, which +the Squire generously renewed at his own expense. It was astonishing, by +little and little, what a pretty place the Italian had made of it, and +what is more astonishing, how little it had cost him. He had indeed +painted the walls of the hall, staircase, and the rooms appropriated to +himself, with his own hands. His servant had done the greater part of the +upholstery. The two between them had got the garden into order. The +Italians seemed to have taken a joint love to the place, and to deck it as +they would have done some favorite chapel to their Madonna. + +It was long before the natives reconciled themselves to the odd ways of +the foreign settlers—the first thing that offended them was the exceeding +smallness of the household bills. Three days out of the seven, indeed, +both man and master dined on nothing else but the vegetables in the +garden, and the fishes in the neighboring rill; when no trout could be +caught they fried the minnows (and certainly, even in the best streams, +minnows are more frequently caught than trouts). The next thing which +angered the natives quite as much, especially the female part of the +neighborhood, was the very sparing employment the two he creatures gave to +the sex usually deemed so indispensable in household matters. At first +indeed, they had no woman servant at all. But this created such horror +that Parson Dale ventured a hint upon the matter, which Riccabocca took in +very good part, and an old woman was forthwith engaged, after some +bargaining—at three shillings a week—to wash and scrub as much as she +liked during the daytime. She always returned to her own cottage to sleep. +The man-servant, who was styled in the neighborhood “Jackeymo,” did all +else for his master—smoothed his room, dusted his papers, prepared his +coffee, cooked his dinner, brushed his clothes, and cleaned his pipes, of +which Riccabocca had a large collection. But, however close a man’s +character, it generally creeps out in driblets; and on many little +occasions the Italian had shown acts of kindness, and, on some more rare +occasions, even of generosity, which had served to silence his +calumniators, and by degrees he had established a very fair +reputation—suspected, it is true, of being a little inclined to the Black +Art, and of a strange inclination to starve Jackeymo and himself—in other +respects harmless enough. + +Signor Riccabocca had become very intimate, as we have seen, at the +Parsonage. But not so at the Hall. For though the Squire was inclined to +be very friendly to all his neighbors—he was, like most country gentlemen, +rather easily _huffed_. Riccabocca had, if with great politeness, still +with great obstinacy, refused Mr. Hazeldean’s earlier invitations to +dinner, and when the Squire found, that the Italian rarely declined to +dine at the Parsonage, he was offended in one of his weak points, viz., +his regard for the honor of the hospitality of Hazeldean Hall—and he +ceased altogether invitations so churlishly rejected. Nevertheless, as it +was impossible for the Squire, however huffed, to bear malice, he now and +then reminded Riccabocca of his existence by presents of game, and would +have called on him more often than he did, but that Riccabocca received +him with such excessive politeness that the blunt country gentleman felt +shy and put out, and used to say that “to call on Riccabocca was as bad as +going to court.” + +But I left Dr. Riccabocca on the high-road. By this time he has ascended a +narrow path that winds by the side of the cascade, he has passed a +trellis-work covered with vines, from the which Jackeymo has positively +succeeded in making what he calls _wine_—a liquid, indeed, that, if the +cholera had been popularly known in those days, would have soured the +mildest member of the Board of Health; for Squire Hazeldean, though a +robust man who daily carried off his bottle of port with impunity, having +once rashly tasted it, did not recover the effect till he had had a bill +from the apothecary as long as his own arm. Passing this trellis, Dr. +Riccabocca entered upon the terrace, with its stone pavement smoothed and +trim as hands could make it. Here, on neat stands, all his favorite +flowers were arranged. Here four orange trees were in full blossom; here a +kind of summer-house or Belvidere, built by Jackeymo and himself, made his +chosen morning room from May till October; and from this Belvidere there +was as beautiful an expanse of prospect as if our English Nature had +hospitably spread on her green board all that she had to offer as a +banquet to the exile. + +A man without his coat, which was thrown over the balustrade, was employed +in watering the flowers; a man with movements so mechanical—with a face so +rigidly grave in its tawny hues—that he seemed like an automaton made out +of mahogany. + +“Giacomo,” said Dr. Riccabocca, softly. + +The automaton stopped its hand, and turned its head. + +“Put by the watering-pot, and come here,” continued Riccabocca in Italian; +and, moving toward the balustrade, he leaned over it. Mr. Mitford, the +historian, calls Jean Jacques “_John James_.” Following that illustrious +example, Giacomo shall be Anglified into Jackeymo. Jackeymo came to the +balustrade also, and stood a little behind his master. + +“Friend,” said Riccabocca, “enterprises have not always succeeded with us. +Don’t you think, after all, it is tempting our evil star to rent those +fields from the landlord?” Jackeymo crossed himself, and made some strange +movement with a little coral charm which he wore set in a ring on his +finger. + +“If the Madonna send us luck, and we could hire a lad cheap?” said +Jackeymo, doubtfully. + +“_Piu vale un presente che due futuri_,” said Riccabocca. “A bird in the +hand is worth two in the bush.” + +“_Chi non fa quondo può, non può fare quondo vuole_”—(“He who will not +when he may, when he will it shall have nay”)—answered Jackeymo, as +sententiously as his master. “And the Padrone should think in time that he +must lay by for the dower of the poor signorina”—(young lady). + +Riccabocca sighed, and made no reply. + +“She must be _that_ high now!” said Jackeymo, putting his hand on some +imaginary line a little above the balustrade. Riccabocca’s eyes, raised +over the spectacles, followed the hand. + +“If the Padrone could but see her here—” + +“I thought I did!” muttered the Italian. + +“He would never let her go from his side till she went to a husband’s,” +continued Jackeymo. + +“But this climate—she could never stand it,” said Riccabocca, drawing his +cloak round him, as a north wind took him in the rear. + +“The orange trees blossom even here with care,” said Jackeymo, turning +back to draw down an awning where the orange trees faced the north. “See!” +he added, as he returned with a sprig in full bud. + +Dr. Riccabocca bent over the blossom, and then placed it in his bosom. + +“The _other_ one should be there, too,” said Jackeymo. + +“To die—as this does already!” answered Riccabocca. “Say no more.” + +Jackeymo shrugged his shoulders; and then, glancing at his master, drew +his hand over his eyes. + +There was a pause. Jackeymo was the first to break it. + +“But, whether here or there, beauty without money is the orange tree +without shelter. If a lad could be got cheap, I would hire the land, and +trust for the crop to the Madonna.” + +“I think I know of such a lad,” said Riccabocca, recovering himself, and +with his sardonic smile once more lurking about the corner of his mouth—“a +lad made for us!” + +“Diavolo!” + +“No, not the Diavolo! Friend, I have this day seen a boy who—refused +sixpence!” + +“_Cosa stupenda!_”—(Stupendous thing!) exclaimed Jackeymo, opening his +eyes, and letting fall the water-pot. + +“It is true, my friend.” + +“Take him, Padrone, in Heaven’s name, and the fields will grow gold.” + +“I will think of it, for it must require management to catch such a boy,” +said Riccabocca. “Meanwhile, light a candle in the parlor, and bring from +my bedroom—that great folio of Machiavelli.” + + + + + +THE TWO GUIDES OF THE CHILD. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.) + + +A spirit near me said, “Look forth upon the Land of Life. What do you +see?” + +“Steep mountains, covered by a mighty plain, a table-land of many-colored +beauty. Beauty, nay, it seems all beautiful at first, but now I see that +there are some parts barren.” + +“Are they quite barren?—look more closely still!” + +“No, in the wildest deserts, now, I see some gum-dropping acacias, and the +crimson blossom of the cactus. But there are regions that rejoice +abundantly in flower and fruit; and now, O Spirit, I see men and women +moving to and fro.” + +“Observe them, mortal.” + +“I behold a world of love; the men have women’s arms entwined about them; +some upon the verge of precipices—friends are running to the rescue. There +are many wandering like strangers, who know not their road, and they look +upward. Spirit, how many, many eyes are looking up as if to God! Ah, now I +see some strike their neighbors down into the dust; I see some wallowing +like swine; I see that there are men and women brutal.” + +“Are they quite brutal—look more closely still.” + +“No, I see prickly sorrow growing out of crime, and penitence awakened by +a look of love. I see good gifts bestowed out of the hand of murder, and +see truth issue out of lying lips. But in this plain, O Spirit, I see +regions—wide, bright regions—yielding fruit and flower, while others seem +perpetually vailed with fogs, and in them no fruit ripens. I see pleasant +regions where the rock is full of clefts, and people fall into them. The +men who dwell beneath the fog deal lovingly, and yet they have small +enjoyment in the world around them, which they scarcely see. But whither +are these women going?” + +“Follow them.” + +“I have followed down the mountains to a haven in the vale below. All that +is lovely in the world of flowers makes a fragrant bed for the dear +children; birds singing, they breathe upon the pleasant air; the +butterflies play with them. Their limbs shine white among the blossoms, +and their mothers come down full of joy to share their innocent delight. +They pelt each other with the lilies of the valley. They call up at will +fantastic masks, grim giants play to make them merry, a thousand grotesque +loving phantoms kiss them; to each the mother is the one thing real, the +highest bliss—the next bliss is the dream of all the world beside. Some +that are motherless, all mother’s love. Every gesture, every look, every +odor, every song, adds to the charm of love which fills the valley. Some +little figures fall and die, and on the valley’s soil they crumble into +violets and lilies, with love-tears to hang in them like dew. + +“Who dares to come down with a frown into this happy valley? A severe man +seizes an unhappy, shrieking child, and leads it to the roughest ascent of +the mountain. He will lead it over steep rocks to the plain of the mature. +On ugly needle-points he makes the child sit down, and teaches it its duty +in the world above.” + +“Its duty, mortal! Do you listen to the teacher?” + +“Spirit, I hear now. The child is informed about two languages spoken by +nations extinct centuries ago, and something also, O Spirit, about the +base of an hypothenuse.” + +“Does the child attend?” + +“Not much; but it is beaten silly, and its knees are bruised against the +rocks, till it is hauled up, woe-begone and weary, to the upper plain. It +looks about bewildered; all is strange—it knows not how to act. Fogs crown +the barren mountain paths. Spirit, I am unhappy; there are many children +thus hauled up, and as young men upon the plain; they walk in fog, or +among brambles; some fall into pits; and many, getting into flower-paths, +lie down and learn. Some become active, seeking right, but ignorant of +what right is; they wander among men out of their fog-land, preaching +folly. Let me go back among the children.” + +“Have they no better guide?” + +“Yes, now there comes one with a smiling face, and rolls upon the flowers +with the little ones, and they are drawn to him. And he has magic spells +to conjure up glorious spectacles of fairy land. He frolics with them, and +might be first cousin to the butterflies. He wreathes their little heads +with flower garlands, and with his fairy land upon his lips he walks +toward the mountains; eagerly they follow. He seeks the smoothest upward +path, and that is but a rough one, yet they run up merrily, guide and +children, butterflies pursuing still the flowers as they nod over a host +of laughing faces. They talk of the delightful fairy world, and resting in +the shady places learn of the yet more delightful world of God. They learn +to love the Maker of the Flowers, to know how great the Father of the +Stars must be, how good must be the Father of the Beetle. They listen to +the story of the race they go to labor with upon the plain, and love it +for the labor it has done. They learn old languages of men, to understand +the past—more eagerly they learn the voices of the men of their own day, +that they may take part with the present. And in their study when they +flag, they fall back upon thoughts of the Child Valley they are leaving. +Sports and fancies are the rod and spur that bring them with new vigor to +the lessons. When they reach the plain they cry, ‘We know you, men and +women; we know to what you have aspired for centuries; we know the love +there is in you; we know the love there is in God; we come prepared to +labor with you, dear, good friends. We will not call you clumsy when we +see you tumble, we will try to pick you up; when we fall, you shall pick +us up. We have been trained to love, and therefore we can aid you +heartily, for love is labor!’ ” + +The Spirit whispered, “You have seen and you have heard. Go now, and speak +unto your fellow-men: ask justice for the child.” + +To-day should love To-morrow, for it is a thing of hope; let the young +Future not be nursed by Care. God gave not fancy to the child that men +should stamp its blossoms down into the loose soil of intellect. The +child’s heart was not made full to the brim of love, that men should pour +its love away, and bruise instead of kiss the trusting innocent. Love and +fancy are the stems on which we may graft knowledge readily. What is +called by some dry folks a solid foundation may be a thing not desirable. +To cut down all the trees, and root up all the flowers in a garden, to +cover walks and flower-beds alike with a hard crust of well-rolled gravel, +that would be to lay down your solid foundation after a plan which some +think good in a child’s mind, though not quite worth adopting in a garden. +O, teacher, love the child and learn of it; so let it love and learn of +you. + + + + + +THE LABORATORY IN THE CHEST. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.) + + +The mind of Mr. Bagges was decidedly affected—beneficially—by the lecture +on the Chemistry of a Candle, which, as set forth in a previous number of +this journal, had been delivered to him by his youthful nephew. That +learned discourse inspired him with a new feeling; an interest in matters +of science. He began to frequent the Polytechnic Institution, nearly as +much as his club. He also took to lounging at the British Museum; where he +was often to be seen, with his left arm under his coat-tails, examining +the wonderful works of nature and antiquity, through his eye-glass. +Moreover, he procured himself to be elected a member of the Royal +Institution, which became a regular house of call to him, so that in a +short time he grew to be one of the ordinary phenomena of the place. + +Mr. Bagges likewise adopted a custom of giving _conversaziones,_ which, +however, were always very private and select—generally confined to his +sister’s family. Three courses were first discussed; then dessert; after +which, surrounded by an apparatus of glasses and decanters, Master Harry +Wilkinson was called upon, as a sort of juvenile Davy, to amuse his uncle +by the elucidation of some chemical or other physical mystery. Master +Wilkinson had now attained to the ability of making experiments; most of +which, involving combustion, were strongly deprecated by the young +gentleman’s mamma; but her opposition was overruled by Mr. Bagges, who +argued that it was much better that a young dog should burn phosphorus +before your face than let off gunpowder behind your back, to say nothing +of occasionally pinning a cracker to your skirts. He maintained that +playing with fire and water, throwing stones, and such like boys’ tricks, +as they are commonly called, are the first expressions of a scientific +tendency—endeavors and efforts of the infant mind to acquaint itself with +the powers of Nature. + +His own favorite toys, he remembered, were squibs, suckers, squirts, and +slings; and he was persuaded that, by his having been denied them at +school, a natural philosopher had been nipped in the bud. + +Blowing bubbles was an example—by-the-by, a rather notable one—by which +Mr. Bagges, on one of his scientific evenings, was instancing the affinity +of child’s play to philosophical experiments, when he bethought him Harry +had said on a former occasion that the human breath consists chiefly of +carbonic acid, which is heavier than common air. How then, it occurred to +his inquiring, though elderly mind, was it that soap-bladders, blown from +a tobacco-pipe, rose instead of sinking? He asked his nephew this. + +“Oh, uncle!” answered Harry, “in the first place, the air you blow bubbles +with mostly comes in at the nose and goes out at the mouth, without having +been breathed at all. Then it is warmed by the mouth, and warmth, you +know, makes a measure of air get larger, and so lighter in proportion. A +soap-bubble rises for the same reason that a fire-balloon rises—that is, +because the air inside of it has been heated, and weighs less than the +same sized bubbleful of cold air.” + +“What, hot breath does!” said Mr. Bagges. “Well, now, it’s a curious +thing, when you come to think of it, that the breath should be hot—indeed, +the warmth of the body generally seems a puzzle. It is wonderful, too, how +the bodily heat can be kept up so long as it is. Here, now, is this +tumbler of hot grog—a mixture of boiling water, and what d’ye call it, you +scientific geniuses?” + +“Alcohol, uncle.” + +“Alcohol—well—or, as we used to say, brandy. Now, if I leave this tumbler +of brandy-and-water alone—” + +“_If_ you do, uncle,” interposed his nephew, archly. + +“Get along, you idle rogue! If I let that tumbler stand there, in a few +minutes the brandy-and-water—eh?—I beg pardon—the alcohol-and-water—gets +cold. Now, why—why the deuce—if the brand—the alcohol-and-water cools; +why—how—how is it we don’t cool in the same way, I want to know? eh?” +demanded Mr. Bagges, with the air of a man who feels satisfied that he has +propounded a “regular poser.” + +“Why,” replied Harry, “for the same reason that the room keeps warm so +long as there is a fire in the grate.” + +“You don’t mean to say that I have a fire in my body?” + +“I do, though.” + +“Eh, now? That’s good,” said Mr. Bagges. “That reminds me of the man in +love crying, ‘Fire! fire!’ and the lady said, ‘Where, where?’ And he +called out, ‘Here! here!’ with his hand upon his heart. Eh?—but now I +think of it—you said, the other day, that breathing was a sort of burning. +Do you mean to tell me that I—eh?—have fire, fire, as the lover said, +here, here—in short, that my chest is a grate or an Arnott’s stove?” + +“Not exactly so, uncle. But I do mean to tell you that you have a sort of +fire burning partly in your chest; but also, more or less, throughout your +whole body.” + +“Oh, Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson, “How can you say such horrid +things!” + +“Because they’re quite true, mamma—but you needn’t be frightened. The fire +of one’s body is not hotter than from ninety degrees to one hundred and +four degrees or so. Still it is fire, and will burn some things, as you +would find, uncle, if, in using phosphorus, you were to let a little bit +of it get under your nail.” + +“I’ll take your word for the fact, my boy,” said Mr. Bagges. “But, if I +have a fire burning throughout my person—which I was not aware of, the +only inflammation I am ever troubled with being in the great toe—I say, if +my body is burning continually—how is it I don’t smoke—eh? Come, now?” + +“Perhaps you consume your own smoke,” suggested Mr. Wilkinson, senior, +“like every well-regulated furnace.” + +“You smoke nothing but your pipe, uncle, because you burn all your +carbon,” said Harry. “But, if your body doesn’t smoke, it steams. Breathe +against a looking-glass, or look at your breath on a cold morning. Observe +how a horse reeks when it perspires. Besides—as you just now said you +recollected my telling you the other day—you breathe out carbonic acid, +and that, and the steam of the breath together, are exactly the same +things, you know, that a candle turns into in burning.” + +“But if I burn like a candle—why don’t I burn _out_ like a candle?” +demanded Mr. Bagges. “How do you get over that?” + +“Because,” replied Harry, “your fuel is renewed as fast as burnt. So +perhaps you resemble a lamp rather than a candle. A lamp requires to be +fed; so does the body—as, possibly, uncle, you may be aware.” + +“Eh?—well—I have always entertained an idea of that sort,” answered Mr. +Bagges, helping himself to some biscuits. “But the lamp feeds on +train-oil.” + +“So does the Laplander. And you couldn’t feed the lamp on turtle or +mulligatawny, of course, uncle. But mulligatawny or turtle can be changed +into fat—they are so, sometimes, I think—when they are eaten in large +quantities, and fat will burn fast enough. And most of what you eat turns +into something which burns at last, and is consumed in the fire that warms +you all over.” + +“Wonderful, to be sure,” exclaimed Mr. Bagges. “Well, now, and how does +this extraordinary process take place?” + +“First, you know, uncle, your food is digested—” + +“Not always, I am sorry to say, my boy,” Mr. Bagges observed, “but go on.” + +“Well; when it _is_ digested, it becomes a sort of fluid, and mixes +gradually with the blood, and turns into blood, and so goes over the whole +body, to nourish it. Now, if the body is always being nourished, why +doesn’t it keep getting bigger and bigger, like the ghost in the Castle of +Otranto?” + +“Eh? Why, because it loses as well as gains, I suppose. By +perspiration—eh—for instance?” + +“Yes, and by breathing; in short, by the burning I mentioned just now. +Respiration, or breathing, uncle, is a perpetual combustion.” + +“But if my system,” said Mr. Bagges, “is burning throughout, what keeps up +the fire in my little finger—putting gout out of the question?” + +“You burn all over, because you breathe all over, to the very tips of your +fingers’ ends,” replied Harry. + +“Oh, don’t talk nonsense to your uncle!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson. + +“It isn’t nonsense,” said Harry. “The air that you draw into the lungs +goes more or less over all the body, and penetrates into every fibre of +it, which is breathing. Perhaps you would like to hear a little more about +the chemistry of breathing, or respiration, uncle?” + +“I should, certainly.” + +“Well, then; first you ought to have some idea of the breathing apparatus. +The laboratory that contains this is the chest, you know. The chest, you +also know, has in it the heart and lungs, which, with other things in it, +fill it quite out, so as to leave no hollow space between themselves and +it. The lungs are a sort of air-sponges, and when you enlarge your chest +to draw breath, they swell out with it, and suck the air in. On the other +hand, you narrow your chest, and squeeze the lungs, and press the air from +them;—that is breathing out. The lungs are made up of a lot of little +cells. A small pipe—a little branch of the windpipe—opens into each cell. +Two blood-vessels, a little tiny artery, and a vein to match, run into it +also. The arteries bring into the little cells dark-colored blood, which +_has been_ all over the body. The veins carry out of the little cells +bright scarlet-colored blood, which _is to go_ all over the body. So all +the blood passes through the lungs, and in so doing, is changed from dark +to bright scarlet.” + +“Black blood, didn’t you say, in the arteries, and scarlet in the veins? I +thought it was just the reverse,” interrupted Mr. Bagges. + +“So it is,” replied Harry, “with all the other arteries and veins, except +those that circulate the blood through the lung-cells. The heart has two +sides, with a partition between them that keeps the blood on the right +side separate from the blood on the left; both sides being hollow, mind. +The blood on the right side of the heart comes there from all over the +body, by a couple of large veins, dark, before it goes to the lungs. From +the right side of the heart, it goes on to the lungs, dark still, through +an artery. It comes back to the left side of the heart from the lungs, +bright scarlet, through four veins. Then it goes all over the rest of the +body from the left side of the heart, through an artery that branches into +smaller arteries, all carrying bright scarlet blood. So the arteries and +veins of the lungs on one hand, and of the rest of the body on the other, +do exactly opposite work, you understand.” + +“I hope so.” + +“Now,” continued Harry, “it requires a strong magnifying glass to see the +lung-cells plainly, they are so small. But you can fancy them as big as +you please. Picture any one of them to yourself of the size of an orange, +say, for convenience in thinking about it; that one cell, with whatever +takes place in it, will be a specimen of the rest. Then you have to +imagine an artery carrying blood of one color into it, and a vein taking +away blood of another color from it, and the blood changing its color in +the cell.” + +“Ay, but what makes the blood change its color?” + +“Recollect, uncle, you have a little branch from the windpipe opening into +the cell which lets in the air. Then the blood and the air are brought +together, and the blood alters in color. The reason, I suppose you would +guess, is that it is somehow altered by the air.” + +“No very unreasonable conjecture, I should think,” said Mr. Bagges. + +“Well; if the air alters the blood, most likely, we should think, it gives +something to the blood. So first let us see what is the difference between +the air we breathe _in_, and the air we breathe _out_. You know that +neither we nor animals can keep breathing the same air over and over +again. You don’t want me to remind you of the Black Hole of Calcutta, to +convince you of that; and I dare say you will believe what I tell you, +without waiting till I can catch a mouse and shut it up in an air-tight +jar, and show you how soon the unlucky creature will get uncomfortable, +and began to gasp, and that it will by-and-by die. But if we were to try +this experiment—not having the fear of the Society for the Prevention of +Cruelty to Animals, nor the fear of doing wrong, before our eyes—we should +find that the poor mouse, before he died, had changed the air of his +prison considerably. But it would be just as satisfactory, and much more +humane, if you or I were to breathe in and out of a silk bag or a bladder +till we could stand it no longer, and then collect the air which we had +been breathing in and out. We should find that a jar of such air would put +out a candle. If we shook some lime-water up with it, the lime-water would +turn milky. In short, uncle, we should find that a great part of the air +was carbonic acid, and the rest mostly nitrogen. The air we inhale is +nitrogen and oxygen; the air we exhale has lost most of its oxygen, and +consists of little more than nitrogen and carbonic acid. Together with +this, we breathe out the vapor of water, as I said before. Therefore in +breathing, we give off exactly what a candle does in burning, only not so +fast, after the rate. The carbonic acid we breathe out, shows that carbon +is consumed within our bodies. The watery vapor of the breath is a proof +that hydrogen is so, too. We take in oxygen with the air, and the oxygen +unites with carbon, and makes carbonic acid, and with hydrogen, forms +water.” + +“Then don’t the hydrogen and carbon combine with the oxygen—that is, +burn—in the lungs, and isn’t the chest the fire-place, after all?” asked +Mr. Bagges. + +“Not altogether, according to those who are supposed to know better. They +are of opinion, that some of the oxygen unites with the carbon and +hydrogen of the blood in the lungs: but that most of it is merely absorbed +by the blood, and dissolved in it in the first instance.” + +“Oxygen, absorbed by the blood? That seems odd,” remarked Mr. Bagges. “How +can that be?” + +“We only know the fact that there are some things that will absorb +gases—suck them in—make them disappear. Charcoal will, for instance. It is +thought that the iron which the blood contains gives it the curious +property of absorbing oxygen. Well; the oxygen going into the blood makes +it change from dark to bright scarlet; and then this blood containing +oxygen is conveyed all over the system by the arteries, and yields up the +oxygen to combine with hydrogen and carbon as it goes along. The carbon +and hydrogen are part of the substance of the body. The bright scarlet +blood mixes oxygen with them, which burns them, in fact; that is, makes +them into carbonic acid and water. Of course, the body would soon be +consumed if this were all that the blood does. But while it mixes oxygen +with the old substance of the body, to burn it up, it lays down fresh +material to replace the loss. So our bodies are continually changing +throughout, though they seem to us always the same; but then, you know, a +river appears the same from year’s end to year’s end, although the water +in it is different every day.” + +“Eh, then,” said Mr. Bagges, “if the body is always on the change in this +way, we must have had several bodies in the course of our lives, by the +time we are old.” + +“Yes, uncle; therefore, how foolish it is to spend money upon funerals. +What becomes of all the bodies we use up during our life-times? If we are +none the worse for their flying away in carbonic acid and other things +without ceremony, what good can we expect from having a fuss made about +the body we leave behind us, which is put into the earth? However, you are +wanting to know what becomes of the water and carbonic acid which have +been made by the oxygen of the blood burning up the old materials of our +frame. The dark blood of the veins absorbs this carbonic acid and water, +as the blood of the arteries does oxygen—only, they say, it does so by +means of a salt in it, called phosphate of soda. Then the dark blood goes +back to the lungs, and in them it parts with its carbonic acid and water, +which escapes as breath. As fast as we breathe out, carbonic acid and +water leave the blood; as fast as we breathe in, oxygen enters it. The +oxygen is sent out in the arteries to make the rubbish of the body into +gas and vapor, so that the veins may bring it back and get rid of it. The +burning of rubbish by oxygen throughout our frames is the fire by which +our animal heat, is kept up. At least this is what most philosophers +think; though doctors differ a little on this point, as on most others, I +hear. Professor Liebig says, that our carbon is mostly prepared for +burning by being first extracted from the blood sent to it—(which contains +much of the rubbish of the system dissolved)—in the form of bile, and is +then re-absorbed into the blood, and burnt. He reckons that a grown-up man +consumes about fourteen ounces of carbon a day. Fourteen ounces of +charcoal a day, or eight pounds two ounces a week, would keep up a +tolerable fire.” + +“I had no idea we were such extensive charcoal-burners,” said Mr. Bagges. +“They say we each eat our peck of dirt before we die—but we must burn +bushels of charcoal.” + +“And so,” continued Harry, “the professor calculates that we burn quite +enough fuel to account for our heat. I should rather think, myself, it had +something to do with it—shouldn’t you?” + +“Eh?” said Mr. Bagges; “it makes one rather nervous to think that one is +burning all over—throughout one’s very blood—in this kind of way.” + +“It is very awful!” said Mrs. Wilkinson. + +“If true. But in that case, shouldn’t we be liable to inflame +occasionally?” objected her husband. + +“It is said,” answered Harry, “that spontaneous combustion does happen +sometimes; particularly in great spirit drinkers. I don’t see why it +should not, if the system were to become too inflammable. Drinking alcohol +would be likely to load the constitution with carbon, which would be fuel +for the fire, at any rate.” + +“The deuce!” exclaimed Mr. Bagges, pushing his brandy-and-water from him. +“We had better take care how we indulge in combustibles.” + +“At all events,” said Harry, “it must be bad to have too much fuel in us. +It must choke the fire, I should think, if it did not cause inflammation; +which Dr. Truepenny says it does, meaning, by inflammation, gout, and so +on, you know, uncle.” + +“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Bagges. + +“Taking in too much fuel, I dare say, you know, uncle, means eating and +drinking to excess,” continued Harry. “The best remedy, the doctor says, +for overstuffing is exercise. A person who uses great bodily exertion, can +eat and drink more without suffering from it than one who leads an +inactive life; a fox-hunter, for instance, in comparison with an alderman. +Want of exercise and too much nourishment must make a man either fat or +ill. If the extra hydrogen and carbon are not burnt out, or otherwise got +rid of, they turn to blubber, or cause some disturbance in the system, +intended by Nature to throw them off, which is called a disease. Walking, +riding, running, increase the breathing—as well as the perspiration—and +make us burn away our carbon and hydrogen in proportion. Dr. Truepenny +declares that if people would only take in as much fuel as is requisite to +keep up a good fire, his profession would be ruined.” + +“The good old advice—Baillie’s, eh?—or Abernethy’s—live upon sixpence a +day, and earn it,” Mr. Bagges observed. + +“Well, and then, uncle, in hot weather the appetite is naturally weaker +than it is in cold—less heat is required, and therefore less food. So in +hot climates; and the chief reason, says the doctor, why people ruin their +health in India is their spurring and goading their stomachs to crave what +is not good for them, by spices and the like. Fruits and vegetables are +the proper things to eat in such countries, because they contain little +carbon compared to flesh, and they are the diet of the natives of those +parts of the world. Whereas food with much carbon in it, meat, or even +mere fat or oil, which is hardly any thing else than carbon and hydrogen, +are proper in very cold regions, where heat from within is required to +supply the want of it without. That is why the Laplander is able, as I +said he does, to devour train-oil. And Dr. Truepenny says that it may be +all very well for Mr. M’Gregor to drink raw whisky at deer-stalking in the +Highlands, but if Major Campbell combines that beverage with the diversion +of tiger-hunting in the East Indies, habitually, the chances are that the +major will come home with a diseased liver.” + +“Upon my word, sir, the whole art of preserving health appears to consist +in keeping up a moderate fire within us,” observed Mr. Bagges. + +“Just so, uncle, according to my friend the doctor. ‘Adjust the fuel,’ he +says, ‘to the draught’—he means the oxygen; ‘keep the bellows properly at +work, by exercise, and your fire will seldom want poking.’ The doctor’s +pokers, you know, are pills, mixtures, leeches, blisters, lancets, and +things of that sort.” + +“Indeed? Well, then, my heart-burn, I suppose, depends upon bad management +of my fire?” surmised Mr. Bagges. + +“I should say that was more than probable, uncle. Well, now, I think you +see that animal heat can be accounted for, in very great part at least, by +the combustion of the body. And then there are several facts that—as I +remember Shakspeare says— + + + “ ‘Help to thicken other proofs, + That do demonstrate thinly.” + + +“Birds that breathe a great deal are very hot creatures; snakes and +lizards, and frogs and fishes, that breathe but little, are so cold that +they are called cold-blooded animals. Bears and dormice, that sleep all +the winter, are cold during their sleep, while their breathing and +circulation almost entirely stop. We increase our heat by walking fast, +running, jumping, or working hard; which sets us breathing faster, and +then we get warmer. By these means, we blow up our own fire, if we have no +other, to warm ourselves on a cold day. And how is it that we don’t go on +continually getting hotter and hotter?” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Bagges, “I suppose that is one of Nature’s mysteries.” + +“Why, what happens, uncle, when we take violent exercise? We break out +into a perspiration; as you complain you always do, if you only run a few +yards. Perspiration is mostly water, and the extra heat of the body goes +into the water, and flies away with it in steam. Just for the same reason, +you can’t boil water so as to make it hotter than two hundred and twelve +degrees; because all the heat that passes into it beyond that, unites with +some of it and becomes steam, and so escapes. Hot weather causes you to +perspire even when you sit still; and so your heat is cooled in summer. If +you were to heat a man in an oven, the heat of his body generally wouldn’t +increase very much till he became exhausted and died. Stories are told of +mountebanks sitting in ovens, and meat being cooked by the side of them. +Philosophers have done much the same thing—Dr. Fordyce and others, who +found they could bear a heat of two hundred and sixty degrees. +Perspiration is our animal fire-escape. Heat goes out from the lungs, as +well as the skin, in water; so the lungs are concerned in cooling us as +well as heating us, like a sort of regulating furnace. Ah, uncle, the body +is a wonderful factory, and I wish I were man enough to take you over it. +I have only tried to show you something of the contrivances for warming +it, and I hope you understand a little about that!” + +“Well,” said Mr. Bagges, “breathing, I understand you to say, is the chief +source of animal heat, by occasioning the combination of carbon and +hydrogen with oxygen, in a sort of gentle combustion, throughout our +frame. The lungs and heart are an apparatus for generating heat, and +distributing it over the body by means of a kind of warming pipes, called +blood-vessels. Eh?—and the carbon and hydrogen we have in our systems we +get from our food. Now, you see, here is a slice of cake, and there is a +glass of wine—Eh?—now see whether you can get any carbon and oxygen out of +that.” + +The young philosopher, having finished his lecture, applied himself +immediately to the performance of the proposed experiment, which he +performed with cleverness and dispatch. + + + + + +THE STEEL PEN. AN ILLUSTRATION OF CHEAPNESS. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD +WORDS.) + + +We remember (early remembrances are more durable than recent) an epithet +employed by Mary Wolstonecroft, which then seemed as happy as it was +original—“The _iron_ pen of Time.” Had the vindicatress of the “Rights of +Women” lived in these days (fifty years later), when the iron pen is the +almost universal instrument of writing, she would have bestowed upon Time +a less common material for recording his doings. + +While we are remembering, let us look back for a moment upon our earliest +school-days—the days of large text and round hand. Twenty urchins sit at a +long desk, each intent upon making his _copy_. A nicely mended pen has +been given to each. Our own labor goes on successfully, till, in +school-boy phrase, the pen begins to splutter. A bold effort must be made. +We leave the form, and timidly address the writing-master with—“Please, +sir, mend my pen.” A slight frown subsides as he sees that the quill is +very bad—too soft or too hard—used to the stump. He dashes it away, and +snatching a feather from a bundle—a poor thin feather, such as green geese +drop on a common—shapes it into a pen. This mending and making process +occupies all his leisure—occupies, indeed, many of the minutes that ought +to be devoted to instruction. He has a perpetual battle to wage with his +bad quills. They are the meanest produce of the plucked goose. + +And is this process still going on in the many thousand schools of our +land, where with all drawbacks of imperfect education, both as to numbers +educated and gifts imparted, there are about two millions and a half of +children under daily instruction? In remote rural districts probably; in +the towns certainly not. The steam-engine is now the pen-maker. Hecatombs +of geese are consumed at Michaelmas and Christmas; but not all the geese +in the world would meet the demand of England for pens. The supply of +_patés de foie gras_ will be kept up—that of quills, whether known as +_primes_, _seconds_, or _pinions,_ must be wholly inadequate to the wants +of a _writing_ people. Wherever geese are bred in these islands, so +assuredly, in each succeeding March, will every full-fledged victim be +robbed of his quills; and then turned forth on the common, a very waddling +and impotent goose, quite unworthy of the name of bird. The country +schoolmaster, at the same spring-time, will continue to buy the smallest +quills, at a low price, clarify them after his own rude fashion, make them +into pens, and sorely spite the boy who splits them up too rapidly. The +better quills will still be collected, and find their way to the quill +dealer, who will exercise his empirical arts before they pass to the +stationer. He will plunge them into heated sand, to make the external skin +peel off, and the external membrane shrivel up; or he will saturate them +with water, and alternately contract and swell them before a charcoal +fire; or he will dip them in nitric acid, and make them of a gaudy +brilliancy but a treacherous endurance. They will be sorted according to +the quality of the barrels, with the utmost nicety. The experienced buyer +will know their value by looking at their feathery ends, tapering to a +point; the uninitiated will regard only the quill portion. There is no +article of commerce in which the market value is so difficult to be +determined with exactness. For the finest and largest quills no price +seems unreasonable; for those of the second quality too exorbitant a +charge is often made. The foreign supply is large, and probably exceeds +the home supply of the superior article. What the exact amount is we know +not. There is no duty now on quills. The tariff of 1845—one of the most +lasting monuments of the wisdom of our great commercial minister—abolished +the duty of half-a-crown a thousand. In 1832 the duty amounted to four +thousand two hundred pounds, which would show an annual importation of +thirty-three millions one hundred thousand quills; enough, perhaps, for +the commercial clerks of England, together with the quills of home +growth—but how to serve a letter-writing population? + +The ancient reign of the quill-pen was first seriously disturbed about +twenty-five years ago. An abortive imitation of the _form_ of a pen was +produced before that time; a clumsy, inelastic, metal tube fastened in a +bone or ivory handle, and sold for half-a-crown. A man might make his mark +with one—but as to writing, it was a mere delusion. In due course came +more carefully finished inventions for the luxurious, under the tempting +names of ruby pen, or diamond pen—with the plain gold pen, and the rhodium +pen, for those who were skeptical as to the jewelry of the inkstand. The +economical use of the quill received also the attention of science. A +machine was invented to divide the barrel lengthwise into two halves; and, +by the same mechanical means, these halves were subdivided into small +pieces, cut pen-shape, slit, and nibbed. But the pressure upon the quill +supply grew more and more intense. A new power had risen up in our world—a +new seed sown—the source of all good, or the dragon’s teeth of Cadmus. In +1818 there were only one hundred and sixty-five thousand scholars in the +monitorial schools—the new schools, which were being established under the +auspices of the National Society, and the British and Foreign School +Society. Fifteen years afterward, in 1833, there were three hundred and +ninety thousand. Ten years later, the numbers exceeded a million. Even a +quarter of a century ago two-thirds of the male population of England, and +one-half of the female, were learning to write; for in the Report of the +Registrar-General for 1846, we find this passage—“Persons when they are +married are required to sign the marriage register; if they can not write +their names, they sign with a mark: the result has hitherto been, that +nearly one man in three, and one woman in two, married, sign with marks.” +This remark applies to the period between 1839 and 1845. Taking the +average age of men at marriage as twenty-seven years, and the average age +of boys during their education as ten years, the marriage-register is an +educational test of male instruction for the years 1824-28. But the gross +number of the population of England and Wales was rapidly advancing. In +1821 it was twelve millions; in 1831, fourteen millions; in 1841, sixteen +millions; in 1851, taking the rate of increase at fourteen per cent., it +will be eighteen millions and a half. The extension of education was +proceeding in a much quicker ratio; and we may therefore fairly assume +that the proportion of those who make their marks in the marriage-register +has greatly diminished since 1844. + +But, during the last ten years, the natural desire to learn to write, of +that part of the youthful population which education can reach, has +received a great moral impulse by a wondrous development of the most +useful and pleasurable exercise of that power. The uniform penny postage +has been established. In the year 1838, the whole number of letters +delivered in the United Kingdom was seventy-six millions; in this year +that annual delivery has reached the prodigious number of three hundred +and thirty-seven millions. In 1838, a Committee of the House of Commons +thus denounced, among the great commercial evils of the high rates of +postage, their injurious effects upon the great bulk of the people. They +either act as a grievous tax on the poor, causing them to sacrifice their +little earnings to the pleasure and advantage of corresponding with their +distant friends, or compel them to forego such intercourse altogether; +thus subtracting from the small amount of their enjoyments, and +obstructing the growth and maintenance of their best affections. Honored +be the man who broke down these barriers! Praised be the Government that, +_for once_, stepping out of its fiscal tram-way, dared boldly to legislate +for the domestic happiness, the educational progress, and the moral +elevation of the masses! The steel pen, sold at the rate of a penny a +dozen, is the creation, in a considerable degree, of the Penny Postage +stamp; as the Penny Postage stamp was a representative, if not a creation, +of the new educational power. Without the steel pen, it may reasonably be +doubted whether there were mechanical means within the reach of the great +bulk of the population for writing the three hundred and thirty-seven +millions of letters that now annually pass through the Post Office. + +Othello’s sword had “the ice-brook’s temper;” but not all the real or +imaginary virtues of the stream that gave its value to the true Spanish +blade could create the elasticity of a steel pen. Flexible, indeed, is the +Toledo. If thrust against a wall, it will bend into an arc that describes +three-fourths of a circle. The problem to be solved in the steel-pen, is +to convert the iron of Dannemora into a substance as thin as the quill of +a dove’s pinion, but as strong as the proudest feather of an eagle’s wing. +The furnaces and hammers of the old armorers could never have solved this +problem. The steel pen belongs to our age of mighty machinery. It could +not have existed in any other age. The demand for the instrument, and the +means of supplying it, came together. + +The commercial importance of the steel pen was first manifested to our +senses a year or two ago at Sheffield. We had witnessed all the curious +processes of _converting_ iron into steel, by saturating it with carbon in +the converting furnace; of _tilting_ the bars so converted into a harder +substance, under the thousand hammers that shake the waters of the Sheaf +and the Don: of _casting_ the steel thus converted and tilted into ingots +of higher purity; and, finally, of _milling_, by which the most perfect +development of the material is acquired, under enormous rollers. About two +miles from the metropolis of steel, over whose head hangs a canopy of +smoke through which the broad moors of the distance sometimes reveal +themselves, there is a solitary mill where the tilting and rolling +processes are carried to great perfection. The din of the large tilts is +heard half a mile off. Our ears tingle, our legs tremble, when we stand +close to their operation of beating bars of steel into the greatest +possible density; for the whole building vibrates as the workmen swing +before them in suspended baskets, and shift the bar at every movement of +these hammers of the Titans. We pass onward to the more quiet _rolling_ +department. The bar that has been tilted into the most perfect +compactness, has now to acquire the utmost possible tenuity. A large area +is occupied by furnaces and rollers. The bar of steel is dragged out of +the furnace at almost a white heat. There are two men at each roller. It +is passed through the first pair, and its squareness is instantly +elongated and widened into flatness; rapidly through a second pair, and a +third, and a fourth, and a fifth. The bar is becoming a sheet of steel. +Thinner and thinner it becomes, until it would seem that the workmen can +scarcely manage the fragile substance. It has spread out like a morsel of +gold under the beater’s hammer, into an enormous leaf. The least +attenuated sheet is only the hundredth part of an inch in thickness; some +sheets are made as thin as the two-hundredth part of an inch. And for what +purpose is this result of the labors of so many workmen, of such vast and +complicated machinery, destined?—what the final application of a material +employing so much capital in every step, from the Swedish mine to its +transport by railroad to some other seat of British industry? _The whole +is prepared for one steel-pen manufactory at Birmingham._ + +There is nothing very remarkable in a steel-pen manufactory, as regards +ingenuity of contrivance or factory organization. Upon a large scale of +production, the extent of labor engaged in producing so minute an article, +is necessarily striking. But the process is just as curious and +interesting, if conducted in a small shop as in a large. The pure steel, +as it comes from the rolling-mill, is cut up into strips about two inches +and a half in width. These are further cut into the proper size for the +pen. The pieces are then annealed and cleansed. The maker’s name is neatly +impressed on the metal; and a cutting-tool forms the slit, although +imperfectly in this stage. The pen shape is given by a convex punch +pressing the plate into a concave die. The pen is formed when the slit is +perfected. It has now to be hardened, and, finally, cleansed and polished, +by the simple agency of friction in a cylinder. All the varieties of form +of the steel pen are produced by the punch; all the contrivances of slits +and apertures above the nib, by the cutting-tool. Every improvement has +had for its object to overcome the rigidity of the steel—to imitate the +elasticity of the quill, while bestowing upon the pen a superior +durability. + +The perfection that may reasonably be demanded in a steel pen has yet to +be reached. But the improvement in the manufacture is most decided. Twenty +years ago, to one who might choose, regardless of expense, between the +quill pen and the steel, the best Birmingham and London production was an +abomination. But we can trace the gradual acquiescence of most men in the +writing implement of the multitude. Few of us, in an age when the small +economies are carefully observed, and even paraded, desire to use quill +pens at ten or twelve shillings a hundred, as Treasury Clerks once +luxuriated in their use—an hour’s work, and then a new one. To mend a pen, +is troublesome to the old, and even the middle-aged man who once acquired +the art; the young, for the most part, have not learned it. The most +painstaking and penurious author would never dream of imitating the +wondrous man who translated Pliny with “one gray goose quill.” Steel pens +are so cheap, that if one scratches or splutters, it may be thrown away, +and another may be tried. But when a really good one is found, we cling to +it, as worldly men cling to their friends: we use it till it breaks down, +or grows rusty. We can do no more; we handle it as Izaak Walton handled +the frog upon his hook, “as if we loved him.” We could almost fancy some +analogy between the gradual and decided improvement of the steel pen—one +of the new instruments of education—and the effects of education itself +upon the mass of the people. An instructed nation ought to present the +same gradually perfecting combination of strength with elasticity. The +favorites of fortune are like the quill, ready made for social purposes, +with a little scraping and polishing. The bulk of the community have to be +formed out of ruder and tougher materials—to be converted, welded, and +tempered into pliancy. The _manners_ of the great British family have +decidedly improved under culture—“_emollit mores_:” may the sturdy +self-respect of the race never be impaired! + + + + + +SNAKES AND SERPENT CHARMERS. (FROM BENTLEY’S MISCELLANY.) + + +At the present time there are at the London Zoological Gardens two Arabs, +who are eminently skilled in what is termed “Snake-Charming.” In this +country, happily for ourselves, we have but little practical acquaintance +with venomous serpents, and there is no scope for the development of +native skill in the art referred to; the visit, therefore, of these +strangers is interesting, as affording an opportunity of beholding feats +which have hitherto been known to us only by description. We propose, +therefore, to give some account of their proceedings. + +Visitors to the Zoological Gardens will remark, on the right hand side, +after they have passed through the tunnel, and ascended the slope beyond, +a neat wooden building in the Swiss style. This is the reptile-house, and +while our readers are bending their steps toward it, we will describe the +performance of the Serpent Charmers. + +The names of these are Jubar-Abou-Haijab, and Mohammed-Abou-Merwan. The +former is an old man, much distinguished in his native country for his +skill. When the French occupied Egypt, he collected serpents for their +naturalists, and was sent for to Cairo to perform before General +Bonaparte. He described to us the general, as a middle-sized man, very +pale, with handsome features, and a most keen eye. Napoleon watched his +proceedings with great interest, made many inquiries, and dismissed him +with a handsome “backsheesh.” Jubar is usually dressed in a coarse loose +bernoose of brown serge, with a red cap on his head. + +The gift, or craft, of serpent-charming, descends in certain families from +generation to generation; and Mohammed, a smart active lad, is the old +man’s son-in-law, although not numbering sixteen years. He is quite an +Adonis as to dress, wearing a smart, richly embroidered dark-green jacket, +carried—hussar fashion—over his right shoulder, a white loose vest, full +white trowsers, tied at the knee, scarlet stockings and slippers, and a +fez or red cap, with a blue tassel of extra proportions on his head. In +his right ear is a ring, so large that it might pass for a curtain ring. + +Precisely as the clock strikes four, one of the keepers places on a +platform a wooden box containing the serpents, and the lad Mohammed +proceeds to tuck his ample sleeves as far up as possible, to leave the +arms bare. He then takes off his cloth jacket, and, opening the box, draws +out a large Cobra de Capello, of a dark copper color: this he holds at +arm’s length by the tail, and after allowing it to writhe about in the air +for some time, he places the serpent on the floor, still holding it as +described. By this time the cobra had raised his hood, very indignant at +the treatment he is receiving. Mohammed then pinches and teases him in +every way; at each pinch the cobra strikes at him, but, with great +activity, the blow is avoided. Having thus teased the snake for some time, +Mohammed rises, and placing his foot upon the tail, irritates him with a +stick. The cobra writhes, and strikes sometimes at the stick, sometimes at +his tormentor’s legs, and again at his hands, all which is avoided with +the utmost nonchalance. After the lapse of about ten minutes, Mohammed +coils the cobra on the floor, and leaves him while he goes to the box, and +draws out another far fiercer cobra. While holding this by the tail, +Mohammed buffets him on the head with his open hand, and the serpent, +quite furious, frequently seizes him by the forearm. The lad merely wipes +the spot, and proceeds to tie the serpent like a necklace around his neck. +Then the tail is tied into a knot around the reptile’s head, and again +head and tail into a double knot. After amusing himself in this way for +some time, the serpent is told to lie quiet, and stretched on his back, +the neck and chin being gently stroked. Whether any sort of mesmeric +influence is produced we know not, but the snake remains on its back, +perfectly still, as if dead. During this time the first cobra has remained +coiled up, with head erect, apparently watching the proceedings of the +Arab. After a pause, the lad takes up the second cobra, and carrying it to +the first, pinches and irritates both, to make them fight; the fiercer +snake seizes the other by the throat, and coiling round him, they roll +struggling across the stage. Mohammed then leaves these serpents in charge +of Jubar and draws a third snake out of the box. This he first ties in a +variety of apparently impossible knots, and then holding him at a little +distance from his face, allows the snake to strike at it, just dodging +back each time sufficiently far to avoid the blow. The serpent is then +placed in his bosom next his skin, and left there, but it is not so easy +after a time to draw it out of its warm resting-place. The tail is pulled; +but, no! the serpent is round the lad’s body, and will not come. After +several unsuccessful efforts, Mohammed rubs the tail briskly between his +two hands, a process which—judging from the writhings of the serpent, +which are plainly visible—is the reverse of agreeable. At last Mohammed +pulls him hand-over-hand—as the sailors say—and, just, as the head flies +out, the cobra makes a parting snap at his tormentor’s face, for which he +receives a smart cuff on the head, and is then with the others replaced in +the box. + +Dr. John Davy, in his valuable work on Ceylon, denies that the fangs are +extracted from the serpents which are thus exhibited; and says that the +only charm employed is that of courage and confidence—the natives avoiding +the stroke of the serpent with wonderful agility; adding, that they will +play their tricks with any hooded snake, but with no other poisonous +serpent. + +In order that we might get at the truth, we sought it from the +fountain-head, and our questions were thus most freely answered by +Jubar-Abou-Haijab, Hamet acting as interpreter: + +_Q._ How are the serpents caught in the first instance? + +_A._ I take this adze (holding up a sort of geological hammer mounted on a +long handle) and as soon as I have found a hole containing a cobra, I +knock away the earth till he comes out or can be got at; I then take a +stick in my right hand, and seizing the snake by the tail with the left, +hold it at arm’s length. He keeps trying to bite, but I push his head away +with the stick. After doing this some time I throw him straight on the +ground, still holding him by the tail; I allow him to raise his head and +try to bite, for some time, in order that he may learn how to attack, +still keeping him off with the stick. When this has been done long enough, +I slide the stick up to his head and fix it firmly on the ground; then +taking the adze, and forcing open the mouth, I break off the fangs with +it, carefully removing every portion, and especially squeezing out all the +poison and blood, which I wipe away as long as it continues to flow; when +this is done the snake is harmless and ready for use. + +_Q._ Do the ordinary jugglers, or only the hereditary snake charmers catch +the cobras? + +_A._ We are the only persons who dare to catch them, and when the jugglers +want snakes they come to us for them; with that adze (pointing to the +hammer) I have caught and taken out the fangs of many thousands. + +_Q._ Do you use any other snakes besides the cobras for your exhibitions? + +_A._ No; because the cobra is the only one that will fight well. The cobra +is always ready to give battle, but the other snakes are sluggish, only +bite, and can’t be taught for our exhibitions. + +_Q._ What do the Arabs do if they happen to be bitten by a poisonous +snake? + +_A._ They immediately tie a cord tight round the arm above the wound, and +cut out the bitten part as soon as possible—some burn it; they then +squeeze the arm downward, so as to press out the poison, but they don’t +suck it, because it is bad for the mouth; however, in spite of all this, +they sometimes die. + +_Q._ Do you think it possible that cobras could be exhibited without the +fangs being removed? + +_A._ Certainly not, for the least scratch of their deadly teeth would +cause death, and there is not a day that we exhibit that we are not bitten +and no skill in the world would prevent it. + +Such were the particulars given us by a most distinguished professor in +the art of snake-charming, and, therefore, they may be relied on as +correct; the matter-of-fact way in which he _acted_, as well as related +the snake-catching, bore the impress of truth, and there certainly would +appear to be far less mystery about the craft than has generally been +supposed. The way in which vipers are caught in this country is much less +artistic than the Arab mode. The viper-catcher provides himself with a +cleftstick, and stealing up to the reptile when basking, pins his head to +the ground with the cleft, and seizing the tail, throws the reptile into a +bag. As they do not destroy the fangs, these men are frequently bitten in +the pursuit of their business, but their remedy is either the fat of +vipers, or salad oil, which they take inwardly, and apply externally, +after squeezing the wound. We are not aware of any well-authenticated +fatal case in man from a viper bite, but it fell to our lot some years ago +to see a valuable pointer killed by one. We were beating for game in a +dry, stony district, when suddenly the dog, who was running beneath a +hedgerow, gave a yelp and bound, and immediately came limping up to us +with a countenance most expressive of pain; a large adder was seen to +glide into the hedgerow. Two small spots of blood on the inner side of the +left foreleg, close to the body of the dog marked the seat of the wound; +and we did our best to squeeze out the poison. The limb speedily began to +swell, and the dog laid down, moaning and unable to walk. With some +difficulty we managed to carry the poor animal to the nearest cottage, but +it was too late. In spite of oil and other remedies the body swelled more +and more, and he died in convulsions some two hours after the receipt of +the injury. + +The Reptile-house is fitted up with much attention to security and +elegance of design; arranged along the left side are roomy cages painted +to imitate mahogany and fronted with plate-glass. They are ventilated by +perforated plates of zinc above, and warmed by hot water pipes below. The +bottoms of the cages are strewed with sand and gravel, and in those which +contain the larger serpents strong branches of trees are fixed. The +advantage of the plate-glass fronts is obvious, for every movement of the +reptiles is distinctly seen, while its great strength confines them in +perfect safety. Each cage is, moreover, provided with a pan of water. + +Except when roused by hunger, the Serpents are generally in a state of +torpor during the day, but as night draws on, they, in common with other +wild denizens of the forest, are roused into activity. In their native +state the Boas then lie in wait, coiled round the branches of trees, ready +to spring upon the antelopes and other prey as they pass through the leafy +glades; and the smaller serpents silently glide from branch to branch in +quest of birds on which to feed. As we have had the opportunity of seeing +the Reptile-house by night, we will describe the strange scene. + +About ten o’clock one evening during the last spring, in company with two +naturalists of eminence, we entered that apartment. A small lantern was +our only light, and the faint illumination of this, imparted a ghastly +character to the scene before us. The clear plate-glass which faces the +cages was invisible, and it was difficult to believe that the monsters +were in confinement and the spectators secure. Those who have only seen +the Boas and Pythons, the Rattlesnakes and Cobras, lazily hanging in +festoons from the forks of the trees in the dens, or sluggishly coiled up, +can form no conception of the appearance and actions of the same creatures +at night. The huge Boas and Pythons were chasing each other in every +direction, whisking about the dens with the rapidity of lightning, +sometimes clinging in huge coils round the branches, anon entwining each +other in massive folds, then separating they would rush over and under the +branches, hissing and lashing their tails in hideous sport. Ever and anon, +thirsty with their exertions, they would approach the pans containing +water and drink eagerly, lapping it with their forked tongues. As our eyes +became accustomed to the darkness, we perceived objects better, and on the +uppermost branch of the tree in the den of the biggest serpent, we +perceived a pigeon quietly roosting, apparently indifferent alike to the +turmoil which was going on around, and the vicinity of the monster whose +meal it was soon to form. In the den of one of the smaller serpents was a +little mouse, whose panting sides and fast-beating heart showed that it, +at least, disliked its company. Misery is said to make us acquainted with +strange bed-fellows, but evil must be the star of that mouse or pigeon +whose lot it is to be the comrade and prey of a serpent! + +A singular circumstance occurred not long since at the Gardens, showing +that the mouse at times has the best of it. A litter of rattlesnakes was +born in the Gardens—curious little active things without rattles—hiding +under stones, or coiling together in complicated knots, with their +clustering heads resembling Medusa’s locks. It came to pass that a mouse +was put into the cage for the breakfast of the mamma, but she not being +hungry, took no notice. The poor mouse gradually became accustomed to its +strange companions, and would appear to have been pressed by hunger, for +it actually nibbled away great part of the jaw of one of the little +rattlesnakes, so that it died! perhaps the first instance of such a +turning of the tables. An interesting fact was proved by this, namely, +that these reptiles when young are quite defenseless, and do not acquire +either the power of injuring others, or of using their rattles until their +adolescence. + +During the time we were looking at these creatures, all sorts of odd +noises were heard; a strange scratching against the glass would be +audible; ’twas the Carnivorous Lizard endeavoring to inform us that it was +a fast-day with him, entirely contrary to his inclination. A sharp hiss +would startle us from another quarter, and we stepped back involuntarily +as the lantern revealed the inflated hood and threatening action of an +angry cobra. Then a rattlesnake would take umbrage, and, sounding an +alarm, would make a stroke against the glass, intended for our person. The +fixed gaze, too, from the brilliant eyes of the huge Pythons, was more +fascinating than pleasant, and the scene, taking it all together, more +exciting than agreeable. Each of the spectators involuntarily stooped to +make sure that his trowsers were well strapped down; and, as if our nerves +were jesting, a strange sensation would every now and then be felt, +resembling the twining of a small snake about the legs. Just before +leaving the house, a great dor beetle which had flown in, attracted by the +light, struck with some force against our right ear; startled indeed we +were, for at the moment our impression was that it was some member of the +Happy Family around us who had favored us with a mark of his attention. + +In feeding the larger serpents, the Boas and Pythons, some care is +necessary lest such an accident should occur as that which befell Mr. +Cops, of the Lion Office in the Tower, some years ago. Mr. Cops was +holding a fowl to the head of the largest of the five snakes which were +then there kept; the snake was changing its skin, consequently, being +nearly blind (for the skin of the eye is changed with the rest), it darted +at the fowl but missed it, and seized the keeper by the left thumb, +coiling round his arm and neck in a moment, and fixing itself by its tail +to one of the posts of its cage, thus giving itself greater power. Mr. +Cops, who was alone, did not lose his presence of mind, and immediately +attempted to relieve himself from the powerful constriction by getting at +the serpent’s head; but the serpent had so knotted itself upon its own +head, that Mr. Cops could not reach it, and had thrown himself upon the +floor in order to grapple, with greater success, with his formidable +opponent, when fortunately, two other keepers came in and rushed to the +rescue. The struggle even then was severe, but at length they succeeded in +breaking the teeth of the serpent, and relieving Mr. Cops from his +perilous situation; two broken teeth were extracted from the thumb; the +wounds soon healed, and no further inconvenience followed. Still more +severe was the contest which took place between a negro herdsman, +belonging to Mr. Abson, for many years Governor at Fort William, on the +coast of Africa. This man was seized by a huge Python while passing +through a wood. The serpent fixed his fangs in his thigh, but in +attempting to throw himself round his body, fortunately became entangled +with a tree, and the man being thus preserved from a state of compression +which would have instantly rendered him powerless, had presence of mind +enough to cut with a large knife which he carried about with him, deep +gashes in the neck and throat of his antagonist, thereby killing him, and +disengaging himself from his frightful situation. He never afterward, +however, recovered the use of the limb, which had sustained considerable +injury from the fangs and mere force of the jaws, and for many years +limped about the fort, a living example of the prowess of these fearful +serpents. + +The true _Boas_, it is to be observed, are restricted to America, the name +_Python_ being given to the large serpents of Africa and India. It is +related by Pliny that the army of Regulus was alarmed by a huge serpent +one hundred and twenty-three feet in length. This account is doubtful; but +there is a well-authenticated instance of the destruction of a snake above +sixty-two feet long, while in the act of coiling itself round the body of +a man. The snakes at the gardens will generally be found coiled and twined +together in large clusters, probably for the sake of warmth. Dr. Carpenter +knew an instance in which no less than _thirteen hundred_ of our English +harmless snakes were found in an old lime kiln! The _battûe_ which ensued +can better be imagined than described. + +The cobras, the puff-adders, and some of the other highly-venomous +serpents are principally found in rocky and sandy places, and very +dangerous they are. Mr. Gould, the eminent ornithologist, had a most +narrow escape of his life when in the interior of Australia: there is a +serpent found in those arid wastes, whose bite is fatal in an incredibly +short time, and it springs at an object with great force. Mr. Gould was a +little in advance of his party, when suddenly a native who was with him +screamed out, “Oh, massa! dere big snake!” Mr. Gould started, and putting +his foot in a hole, nearly fell to the ground. At that instant the snake +made its spring, and had it not been for his stumble, would have struck +him in the face; as it was, it passed over his head, and was shot before +it could do any further mischief. It was a large snake, of the most +venomous sort, and the natives gathered round the sportsman anxiously +inquiring if it had bitten him? Finding it had not, all said they thought +he was “good for dead,” when they saw the reptile spring. + +The expression “sting,” used repeatedly by Shakspeare, as applied to +snakes, is altogether incorrect; the tongue has nothing to do with the +infliction of injury. Serpents bite, and the difference between the +harmless and venomous serpents generally is simply this: the mouths of the +harmless snakes and the whole tribe of boas are provided with sharp teeth, +but no fangs; their bite, therefore, is innocuous; the poisonous serpents +on the other hand, have two poison-fangs attached to the upper jaw which +lie flat upon the roof of the mouth when not in use, and are concealed by +a fold of the skin. In each fang is a tube which opens near the point of +the tooth by a fissure; when the creature is irritated the fangs are at +once erected. The poison bag is placed beneath the muscles which act on +the lower jaw, so that when the fangs are struck into the victim the +poison is injected with much force to the very bottom of the wound. + +But how do Boa Constrictors swallow goats and antelopes, and other large +animals whole? The process is very simple; the lower jaw is not united to +the upper, but is hung to a long stalk-shaped bone, on which it is +movable, and this bone is only attached to the skull by ligaments, +susceptible of extraordinary extension. The process by which these +serpents take and swallow their prey has been so graphically described in +the second volume of the “Zoological Journal,” by that very able +naturalist and graceful writer, W. J. Broderip, Esq., F.R.S., that we +shall transcribe it, being able, from frequent ocular demonstrations, to +vouch for its correctness. A large buck rabbit was introduced into the +cage of a Boa Constrictor of great size: “The snake was down and +motionless in a moment. There he lay like a log without one symptom of +life, save that which glared in the small bright eye twinkling in his +depressed head. The rabbit appeared to take no notice of him, but +presently began to walk about the cage. The snake suddenly, but almost +imperceptibly, turned his head according to the rabbit’s movements, as if +to keep the object within the range of his eye. At length the rabbit, +totally unconscious of his situation, approached the ambushed head. The +snake dashed at him like lightning. There was a blow—a scream—and +instantly the victim was locked in the coils of the serpent. This was done +almost too rapidly for the eye to follow; at one instant the snake was +motionless—the next he was one congeries of coils round his prey. He had +seized the rabbit by the neck just under the ear, and was evidently +exerting the strongest pressure round the thorax of the quadruped; thereby +preventing the expansion of the chest, and at the same time depriving the +anterior extremities of motion. The rabbit never cried after the first +seizure; he lay with his hind legs stretched out, still breathing with +difficulty, as could be seen by the motion of his flanks. Presently he +made one desperate struggle with his hind legs; but the snake cautiously +applied another coil with such dexterity as completely to manacle the +lower extremities, and in about eight minutes the rabbit was quite dead. +The snake then gradually and carefully uncoiled himself, and finding that +his victim moved not, opened his mouth, let go his hold, and placed his +head opposite the fore-part of the rabbit. The boa, generally, I have +observed, begins with the head; but in this instance, the serpent having +begun with the fore-legs was longer in gorging his prey than usual, and in +consequence of the difficulty presented by the awkward position of the +rabbit, the dilatation and secretion of lubricating mucus were excessive. +The serpent first got the fore-legs into his mouth; he then coiled himself +round the rabbit, and appeared to draw out the dead body through his +folds; he then began to dilate his jaws, and holding the rabbit firmly in +a coil, as a point of resistance, appeared to exercise at intervals the +whole of his anterior muscles in protruding his stretched jaws and +lubricated mouth and throat, at first against, and soon after gradually +upon and over his prey. When the prey was completely engulfed the serpent +lay for a few moments with his dislocated jaws still dropping with the +mucus which had lubricated the parts, and at this time he looked quite +sufficiently disgusting. He then stretched out his neck, and at the same +moment the muscles seemed to push the prey further downward. After a few +efforts to replace the parts, the jaws appeared much the same as they did +previous to the monstrous repast.” + + + + + +THE MAGIC MAZE. (FROM COLBURN’S MONTHLY MAGAZINE.) + + +The Germans are said to be a philosophical and sagacious people, with a +strong _penchant_ for metaphysics and mysticism. They are certainly a +_leichtgläubiges Volk_, but, notwithstanding, painstaking and persevering +in their search after truth. I know not whence it arises—whether from +temperament, climate, or association—but it is very evident that a large +portion of their studies is recondite and unsatisfactory, and incapable of +being turned to any practical or beneficial account. They meditate on +things which do not concern them; they attempt to penetrate into mysteries +which lie without the pale of human knowledge. It has been ordained, by an +inscrutable decree of Providence, that there are things which man shall +not know; but they have endeavored to draw aside the vail which He has +interposed as a safeguard to those secrets, and have perplexed mankind +with a relation of their discoveries and speculations. They have pretended +to a knowledge of the invisible world, and have assumed a position +scarcely tenable by the weight of argument adduced in its defense. What +has puzzled the minds of the most erudite and persevering men, I do not +presume to decide. Instances of the re-appearance of persons after their +decease, may or may not have occurred; there may, for aught I know, be +good grounds for the belief in omens, warnings, wraiths, second-sight, +with many other descriptions of supernatural phenomena. I attempt not to +dispute the point. The human mind is strongly tinctured with superstition; +it is a feeling common to all nations and ages. We find it existing among +savages, as well as among people of refinement; we read of it in times of +antiquity, as well as in modern and more enlightened periods. This +universality betokens the feeling to be instinctive, and is an argument in +favor of the phenomena which many accredit, and vouch to have witnessed. + +I inherit many of the peculiarities of my countrymen. I, too, have felt +that deep and absorbing interest in every thing appertaining to the +supernatural. This passion was implanted in my breast at a very early age, +by an old woman, who lived with us as nurse. I shall remember her as long +as I live, for to her may be attributed a very great portion of my +sufferings. She was an excellent story-teller. I do not know whether she +invented them herself, but she had always a plentiful supply. My family +resided at that time in Berlin, where, indeed, I was born. This old woman, +when she took me and my sister to bed of an evening, kept us awake for +hours and hours, by relating to us tales which were always interesting, +and sometimes very frightful. Our parents were not aware of this, or they +never would have suffered her to relate them to us. In the long winter +nights, when it grew quite dark at four o’clock, she would draw her chair +to the stove, and we would cluster round her, and listen to her marvelous +stories. Many a time did my limbs shake, many a time did I turn as pale as +death, and cling closely to her from fear, as I sat listening with greedy +ear to her narratives. So powerful an effect did they produce, that I +dared not remain alone. Even in the broad day-light, and when the sun was +brightly shining into every chamber, I was afraid to go upstairs by +myself; and so timid did I become, that the least noise instantly alarmed +me. That old woman brought misery and desolation into our house; she +blasted the fondest hopes, and threw a dark and dismal shadow over the +brightest and most cheerful places. Often and often have I wished that she +had been sooner removed; but, alas! it was ordered otherwise. She +pretended to be very fond of us, and our parents never dreamed of any +danger in permitting her to remain under their roof. We were so delighted +and captivated with her narratives, that we implicitly obeyed her in every +respect; but she laid strong injunctions upon us, that we were not to +inform either our father or mother of the nature of them. If we were +alarmed at any time, we always attributed it to some other than the true +cause; hence the injury she was inflicting upon the family was +unperceived. I have sometimes thought that she was actuated by a spirit of +revenge, for some supposed injury inflicted upon her, and that she had +long contemplated the misfortune into which she eventually plunged my +unhappy parents, and which hurried them both to a premature grave. + +I will briefly state the cause of the grievous change in our domestic +happiness. My sister was a year or two younger than myself, and, at the +time of which I speak, about seven years of age. She had always been a +gay, romping child, till this old woman was introduced into the family, +and then she became grave, timid, and reserved; she lost all that buoyancy +of disposition, that joyousness of heart, which were common to her before. +Methinks I now see her as she was then—a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired little +creature, with soft, blue eyes, that sparkled with animation, a mouth +pursed into the pleasantest smile, and a nose and chin exquisitely formed. +My sister, as I have already stated, altered much after the old woman had +become an inmate of the family. She lost the freshness of her complexion, +the bright lustre of her eye, and was often dejected and thoughtful. One +night (I shudder even now when I think of it), the wicked old beldame told +us, as usual, one of her frightful stories, which had alarmed us +exceedingly. It related to our own house, which she declared had at one +time been haunted, and that the apparition had been seen by several +persons still living. It appeared as a lady, habited in a green silk +dress, black velvet bonnet, with black feathers. After she had concluded +her narrative, under some pretense or other, she left the room, though we +both strenuously implored her to remain; for we were greatly afraid, and +trembling in every limb. She, however, did not heed our solicitation, but +said she would return in a few minutes. There was a candle upon the table, +but it was already in the socket, and fast expiring. Some ten or fifteen +minutes elapsed, and the chamber-door was quietly thrown open. My hand +shakes, and my flesh seems to creep upon my bones, as I recall that horrid +moment of my past existence. The door was opened, and a figure glided into +the room. It seemed to move upon the air, for we heard not its footsteps. +By the feeble and sickly light of the expiring taper, we closely examined +the appearance of our extraordinary visitor. She had on a green dress, +black bonnet and feathers, and, in a word, precisely corresponded with the +appearance of the apparition described by the wicked old nurse. My sister +screamed hysterically, and I fell into a swoon. The household was +disturbed, and in a few minutes the servants and our parents were by the +bed-side. The old woman was among them. I described, as well as I was +able, what had occurred; and my parents, without a moment’s hesitation, +laid the mysterious visitation to the charge of the old woman; but she +stoutly denied it. My belief, however, to this day, is, that she was +concerned in it. My beloved sister became a confirmed idiot, and died +about two years after that dreadful night. + +My subsequent wretchedness may be traced to this female, for she had +already instilled into my mind a love for the marvelous and supernatural. +I was not satisfied unless I was reading books that treated of these +subjects; and I desired, like the astrologers of old, to read the stars, +and to be endowed with the power of casting the horoscopes of my +fellow-creatures. + +When directed by my guardians to select a profession, I chose that of +medicine, as being most congenial to my taste. I was accordingly placed +with a respectable practitioner, and in due time sent to college, to +perfect myself in my profession. I found my studies dry and wearisome, and +was glad to relieve myself with books more capable of interesting me than +those relating to medical subjects. + +I had always attached great importance to dreams, and to the various +coincidences which so frequently occur to us in life. I shall mention a +circumstance or two which occurred about this time, and which made a very +forcible impression upon me. I dreamed one night that an intimate friend +of mine, then residing in India, had been killed by being thrown from his +horse. Not many weeks elapsed, before I received intelligence of his +death, which occurred in the very way I have described. I was so struck +with the coincidence, that I instituted further inquiry, and ascertained +that he had died on the same night, and about the same hour on which I had +dreamed that the unfortunate event took place. I reflected a good deal +upon this occurrence. Was it possible, I asked myself, that his +disinthralled spirit had the power of communicating with other spirits, +though thousands of miles intervened? An event so strange I could not +attribute to mere chance. I felt convinced that the information had been +conveyed by design, although the manner of its accomplishment I could not +comprehend. + +A circumstance scarcely less remarkable happened to me only a few days +subsequently. I had wandered a few miles into the country, and at length +found myself upon a rising eminence, commanding a view of a picturesque +little village in the distance. Although I had at no period of my life +been in this part of the country, the scene was not novel to me. I had +seen it before. Every object was perfectly familiar. The mill, with its +revolving wheel—the neat cottages, with small gardens in front—and the +little stream of water that gently trickled past. + +These matters gave a stronger impulse to my reading, and I devoured, with +the greatest voracity, all books appertaining to my favorite subjects. +Indeed, I became so engrossed in my employment, that I neglected my proper +studies, avoided all society, all exercise, and out-door occupation. For +weeks and weeks I shut my self up in my chamber, and refused to see +anybody. I would sit for hours of a night, gazing upon the stars, and +wondering if they exercised any control over the destinies of mankind. So +nervous did this constant study and seclusion render me, that if a door +were blown open by a sudden blast of wind, I trembled, and became as pale +as death; if a withered bough fell from a neighboring tree, I was +agitated, and unable for some seconds to speak; if a sudden footstep was +heard on the stairs, I anticipated that my chamber-door would be +immediately thrown open, and ere many seconds elapsed to be in the +presence of a visitor from the dark and invisible world of shadows. I +became pale and feverish, my appetite failed me, and I felt a strong +disinclination to perform the ordinary duties of life. + +My friends observed, with anxiety and disquietude, my altered appearance; +and I was recommended to change my residence, and to withdraw myself +entirely from books. A favorable locality, combining the advantages of +pure air, magnificent scenery, and retirement, was accordingly chosen for +me, in which it was determined I should remain during the winter months. +It was now the latter end of September. + +My future residence lay at the distance of about ten German miles from +Berlin. It was a fine autumnal day, that I proceeded, in the company of a +friend, to take possession of my new abode. Toward the close of the day we +found ourselves upon an elevated ground, commanding an extensive and +beautiful view of the country for miles around. From this spot we beheld +the house, or rather castle (for it had once assumed this character, +although it was now dismantled, and a portion only of the eastern wing was +inhabitable), that I was to occupy. It stood in an extensive valley, +through which a broad and deep stream held its devious course—now flowing +smoothly and placidly along, amid dark, overhanging trees—now dashing +rapidly and furiously over the rocks, foaming and roaring as it fell in +the most beautiful cascades. The building stood on the margin of the +stream, and in the midst of thick and almost impenetrable woods, that +rendered the situation in the highest degree romantic and captivating. The +scene presented itself to us under the most favorable aspect. The sun was +just setting behind the distant hills, and his rays were tinging with a +soft, mellow light, the foliage of the trees, of a thousand variegated +colors. Here and there, through the interstices of the trees, they fell +upon the surface of the water, thus relieving the dark and sombre +appearance of the stream. The road we now traversed led, by a circuitous +route, into the valley. As we journeyed on, I was more than ever struck +with the beauty of the scene. Dried leaves in many places lay scattered +upon the ground; but the trees were still well laden with foliage, +although I foresaw they would be entirely stripped in a short time. The +evening was soft and mild; but occasionally a gentle breeze would spring +up, and cause, for a moment, a slight rustling among the trees, and then +gradually die away. The sky above our heads was serene and placid, +presenting one vast expanse of blue, relieved, here and there, by a few +light fleecy clouds. As we got deeper into the valley, the road became bad +and uneven, and it was with much difficulty we prevented our horses from +stumbling. In one or two instances we had to dismount and lead them, the +road in many places being dangerous and precipitous. At length we gained +the bottom of the valley. A rude stone bridge was thrown over the stream +above described, over which we led our steeds. Arrived at the other side, +we entered a long avenue of trees, sufficient to admit of two horsemen +riding abreast. When we had gained the extremity of the avenue, the road +diverged to the left, and became tortuous and intricate in its windings. +It was in a bad state of repair, for the building had not been inhabited +by any body but an old woman for a great number of years. We at length +arrived in front of the entrance. As I gazed upon the dilapidated +structure, I did not for a moment dream of the suffering and misery I was +to undergo beneath its roof. We dismounted and gave our horses into the +charge of a man who worked about the grounds during the day-time. We were +no sooner admitted into this peculiar-looking place, than a circumstance +occurred which plunged me into the greatest distress of mind, and aroused +a host of the most painful and agonizing reminiscences. I conceived the +event to be ominous of disaster; and so it proved. I recognized, in the +woman who admitted us, that execrable being who had already so deeply +injured my family, and to whose infernal machinations I unhesitatingly +ascribed the idiocy and death of my dearly beloved sister. She gazed +earnestly upon me, and seemed to recognize me. This discovery caused me +the greatest uneasiness. I hated the sight of the woman; I loathed her; I +shuddered when I was in her presence; and a vague, undefinable feeling +took possession of me, which seemed to suggest that she was something more +than mortal. I know not what evils I anticipated from this discovery. I +predicted, however, nothing so awful, nothing so horrible, as what +actually befell me. + +I took the earliest opportunity of speaking alone with this woman. + +“My good woman,” I said to her, “I shall not suffer you to remain here at +night.” + +“Why not, sir?” she asked. + +“There are certain insuperable objections, the nature of which you may +probably surmise.” + +“Indeed, I do not.” + +“Then your memory is short.” + +“I do not understand you, sir.” + +“It is not of any consequence.” + +After some further altercation, she consented to submit to the terms +dictated to her. + +On the following day, my friend Hoffmeister returned to Berlin, where he +had some business to transact, on which depended much of his future +happiness. He promised to pay me another visit in the course of a week or +ten days. + +I spent the first three or four days very comfortably, though I was still +very nervous, and in a weak state of health. On the morning of the fifth +day, the old woman (who had by some means discovered my profession) asked +me if I required a subject for the purpose of dissection. This was what I +had long been seeking for, but my efforts to obtain one had hitherto been +fruitless. I asked the sex, and she informed me it was a male. I was +delighted with the offer, and at once acquiesced in the terms. Toward +nightfall it was arranged that the corpse should be conveyed to the +castle. + +I know not from what cause, but, during the whole of the day, I was in a +very abstracted and desponding state of mind, and began to regret that I +had agreed to take the body through the mediation of the old woman, whom I +almost conceived to be in league with Beelzebub himself. + +The day had been exceedingly sultry, and toward evening the sky became +overcast with huge masses of dark clouds. The wind, at intervals, moaned +fitfully, and as it swept through the long corridors of the building, +strongly resembled the mournful and pitiful tones of a human being in +distress. The trees that stood in front of the house ever and anon yielded +to the intermitting gusts of wind, and bowed their heads as though in +submission to a superior power. There was no human being to be seen out of +doors, and the cattle, shortly before grazing upon some distant hills, had +already been removed. The river flowed sluggishly past, its brawling +breaking occasionally upon the ear when the wind was inaudible. Suddenly +the wind ceased, and large drops of rain began to fall; presently +afterward, it came down in torrents. It was a fearful night. Frequent +peals of thunder smote upon the ear; now it seemed to be at a distance, +now immediately overhead. Vivid flashes of lightning were at intervals +seen in the distant horizon, illumining for a moment, with supernatural +brilliancy, the most minute and insignificant objects. In the midst of the +tempest, I fancied I heard a rumbling noise at a distance. It grew more +distinct; the cause of it was rapidly approaching. I looked earnestly out +of the window, and I thought I could discern a moving object between the +interstices of the trees. I was not mistaken. It was the vehicle conveying +the dead body. It came along at a rapid pace. It was just in the act of +turning an angle of the road, when a tree, of gigantic proportions, was +struck by the electric fluid to the ground. The horse shied, and the car +narrowly escaped being crushed beneath its ponderous weight. The men drove +up to the entrance, and speedily took the box containing the body from the +car, and placed it in a room which I showed them into. I directed them to +take the body out of the box, and place it upon a deal board, which I had +laid horizontally upon a couple of trestles. The corpse was accordingly +taken out. It was that of a finely-grown young man. I laid my hand upon +it; it was still warm, and I fancied I felt a slight pulsation about the +region of the heart. Anxious to dismiss the men as soon as possible, and +fearing that the old woman might be imposing upon me, I asked the price. + +“_Siebzig Thaler, mein Herr_,” said the man. + +“_Danke, danke—tausendmal_,” said he, as I counted the money into his +hand. + +At this instant a vivid flash of lightning illumined, for a second or two, +the livid and ghastly corpse of the man, rendering the object horrible to +gaze upon. + +“_Gott im Himmel! was für ein schrecklicker Stürm!_” exclaimed the man to +whom I had paid the money. + +In a few minutes the men departed, and I stood at the window watching +them, as they drove furiously away. At length they disappeared altogether +from my view. + +I was now alone in the house. The storm was as furious as ever. I had +never before felt so wretched. I was restless and uneasy, and a thousand +dark thoughts flitted across my distracted brain as I wandered from room +to room. It was already quite dark, and I was at least a couple of miles +distant from any living soul. The frequent flashes of lightning, the loud +peals of thunder, the dead body of the man, and my own nervous and +superstitious temperament, constituted a multitude of anxieties, fears, +and apprehensions, that might have caused the stoutest heart to quail +beneath their influence. I seated myself in the sitting-room that had been +provided for me, and took up my _meerschaum_, and endeavored to compose +myself. It was, however, in vain. I was exceedingly restless, and I know +not what vague and indefinable apprehensions entered my imagination. +Whenever I have felt a presentiment of evil, it has invariably been +followed by some danger or difficulty. It was so in the present instance. +I drew the curtains in front of the windows, for I could not bear to look +upon the storm that was raging with unabated vehemence out of doors, and I +drew my chair closer to the fire, and sat for a considerable time. At +length, between ten and eleven o’clock, I took from a small cabinet a +bottle containing some excellent French brandy. I poured a portion of it +into a tumbler, and diluted it with warm water. I took two or three +copious draughts, which I thought imparted new life to my frame. + +I was in this way occupied, when a sudden noise in a corner of the room +caused a feeling of horror to thrill through my whole system. I sprang +upon my legs in a moment; my eyes stared wildly, and every limb in my body +shook as though with convulsions. For a moment, I stood still, steadfastly +fixing my eyes upon the place from whence the noise proceeded. All was +quiet. I heard nothing save the beating of the rain against the windows, +and low peals of distant thunder. I walked across the room, and I +discovered that a riding-whip had fallen from the nail from which it had +been suspended. Satisfied that there was no occasion for alarm, I resumed +my seat, and indulged in fresh draughts of brandy-and-water. A few minutes +elapsed, and a noise similar to the last filled me with new apprehensions. +I sprang again from my seat. The pulses of my heart beat quickly. I gazed +wildly about me. I could see nothing—hear nothing. I walked a few paces, +and found an empty powder-flask upon the floor; it had fallen from a shelf +upon which I had placed it in the morning. I was much alarmed; I reeled +like a drunken man, and my mind was filled with the most horrible +forebodings. I drank the diluted spirit more freely than usual, and stood +awaiting the issue. Another article in a few minutes fell from the wall. I +now knew what to expect. I had frequently read of this species of +disturbance before. It was what, is called in Germany the _Poltergeist_. +In a few minutes, the greatest uproar manifested itself. The pictures fell +from the walls, the ornaments from the shelves; the jugs, glasses, and +bottles leaped from the table; the chairs, &c., by some unseen and +infernal agency, were overturned. I ran about like one beside himself; I +tore my hair with agony; I groaned with mental affliction; and my heart +cursed the devil incarnate that had brought all this misery to pass. It +was the woman; I was convinced of it. She, she alone, could conceive and +hatch such monstrous and nefarious stratagems. I knew not what to +do—whither to fly. The uproar continued. In my distraction, I ran from +place to place. I entered the room where the corpse lay. Merciful God! I +discovered, by the glimmering light from the other chamber, that it had +changed its position. I had laid it upon its back. Its face was now turned +downward! My cup was full—my misery complete. I returned to the room I had +just quitted. The disturbance had in some measure abated. I was thankful +that it was so, and I proceeded to place the tables, chairs, &c., in their +usual position. While I was thus engaged, the tumult commenced afresh. No +sooner had I placed a chair in an upright direction, than it was +immediately overturned; no sooner had I suspended a picture from the wall, +than it was again upon the floor. What was I to do? How was I to escape +the horrible spells with which the archfiend had encompassed me? I could +not leave the place on account of the storm; and even if I had done so, it +was not possible that I could gain admittance into any habitation at that +late hour of the night. Wretch that I was! What crime had I committed, +wherein had I erred, that I should be visited with so unaccountable and +terrible a calamity? My presence seemed to arouse the malignity of the +_Poltergeist_, and I deemed it expedient to leave the room. I was afraid +to enter that in which the dead (?) man lay, lest I should be exposed to +further causes for alarm. There was certainly a room in the higher part of +the building in which I had been accustomed to sleep; but I dared not +venture there in my present state of mind. I entered an adjourning +corridor, and paced up and down for a few minutes, but the air was chilly, +and I was in total darkness. The disturbance ceased as soon as I had +quitted the room. I could not remain where I was, so I re-entered it, but +my return was only the signal for fresh disasters. The uproar was resumed +with tenfold energy. However much my heart might revolt from it, there was +no other course open than to go into the room where the dead body lay. In +the condition of one who is driven to the last stage of desperation, I +walked, with as much fortitude as I could command, into that chamber. God +of Heaven! I had no sooner reached the threshold than I started back with +affright. I will not dwell upon that horrible scene; I will not minutely +detail the agony I endured. The corpse sat upright! I drew the +chamber-door quickly after me and staggered into the next apartment. +Powerless and overcome, I fell to the ground. + +When I recovered, it was day. The light was streaming into the chamber, +and the storm had subsided. Fresh marvels were to be revealed. I was no +longer in the room in which I had been on the preceding night. I was in +bed, in the chamber where I had hitherto slept! How came I hither? I knew +not. I pressed my hand to my brow, and strove to collect my scattered +senses. I was bewildered and confused, and could only account for the +marvelous transition to which I had been exposed, by some remarkable +agency, altogether intangible to my senses, and utterly beyond the power +of my understanding to comprehend. + +I descended, as soon as I was dressed, to breakfast, of which I sparingly +partook. I was pale and agitated. My sitting-room was in its usual state +of order. I did not venture into the other apartment, neither did I speak +to the woman touching the spectacles I had witnessed. + +Hoffmeister returned in the evening, some days sooner than he expected. He +observed my altered appearance, and said— + +“_Was fehlt dir? Du bist krank, nicht wahr?_” + +“_Nein; ich bin recht wohl, Gott sei dank_.” + +I could not, however, convince Hoffmeister that nothing had happened. I +was not disposed to reveal to him what I had witnessed, for I knew he +would treat the matter with unbecoming levity. His opinions were very +different from mine upon these subjects. + +Hoffmeister appeared much depressed in spirits himself. I inquired the +cause, but he evaded the question. I concluded that his journey to Berlin +had not been attended with satisfactory results, for I could conjecture no +other cause for his unhappiness. We retired to rest early, for Hoffmeister +appeared fatigued. I proposed that we should sleep together, which my +friend gladly assented to. + +I was much surprised, when I awoke on the following morning, to find +myself alone. What had become of Hoffmeister? Had he, too, been under the +domination of some evil power? I knew he was not an early riser, and his +absence, therefore, astonished and agitated me. I dressed myself hastily, +and immediately went in search of him. I wandered about the adjacent +grounds, but he was not there. I could not rest till I had found him. I +had known him for many years, and had always loved and esteemed him. He +was, till lately, my constant companion—my bosom-friend—in a word, my +_alter ego_. + +I resolved to extend my search. I swiftly passed through the avenue of +trees, crossed the bridge, and it was not long before I had gained the +summit of the road that led into the valley. I stood for a while gazing +around me. I gazed earnestly at the dilapidated and time-worn walls of the +old castle, in which I had witnessed so many marvelous and horrible +sights. I shuddered when I reflected upon them. I resumed my journey, and +at length reached a village a few miles distant from my former abode. I +walked quickly forward, and on my way met several persons who saluted me, +whom I did not remember to have seen before. What could they mean by +taking such unwarrantable liberties with me? They did not appear to be +drunk, nor to have any intention of insulting me. It was +odd—unaccountable. I hurried on. My head began to swim; my eyes were +burning hot, and ready to start from their sockets. I was wild—frantic. + +I reached the shop of an apothecary, and stepped in to ask for water, to +quench my thirst. The man smirked, and asked me how I was. I told him, I +did not know him; but he persisted in saying he had been in my company +only a night or two before. I was confounded. I seized the glass of water +he held in his hand, and took a hearty draught, and precipitately +departed. I traveled on. I was bewildered—in a maze, from which I found it +impossible to extricate myself. I made inquiries about my friend, but the +people stared and laughed, as though there was something extraordinary +about me. I wandered about till nightfall, and at last found shelter in a +cottage by the road-side, which was inhabited by an infirm old woman. + +The next day I returned to the village. I called upon a gentleman with +whom I was intimately acquainted. I thought he might be able to give me +some tidings of my friend. When I was ushered into his presence he did not +know me. I was incredulous. Was I no longer myself? Had I changed my +identity? Whence this mystery? I was unable to fathom it. I handed my card +to him; he looked at it, and returned it, saying he did not know Mr. +Hoffmeister. The card was that of my friend. How it had come into my +possession I knew not. I apologized for the error, and informed him that +my name was not Hoffmeister, but Heinrich Gottlieb Langström. My surprise +may be conceived, when he informed me Langström—in fact, that I myself was +dead, and that my body had been found in the stream that flowed past the +village the day previously! I was ready to sink through the floor, and +could not find language to reply to the monstrous falsehood. I rushed from +his presence, feeling assured that some conspiracy was afoot to drive me +mad. I must have become so, or I never would have been exposed to the +extraordinary delusion to which I afterward became a victim. + +I entered a house of public entertainment, and determined to solve this +dreadful enigma. I was, unfortunately, acquainted with the doctrines of +Pythagoras, and, at the time to which I refer, no doubt insane. + +I requested to be shown into a room, where I could arrange my dress. I was +conducted into a chamber, in which all things necessary for that purpose +were provided. My object, however, was of greater consequence than this. I +wished to unravel the strange mystery that surrounded me—to discover, in a +word, whether I were really myself, or some other person. There was no way +of freeing myself from this horrible suspense and uncertainty than by +examining my features in the looking-glass. There was one placed upon a +dressing-table, but I shrank from it as though it had been a demon. I +dreaded to approach it; I feared to look into it, lest it should confirm +all the vague and monstrous misgivings that agitated my mind. I regarded +it as the arbiter of my destiny. It possessed the power either to +transport me with happiness, or to plunge me into utter, irretrievable +misery. In that brief moment I endured an age of agony and suspense. With +a faltering step, with a whirling brain, I advanced toward the glass. I +stood opposite to it; I looked into it. Distraction! horror of horrors! It +was not my own face I beheld! I swooned—fell backward. + +When I recovered, I found myself in the arms of a man, who bathed my +temples with water. I quickly made my escape from the house. I was pale +and haggard, like one stricken with some sudden and grievous calamity. I +fancied, as I passed along, that the passengers whom I met stared at me, +laughed in my face, and seemed to consider my misfortune a fit subject for +their mirth and ridicule. Every hubbub in the street, every screeching +voice that assailed my ear, I conceived to be attributable to my horrible +transformation. I was afraid to look around; I dared not arrest my +progress for a moment, lest any of the mocking fiends should make sport of +my unhappy situation, and drive me to some act of desperation. On, on, I +hurried. I gained the fields. Thank Heaven! the village lay at a distance +behind me. The haunts of men were no place for me. I was something more +than mortal. I had undergone a change, of which I had never conceived +myself susceptible. I sped forward; naught could impede my course. My only +relief was in action. Any thing to dissipate the thoughts that flitted +across my distracted brain. Bodily pain might be endured—fatigue, hunger, +any corporeal suffering; but to think, was death—destruction. Oh! could I +have evaded thought for one moment, what joy, what transport! I fled +onward; there was no time to pause—to consider. The sun had already sunk +behind the hills, and night was about to spread her mantle o’er the earth, +when I threw myself down, exhausted and overpowered. Slumber sealed my +eyes, and I lay upon the ground, an outcast of men, an isolated and +wretched being, to whom the common lot of humanity had been denied. + +I will hurry this painful narrative to a close. I have but a vague idea of +the events that occurred during the next few weeks. I remember being told, +as I lay in bed, by a young woman who attended me, that I had been found +by some workpeople, on the night above referred to, in the vicinity of my +former residence, and conveyed thither, and that I had been attacked by +the brain fever, and that my life had been despaired of by my medical +attendant. + +The body which had been found in the stream, and which was supposed to be +mine, was that of my dear friend, Hoffmeister. In his agitation, +previously to his committing the dreadful act of suicide, he had +inadvertently mistaken my garments for his own. + +When I became convalescent, I determined upon leaving, as soon as +possible, the scene of my recent suffering. Before doing so, I proceeded +to the village which I had previously visited. I called upon the gentleman +who had not recognized me on a former occasion; but, strange to say, he +now remembered me perfectly, and received me very kindly indeed. I +referred to the circumstance of our late interview, but he had no +recollection of it. While we were thus conversing, a third person entered +the room, the very image of my friend, and who, it appeared was his +brother. An explanation at once ensued. + +These matters I have thought it necessary to explain. There are, however, +occurrences in the narrative, of which I can give no solution, though I +may premise, that my conviction is, that those which took place in the +village, arose from natural causes, with which I am nevertheless +unacquainted. The body of the man, who, I have reason to believe, was not +quite dead when he was brought to me, I conveyed with me to Berlin. The +old woman I never again beheld. + + + + + +THE SUN. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.) + + +Of all the links in the stupendous chain of the cosmos, the sun, next to +our own planet, is that which we are most concerned in knowing well, while +it is precisely that which we know the least. This glorious orb has always +been involved in the deepest mystery. All that had been revealed to us +concerning it, till very recently, was derived from the observations and +deductions of the elder Herschel. His discovery of a double luminous +envelopment, at times partially withdrawn from various portions of the +sun’s surface, afforded, on the whole, a satisfactory explanation of the +numerous spots that are always seen on his disk. This glimpse merely of +the external changes which happen on his surface made up the sum of our +knowledge of that great luminary on which the animation of our planetary +system depends! One main cause of this utter ignorance on the subject, +besides its own intrinsic difficulty, lay in the comparatively slight +attention it had always received from astronomers generally. No individual +observer ever thought of devoting himself to the solar phenomena alone, +while the public observatories confined themselves to merely observing the +sun’s culmination at noon, or to ascertaining the exact duration of its +eclipses. + +We knew, from the observations of Cassini and Herschel, that the spots on +the sun’s disk are not alike numerous every year; and Kunowsky +particularly drew the attention of astronomers to the fact, that while in +the years 1818 and 1819 very large and numerous ones appeared, some +visible even to the naked eye, very few, on the contrary, and those of but +trifling size, were seen in the years 1822-1824. But it was reserved for +the indefatigable Schwabe of Dessau, who has devoted himself for a long +series of years to this one single object, to establish the fact of these +spots observing a certain periodicity. Among the results of his labors—for +as yet we have only his brief announcements to the scientific world in the +“Astronomical Notices”—are the following: 1. That the recurrence of the +solar spots has a period of about ten years; 2. That the number of the +single groups of one year varies at the minimum time from twenty-five to +thirty, while in the maximum years they sometimes rise to above three +hundred; 3. That with their greater abundance is combined also a greater +local extension and blackness of the spots; 4. That at the maximum time, +the sun, for some years together, is never seen without very considerable +spots. The last maximum appears to have been of a peculiarly rich +character, as, from February, 1837, till December, 1840, solar spots were +visible on every day of observation; while the number of groups in the +former of those years amounted to 333. + +But if a single individual, by observations continued unbroken for entire +decenniums, has thus revealed to us the most important fact hitherto known +relating to the sun, there are other questions not less important which +can only find their solution in the careful observation of a +rarely-occurring interval of perhaps one or two minutes. The splendor of +the sun is so amazingly great, as to preclude us entirely from perceiving +any object in his immediate proximity unless projected before his disk as +a darkening object. At ten, or fifteen degrees even from the sun, when +this luminary is above the horizon, all the fixed stars vanish from the +most powerful telescopes. We are therefore in utter ignorance whether the +space between him and Mercury is occupied or not by some other denizen of +the planetary system. To enable us to explore the sun’s immediate +proximity, we require a body that shall exclude his rays from our +atmosphere, and yet leave the space round the sun open to our view. Such +an object can of course be neither a cloud nor any terrestrial object, +natural or artificial, since parts of the atmosphere will exist behind it +which will be impinged on by the sun’s rays. Only during a total eclipse +can these conditions be fulfilled, and even then but for a very brief +interval, which may still be lost to the observer through unfavorable +weather or from too low a position of the sun. + +Notwithstanding that this rare and precarious opportunity is the only +possible one we possess of becoming better acquainted with the physical +nature of the great luminary of day, astronomers never availed themselves +of it for any other purpose than the admeasurement of the earth, which +might have been done as well, if not better, during any planetary eclipse. +This error or indifference, whichever it may have been, can not, however, +be laid to the charge of our living astronomers. The 8th of July, 1842—the +day on which the last total eclipse of the sun took place—witnessed the +most distinguished of these assembled for the purpose of making, for the +first time, observations calculated to afford us some insight into this +greatest mystery of the celestial world. This eclipse was total on a zone +which traversed the north of Spain, the south of France, the region of the +Alps and Styria, and a portion of Austria, Central Russia and Siberia, +terminating in China; so that the observatories of Marseilles, Milan, +Venice, Padua, Vienna, and Ofen, all supplied with excellent telescopes, +and in full activity, came within its range; while many astronomers, at +whose observatories the eclipse was not visible, set out for places +situated within the zone just described. Thus Arago and two of his +colleagues repaired to Perpignan, Airy to Turin, Schumacker to Vienna, +Struve and Sehidloffsky to Lipezk, and Stubendorff to Koerakow. Most of +them were favored by the weather. Let us now see what the combined +endeavors of these practiced and well-furnished observers have made us +acquainted with. + +First, as regards the obscurity, it was so great, that five, seven, and in +some cases as many as ten stars were visible to the naked eye. A reddish +light was seen to proceed from the horizon—that is, from those regions +where the darkness was not total—and by this light print of a moderate +size could, with a little difficulty, be read. Such plants as usually +close their petals at night were seen in most places to close them also +during the eclipse. The thermometer fell from 2 to 3 degrees of Reaumur, +and in the fields about Perpignan a heavy dew fell. A change in the color +of the light, and consequently of the enlightened objects, was noticed by +many, although they were not agreed in their description of it. But this +diversity may have been caused by the nature of the air at different +places being probably different, and the degree of obscurity very unequal. +At Lipezk, where the eclipse lasted the longest, being 3 minutes and 3 +seconds, a darkness similar to that of night set in, and there the eclipse +began exactly at noon. + +The effect of the eclipse on the animal creation was similar to what had +been observed before in the like circumstances: they ceased eating; +draught animals suddenly stood still; domestic birds fled to the stables, +or sought other places of shelter; owls and bats flew abroad, as if night +had come on. Of three lively linnets, kept in a cage, one dropped down +dead. The insect world too was greatly affected; ants stopped in the midst +of their labors, and only resumed their course after the reappearance of +the sun; and bees retreated suddenly to their hives. A general +restlessness pervaded the animal world; and only those places which were +situated more on the boundary of the zone, and where the obscurity was +consequently less complete, formed an exception. + +During the total eclipse, the dark moon which covered the sun’s disk +appeared surrounded with a brilliant crown of light or halo. This halo +consisted of two concentric belts, of which the inner one was the +lightest, and the external less brilliant, and gradually fading. In the +direction of the line which connected the point of the commencement of the +total eclipse with that of its termination, two parabolic pencils of +light—some observers say several—appeared on the halo. Within it also +light intervolved veins were observable. The breadth of the inner halo was +from 2 to 3 minutes; that of the external one from 10 to 15 minutes; the +pencils of light, on the other hand, extended as far as from 1 to 1½ +degree; by some they were traced even to 3 degrees. The color of the halo +was of a silvery white, and exhibited a violent undulating or trembling +motion, its general appearance varying in the briefest space. The light of +the halo was intensest near the covered solar rim. Its brilliance at +Lipezk was so great, that the naked eye could hardly look on it, and some +of the observers almost doubted whether the sun had really altogether +disappeared. At Vienna, Milan, and Perpignan, on the contrary, the +observers found the light of the halo resembling that of the moon toward +its full. Bell, at Verona, who found time to estimate its intensity, +ascertained it to be one-seventh of that of the full moon. Its first +traces were noticed from 3 to 5 seconds before the entrance of the entire +eclipse; in like manner, its last vestiges disappeared only some seconds +after the eclipse was over. Vivid, however, as its light was, the halo +cast but an extremely faint shadow. Some, indeed, who particularly +directed their attention to it, could not detect any. But this might have +been owing to those places on which the shadows would have fallen being +faintly illumined by the reddish light of the horizon before mentioned. In +other respects, during the progress of the eclipse, before and after its +maximum, not the least change was observable in the uncovered part of the +sun’s disk. The cusps were as sharp and distinctly-marked as possible, the +lunar mountains were projected on the sun’s surface with the most +beautiful distinctness and precision, and the color and brilliance of his +disk, in the proximity of the moon’s rim, were in no way diminished or +altered. In short, nothing was seen which could be referred in the +smallest degree to a lunar atmosphere. + +All these phenomena, striking as they were, were such as the assembled +observers were prepared for; for they were such as had already been +noticed during previous eclipses of the sun. But there was one of quite a +different character, as mysterious as it was novel to them. This was the +appearance of large reddish projections within the halo on the dark rim. +The different observers characterized it by the expressions—“red clouds, +volcanoes, flames, fire-sheaves,” &c.; terms intended of course merely to +indicate the phenomenon, and not in any way to explain it. The observers +differed in their reports both with respect to the number of these “red +clouds,” as well as to their apparent heights. Arago stated that he +observed two rose-colored projections which seemed to be unchangeable, and +a minute high. His two colleagues also saw them, but to them they seemed +somewhat larger. A fourth observer saw one of the projections some minutes +even after the eclipse was over, while others perceived it with the naked +eye. Petit, at Montpellier remarked _three_ protections, and even found +time to measure one of them. It was 1-3/4 minute high. Littrow, at Vienna, +considered them to be as high again as this; and stated “that the streaks +were visible before they became colored, and remained visible also after +their color had vanished.” The light of these projections was soft and +quiet, the projections themselves sharp, and their form unchanging till +the moment of their extinction. Schidloffsky, at Lipezk, thought he +perceived a rose-colored border on the moon in places where these red +clouds did not reach; but could not be certain of the fact, on account of +the shortness of the time. + +These projections or red clouds, mysterious and unexpected as they were to +men who directed their attention for the first time to the purely physical +phenomena concerned, were in fact, after all, nothing altogether new. The +descriptions given by astronomers of earlier eclipses of the sun had been +forgotten or overlooked. Stannyan, for instance, in his relation of that +of the 20th May, 1706, says, “The egress of the sun from the moon’s disk +was preceded on its left rim, during an interval of six or seven seconds, +by the appearance of a bloodred streak;” and Nassenius, during a total +eclipse of the sun observed on the 13th of May, 1733, mentions having seen +“several red spots, three or four in number, without the periphery of the +moon’s disk, one of them being larger than the others, and consisting, as +it were, of three parallel parts inclining toward the moon’s disk.” It is +clear, therefore, that earlier observers had witnessed the same +phenomenon, although they were unable to offer any explanation of it. It +seems, however, no unreasonable conclusion to come to, that these +projections or red clouds, as well as the halo with its pencils of light +before spoken of, are something without the proper solar photosphere, but +not forming, as this does, one connected mass of light. What further can +be known concerning this _something_ must be left to future ages to +discover. + + + + + +THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.) + + + A traveler, from journeying + In countries far away, + Repassed his threshold at the close + Of one calm Sabbath day; + A voice of love, a comely face, + A kiss of chaste delight, + Were the first things to welcome him + On that blessed Sabbath night. + + He stretched his limbs upon the hearth, + Before its friendly blaze, + And conjured up mixed memories + Of gay and gloomy days; + And felt that none of gentle soul, + However far he roam, + Can e’er forego, can e’er forget, + The quiet joys of home. + + “Bring me my children!” cried the sire, + With eager, earnest tone; + “I long to press them, and to mark + How lovely they have grown; + Twelve weary months have passed away + Since I went o’er the sea, + To feel how sad and lone I was + Without my babes and thee.” + + “Refresh thee, as ’tis needful,” said + The fair and faithful wife, + The while her pensive features paled, + And stirred with inward strife; + “Refresh thee, husband of my heart, + I ask it as a boon; + Our children are reposing, love; + Thou shalt behold them soon.” + + She spread the meal, she filled the cup, + She pressed him to partake; + He sat down blithely at the board, + And all for her sweet sake; + But when the frugal feast was done, + The thankful prayer preferred, + Again affection’s fountain flowed; + Again its voice was heard. + + “Bring me my children, darling wife + I’m in an ardent mood; + My soul lacks purer aliment, + I long for other food; + Bring forth my children to my gaze, + Or ere I rage or weep, + I yearn to kiss their happy eyes + Before the hour of sleep.” + + “I have a question yet to ask; + Be patient, husband dear. + A stranger, one auspicious morn, + Did send some jewels here; + Until to take them from my care, + But yesterday he came, + And I restored them with a sigh: + —Dost thou approve or blame?” + + “I marvel much, sweet wife, that thou + Shouldst breathe such words to me; + Restore to man, resign to God, + Whate’er is lent to thee; + Restore it with a willing heart, + Be grateful for the trust; + Whate’er may tempt or try us, wife, + Let us be ever just.” + + She took him by the passive hand. + And up the moonlit stair, + She led him to their bridal bed, + With mute and mournful air; + She turned the cover down, and there, + In grave-like garments dressed, + Lay the twin children of their love, + In death’s serenest rest. + + “These were the jewels lent to me, + Which God has deigned to own; + The precious caskets still remain, + But, ah, the _gems_ are flown; + But thou didst teach me to resign + What God alone can claim; + He giveth and he takes away, + Blest be His holy name!” + + The father gazed upon his babes, + The mother drooped apart, + While all the woman’s sorrow gushed + From her o’erburdened heart; + And with the striving of her grief, + Which wrung the tears she shed. + Were mingled low and loving words + To the unconscious dead. + + When the sad sire had looked his fill, + He vailed each breathless face, + And down in self-abasement bowed, + For comfort and for grace; + With the deep eloquence of woe, + Poured forth his secret soul, + Rose up, and stood erect and calm, + In spirit healed and whole. + + “Restrain thy tears, poor wife,” he said, + “I learn this lesson still, + God gives, and God can take away, + Blest be His holy will! + Blest are my children, for they _live_ + From sin and sorrow free, + And I am not all joyless, wife, + With faith, hope, love, and thee.” + + + + + +THE TEA-PLANT. (FROM HOGG’S INSTRUCTOR.) + + +Hid behind the monster wall that screens in the land of the Celestials +from the prying eye of the “barbarian,” the Tea-plant, in common with many +things peculiar to those regions, remained long unknown to Europeans, and +the snatches of information brought home by early travelers concerning it, +were, in too many cases, of that questionable and contradictory kind, so +characteristic, even in the present day, of the writings of those who +travel in Eastern lands. Tea has now become a general article of domestic +consumption in every household of our country having any pretension to +social comfort, as well as in that of every other civilized nation, and, +indeed, the _tea-table_ has no mean influence in refining the manners and +promoting the social intercourse of a people. Important, however, as this +universal beverage has become as an essential requisite to the social and +physical comfort of all classes and conditions of civilized society, yet +our knowledge of the plant from which it is produced is still very +imperfect; and this, notwithstanding the fact that we have had tea-plants +growing in our hothouses since the year 1768. Speaking of the introduction +of the plant to this country, Hooker says—“It was not till after tea had +been used as a beverage for upwards of a century in England, that the +shrub which produces it was brought alive to this country. More than one +botanist had embarked for the voyage to China—till lately a protracted and +formidable undertaking—mainly in the hope of introducing a growing +tea-tree to our greenhouses. No passage across the desert, no +Waghorn-facilities, no steam-ship assisted the traveler in those days. The +distance to and from China, with the necessary time spent in that country, +generally consumed nearly three years! Once had the tea-tree been procured +by Osbeck, a pupil of Linnæus, in spite of the jealous care with which the +Chinese forbade its exportation; and when near the coast of England, a +storm ensued, which destroyed the precious shrubs. Then the plan of +obtaining berries was adopted, and frustrated by the heat of the tropics, +which spoiled the oily seeds, and prevented their germination. The captain +of a Swedish vessel hit upon a good scheme: having secured fresh berries, +he sowed these on board ship, and often stinted himself of his daily +allowance of water for the sake of the young plants; but, just as the ship +entered the English Channel, an unlucky rat attacked his cherished charge +and devoured them all!” So much, then, for the early attempts to introduce +the tea-shrub to Europe: often, indeed, is the truth exemplified that + + + “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men + Gang aft a-gee.” + + +The Chinese tea-plants are neat-growing shrubs, with bright glossy green +leaves, not unlike those of the bay; or a more exact similitude will be +found in the garden camellia, with the _leaves_ of which, however, many of +our readers may not have acquaintance, although the _flowers_ are well +known, being extensively used in decorating the female dress for the +ball-room in the winter season. The tea-plants are nearly allied to the +camellia, and belong to the same natural order: indeed, one species of the +latter—the _Camellia sasanqua_ of botanists—is cultivated in the +tea-grounds of China, on account of its beautiful flowers, which are said +to impart fragrance and flavor to other teas. + +Comparatively few scientific naturalists have had sufficient opportunities +of studying the tea-producing plants in their native _habitats_, or even +in the cultivated grounds of China, and consequently a great difference of +opinion has all along existed, as to whether tea is obtained from one, +two, or more distinct species of _Thea_. This question is getting day by +day more involved as new facts come to light; and, indeed, cultivation +seems to have altered the original character of some forms of the plant so +much, that the subject bids fair to remain an open question among European +botanists for ages to come. The two tea-plants which have been long grown +in British gardens, and universally supposed, until within the last few +years, to be the only kinds in existence, are the _Thea bohea_ and the +_Thea viridis_. The former was, until recently, very generally believed to +produce the black tea of commerce, and the latter the green tea; but +recent travelers have clearly shown that both _black_ and _green_ tea may +be, and are, obtained from the same plant. The difference is caused by the +mode of preparation; but it will be afterward seen that very important +discrepancies occur between the accounts of this operation given by +different observers. Certain it is, that the extreme caution with which +the Chinese attempt to conceal a knowledge of their peculiar arts and +manufactures from European visitors—and in none is their anxiety to do so +more strikingly evinced than in the case of the culture and preparation of +tea—tends greatly to frustrate the endeavors of the scientific traveler to +acquire accurate information on this point. + +In the present state of our knowledge, it is quite impossible to say how +many species or varieties of the tea-plant are grown in China. They are +now believed to be numerous, although the two kinds to which we have +referred are those most extensively cultivated. They have long been +allowed to rank as distinct species in botanical books, and grown as such +in our greenhouses; but some acute botanists have, at various times, +suggested that they might be merely varieties of one plant. Such was the +opinion of the editor of the “Botanical Magazine,” when he figured and +described the Bohea variety (t. 998). Professor Balfour (“Manual of +Botany,” § 793) enumerates three species—the two already mentioned, and +one called _Thea Assamica_, being the one chiefly cultivated at the +tea-grounds of Assam. Most of our readers may be aware that the +cultivation and manufacture of tea has been successfully introduced to +Northern India. A “Report on the Government Tea Plantations in Kumaon and +Gurwahl, by W. Jameson, Esq., the superintendent of the Botanical Gardens +in the North-Western Provinces,”(5) has just reached us. In that report—to +which we will have occasion afterward to refer—there are “two species, and +two well marked varieties” described. Some of these do not appear to have +been at all noticed by other writers, although, from specimens of the +plants, which we have examined, from the tea-grounds, they appear +sufficiently distinct to warrant their being ranked as separate species; +and there are, indeed, some botanists who would at once set them down as +such. + +Having disposed of the question of _species_ in such manner as the +unsatisfactory state of botanical knowledge on this point will admit, we +shall now proceed to communicate some information respecting the culture +of the tea-plant, and the manner in which its leaves are made available +for the production of the beverage of which the female portion of the +community, and more particularly _old wives_ (of both sexes), are believed +to be so remarkably fond. + +The tea-plants are grown in beds conveniently formed for the purpose of +irrigating in dry weather, and for plucking the leaves when required. The +Chinese sow the seed thus: “Several seeds are dropped into holes four or +five inches deep, and three or four feet apart, shortly after they ripen, +or in November and December; the plants rise up in a cluster when the +rains come on. They are seldom transplanted, but, sometimes, four to six +are put quite close, to form a fine bush.” In the government plantations +of Kumaon and Gurwahl, more care seems to be bestowed in the raising of +the plants, whereby the needless expenditure of seeds in the above method +is saved. The seeds ripen in September or October, and in elevated +districts, sometimes so late as November. In his report, Mr. Jameson +mentions that, when ripe, the seeds are sown in drills, eight to ten +inches apart from each other, the ground having been previously prepared +by trenching and manuring. If the plants germinate in November, they are +protected from the cold by a “_chupper_,” made of bamboo and grass—a small +kind of bamboo, called the ringal, being found in great abundance on the +hills, at an elevation of 6000 to 7000 feet, and well adapted for the +purpose; these _chuppers_ are removed throughout the day, and replaced at +night. In April and May, they are used for protecting the young plants +from the heat of the sun, until the rains commence. When the plants have +attained a sufficient size they are transplanted with great care, a ball +of earth being attached to their roots. They require frequent waterings, +if the weather be dry. During the rains grass springs up around them with +great rapidity, so as to render it impossible, with the usual number of +hands, to keep the grounds clean. The practice, therefore, is merely to +make a “_golah_” or clear space round each plant, these being connected +with small water channels, in order to render irrigation easy in times of +drought. The plants do not require to be pruned until the fifth year, the +plucking of leaves generally tending to make them assume the basket shape, +the form most to be desired to procure the greatest quantity of leaves. +Irrigation seems absolutely essential for the profitable cultivation of +the tea-plant, although, on the other hand, land liable to be flooded +during the rains, and upon which water lies for any length of time, is +quite unsuitable for its growth. The plant seems to thrive in a great +variety of soils, but requires the situation to be at a considerable +altitude above the sea level. + +According to Mr. Jameson, the season for picking the leaves commences in +April and continues until October, the number of gatherings varying, +according to the nature of the season, from four to seven. So soon as the +new and young leaves have appeared in April, the first plucking takes +place. “A certain division of the plantation is marked off, and to each +man a small basket is given, with instructions to proceed to a certain +point, so that no plant may be passed over. On the small basket being +filled, the leaves are emptied into another large one, which is put in +some shady place, and in which, when filled, they are conveyed to the +manufactory. The leaves are generally plucked with the thumb and +forefinger. Sometimes the terminal part, of a branch having four or five +young leaves attached, is plucked off.” The old leaves, being too hard to +curl, are rejected as of no use; but all new and fresh leaves are +indiscriminately collected. + +The _manufacture_ of the different varieties of tea has been the subject +of much difference of opinion. It has been supposed by some writers, as we +have already mentioned, that _green_ tea was solely obtained from the Thea +viridis, and _black_ tea from the Thea bohea, while others have asserted, +that the different kinds of the manufactured article are equally produced +by both plants. Facts seem now to be quite in favor of the latter opinion, +and, indeed, Mr. Fortune, while on his first botanical mission on account +of the Horticultural Society of London, ascertained, by visiting the +different parts of the coast of China, that the _Bohea_ plant was +converted into both black and green tea in the south of China, but that in +all the northern provinces he found only _Thea viridis_ grown, and equally +converted into both kinds of tea. Mr. Ball (the late inspector of teas to +the East India Company in China), in a work entitled “An Account of the +Cultivation and Manufacture of Tea in China,” fully confirms the fact that +both the green and black teas are prepared from the same plant, and that +the differences depend entirely on the processes of manufacture. It is, of +course, possible that particular varieties of the same plant, grown in +certain soils and situations, may be preferred by the Chinese +manufacturers for the preparation of the black and green teas, and the +various kinds of both known in commerce. It has been stated by some that +the _young leaves_ are taken for green tea, and the older ones for the +black varieties; this is the popular notion on the subject, but probably +it has no foundation. + +Although it _now_ seems somewhat generally agreed that both green and +black teas are made from the leaves of the same plant, yet the various +writers on the subject are at considerable variance as to the mode in +which the difference of appearance is brought about. Some assert that the +_black_ being the natural colored tea, the beautiful green tinge is given +to the _green_ tea by means of substances used for the purpose of dyeing +it; while others hold that the green hue depends entirely on the method of +roasting. + +Among the formers Mr. Fortune, whose account of the “Chinese Method of +Coloring Green Tea,” as observed by him, is published in a former number +of the INSTRUCTOR (NO. 240, page 91). From that account, it would appear +that the coloring substances used are gypsum, indigo, and Prussian blue, +and “for every hundred pounds of green tea which are consumed in England +or America, the consumer really eats more than half a pound” of these +substances. We hope now to present our tea-drinking readers with a more +pleasing picture than this; to show that indeed there is not “death in the +cup,” nor aught else to be feared. We therefore proceed to explain the +modes of manufacture, as detailed by Mr. Ball. And, firstly, the +_manufacture_ of _black_ tea. The leaves, on being gathered, are exposed +to the air, until they wither and “become soft and flaccid.” In this state +they soon begin to emit a slight degree of fragrance, when they are +sifted, and then tossed about with the hands in large trays. They are then +collected into a heap, and covered with a cloth, being now “watched with +the utmost care, until they become spotted and tinged with red, when they +also increase in fragrance, and must be instantly roasted, or the tea +would be injured.” In the first roasting, the fire, which is prepared with +dry wood, is kept exceedingly brisk; but “any heat may suffice which +produces the crackling of the leaves described by Kæmpfer.” The roasting +is continued till the leaves give out a fragrant smell, and become quite +flaccid, when they are in a fit state to be rolled. The roasting and +rolling are often a third, and sometimes even a fourth time repeated, and, +indeed, the process of rolling is continued until the juices can no longer +be freely expressed. The leaves are then finally dried in sieves placed in +drying-tubs, over a charcoal fire in a common chafing-dish. The heat +dissipates much of the moisture, and the leaves begin to assume their +black appearance. Smoke is prevented, and the heat moderated, by the ash +of charcoal or burnt “paddy-husk” being thrown on the fire. “The leaves +are then twisted, and again undergo the process of drying, twisting, and +turning as before; which is repeated once or twice more, until they become +quite black, well-twisted, and perfectly dry and crisp.” + +According to Dr. Royle, there are only two gatherings of the leaves of +_green_ tea in the year; the first beginning about the 20th of April, and +the second at the summer solstice. “The green tea factors universally +agree that the sooner the leaves of green tea are roasted after gathering +the better; and that exposure to the air is unnecessary, and to the sun +injurious.” The iron vessel in which the green tea is roasted is called a +_kuo_. It is thin, about sixteen inches in diameter, and set horizontally +(that for Twankey obliquely) in a stove of brickwork, so as to have a +depth of about fifteen inches. The fire is prepared with dry wood, and +kept very brisk; the heat becomes intolerable, and the bottom of the kuo +even red-hot, though this is not essential. About half a pound of leaves +are put in at one time, a crackling noise is produced, much steam is +evolved from the leaves, which are quickly stirred about; at the end of +every turn they are raised about six inches above the surface of the +stove, and shaken on the palm of the hand, so as to separate them, or to +disperse the steam. They are then suddenly collected into a heap, and +passed to another man, who stands in readiness with a basket to receive +them. The process of rolling is much the same as that employed in the +rolling of black tea, the leaves taking the form of a ball. After the +balls are shaken to pieces, the leaves are also rolled between the palms +of the hands, so that they may be twisted regularly, and in the same +direction. They are then spread out in sieves, and placed on stands in a +cool room. + +For the second roasting the fire is considerably diminished, and charcoal +used instead of wood, and the leaves constantly fanned by a boy who stands +near. When the leaves have lost so much of their aqueous and viscous +qualities as to produce no sensible steam, they no longer adhere together, +but, by the simple action of the fire, separate and curl of themselves. +When taken from the kuo, they appear of a dark olive color, almost black; +and after being sifted, they are placed on stands as before. + +For the third roasting, which is in fact the final drying, the heat is not +greater than what the hand can bear for some seconds without much +inconvenience. “The fanning and the mode of roasting were the same as in +the final part of the second roasting. It was now curious to observe the +change of color which gradually took place in the leaves, for it was in +this roasting that they began to assume that bluish tint, resembling the +bloom on fruit, which distinguishes this tea, and renders its appearance +so agreeable.” + +The foregoing being the general mode of manufacturing green or Hyson tea, +it is then separated into different varieties, as Hyson, Hyson-skin, young +Hyson, and gunpowder, by sifting, winnowing, and fanning, and some +varieties by further roasting. + +This account of the preparation of green tea is directly opposed to that +given by Mr. Fortune, before referred to, wherein it is mentioned that the +coloring of green tea is effected by the admixture of indigo, gypsum, &c. +It would appear that both modes are practiced in China; and, with the +editor of the “Botanical Gazette,” we may ask, Is it not possible that +_genuine_ green tea is free from artificial coloring matter, and that the +Chinese, with their usual _imitative_ propensity (exercised, as travelers +tell us, in the manufacture of wooden hams, &c, for exportation), may +prepare an artificial green tea, since this fetches a higher price than +the black? If this be not the case, then we have a difficulty in +accounting for the _origin_ of the green teas; “there must have been green +teas for the foreigners to become acquainted with and acquire a preference +for, or there could not have been a demand for it.” We think Mr. Jameson +throws some additional light on the subject when he remarks, in the course +of his observations on the manufacture of green tea, “To make the bad or +light-colored leaves marketable, they undergo an artificial process of +coloring; but this I have prohibited, in compliance with the orders of the +Court of Directors, and therefore do not consider this tea at present fit +for the market.” In a foot-note he adds, “In China, this process, +according to the statement of the tea-manufacturers, is carried on to a +great extent.” Whether the process of coloring is confined solely to the +light-colored leaves of green tea, or extended to other inferior sorts, we +have no means of judging, amid such a variety of discordant statements. + +After the tea is thoroughly dried, in the manner above detailed, it is +carefully hand-picked, all the old or badly curled, and also light-colored +leaves being removed, as well as any leaves of different varieties that +may have got intermixed with it. Being now quite dry, it is ready to be +packed, which is done in a very careful manner. The woods used for making +the boxes in Northern India (according to Mr. Jameson) are toon, walnut, +and saul (_Shorea robusta_), all coniferous (pine) woods being unfit for +the purpose, on account of their pitchy odor. The tea is firmly packed in +a leaden box, and soldered down, being covered with paper, to prevent the +action of air through any unobserved holes that might exist in the lead; +this leaden box is contained in the wooden one, which it is made exactly +to fit. The tea being now ready to go into the hands of the merchant, we +need carry our observations no farther, as every housewife will know +better than we can tell her how to manage her own tea-pot. We will, +therefore, conclude our remarks by submitting the following statistical +note of the imports of tea into the United Kingdom in the year 1846, with +the view of showing its commercial importance— + +Black tea, about 43,000,000 lbs. +Green tea, about 13,000,000 lbs. +Total 56,000,000 lbs. + + + + + +ANECDOTES OF DR. CHALMERS. + + +Some curious Anecdotes of Dr. Chalmers are given in the new volume of his +life, now on the point of publication. Immediately upon his translation to +Glasgow a most enthusiastic attachment sprung up between Chalmers, who was +then some thirty-five years of age, and Thomas Smith, the son of his +publisher, a young man still in his minority. It was more like a first +love than friendship. The friends met regularly by appointment, or in case +of absence, daily letters were interchanged. The young man died in the +course of a few months. A ring containing his hair was given to Chalmers; +and it is noted as a singular fact, showing the intense and lasting nature +of his attachment, that the ring, after having been long laid aside, was +resumed and worn by him a few months before his death, a period of more +than thirty years.... + +His keen practical talents did not altogether shield him from attempts at +imposition. “On one occasion,” he writes, “a porter half-drunk came up to +me, and stated that two men were wanting to see me. He carried me to a +tavern, where it turned out that there was a wager between these two men +whether this said porter was correct in his knowledge of me. I was so +revolted at his impertinency, that I made the ears of all who were in the +house ring with a reproof well said and strong; and so left them a little +astounded, I have no doubt.”.... On another occasion, while busily engaged +one forenoon in his study, he was interrupted by the entrance of a +visitor. The doctor began to look grave at the interruption; but was +propitiated by his visitor telling him that he called under great distress +of mind. “Sit down, sir; be good enough to be seated,” said the doctor, +looking up eagerly, and turning full of interest from his writing table. +The visitor explained to him that he was troubled with doubts about the +Divine origin of the Christian religion; and being kindly questioned as to +what these were, he gave among others what is said in the Bible about +Melchisedec being without father and without mother, &c. Patiently and +anxiously Dr. Chalmers sought to clear away each successive difficulty as +it was stated. Expressing himself as if greatly relieved in mind, and +imagining that he had gained his end—“Doctor,” said the visitor, “I am in +great want of a little money at present, and perhaps you could help me in +that way” At once the object of his visit was seen. A perfect tornado of +indignation burst upon the deceiver, driving him in very quick retreat +from the study to the street door, these words escaping among others—“Not +a penny, sir! not a penny! It’s too bad! it’s too bad! and to haul in your +hypocrisy upon the shoulders of Melchisedek!....” A discussion arose among +the superintendents of his Sabbath-schools whether punishment should ever +be resorted to. One of them related an instance of a boy whom he had found +so restless, idle, and mischievous, that he was on the point of expelling +him, when the thought occurred to him to give the boy an office. The +candles used in the school-room were accordingly put under care of the +boy; and from that hour he became a diligent scholar. Another +superintendent then related his experience. He had been requested to take +charge of a school that had become so unruly and unmanageable that it had +beaten off every teacher that had gone to it. “I went,” said the teacher, +“and told the boys, whom I found all assembled, that I had heard a very +bad account of them, that I had come out for the purpose of doing them +good, that I must have peace and attention, that I would submit to no +disturbance, and that, in the first place, we must begin with prayer. They +all stood up, and I commenced, and certainly did not forget the +injunction—Watch and pray. I had not proceeded two sentences, when one +little fellow gave his neighbor a tremendous _dig_ in the side; I +instantly stepped forward and gave _him_ a sound cuff on the side of his +head. I never spoke a word, but stepped back, concluded the prayer, taught +for a month, and never had a more orderly school.” Dr. Chalmers enjoyed +the discussion exceedingly; and decided that the question as to punishment +and non-punishment stood just where it was before, “inasmuch as it had +been found that the judicious appointment of candle-snuffer-general and a +good cuff on the _lug_ had been about equally efficacious.”.... Among the +most ardent admirers of the doctor’s eloquence, was Mr. Young, professor +of Greek. Upon one occasion, he was so electrified that he leaped up from +his seat upon the bench near the pulpit, and stood, breathless and +motionless, gazing at the preacher till the burst was over, the tears all +the while came rolling down his cheeks. Upon another occasion, forgetful +of time and place—fancying himself perhaps in the theatre—he rose and made +a loud clapping of his hands in an ecstasy of admiration and delight.... +He was no exception to the saying that a prophet is not without honor save +among his own countrymen. When he preached in London his own brother James +never went to hear him. One day, at the coffee-house which he frequented, +the brother was asked by some one who was ignorant of the relationship, if +he had heard this wonderful countryman and namesake of his, “Yes,” said +James, somewhat drily, “I have heard him.” “And what did you think of +him?” “Very little indeed,” was the reply. “Dear me,” exclaimed the +inquirer, “When did you hear him?” “About half an hour after he was born,” +was the cool answer of the brother.... When he preached at his native +place, so strong was the feeling of his father against attending any but +his own parish church, or so feeble was his desire to hear his son, that, +although the churches of the two parishes of Eastern and Western +Anstruther stood but a few hundred yards apart, the old man would not +cross the separating _burn_ in order to hear him. + + + + + +THE PLEASURES OF ILLNESS. (FROM THE PEOPLE’S JOURNAL.) + + +Every body knows the pleasures of health; but there are very few, if any, +who can appreciate those of illness. Doubtless many people will feel +inclined to laugh at the suggestion, but we beg that we may not be +prejudged. There is positive pleasure to be derived even from every +variety—and there is a choice—of sickness, if we would only put faith in +the idea, and then strive to realize it. You may smile, but we are very +serious, recollecting especially that the subject is rather a painful one, +for which reason it behoves us to begin by treating it philosophically. + +The best thing that people can do when they are suffering pain, either +acute or otherwise, is—if they can not readily overcome it—to endeavor to +forget it; simply because the mere effort, earnestly made and persevered +in, will materially assist whatever more direct and efficient means may be +adopted to get rid of it. Brooding over any bodily suffering only gives it +encouragement, inasmuch as the mind is then actively assisting the ailment +of the body; but let us make the most of a temporary cessation from the +infliction, and there is a probability of its being dispelled altogether. +Now the pleasure of getting rid of pain is undeniable, and, having +achieved that, the best thing we can do to render the cessation permanent +is to enjoy a sound sleep, which, though a very simple and ordinary +gratification at other times, then becomes an extreme luxury, such, +indeed, as we never should have known except through the instrumentality +of the suffering that preceded it. The same may be said of many of the +remedies that are used for the alleviation of pain: a hot bath, local +applications of an exceedingly cold nature, or a delicious draught for +cooling fever and quenching thirst—a draught like that of hock and +soda-water—a draught “worthy of Xerxes, the great king,” and not to be +equaled by sherbet “sublimed with snow;” but then you must (oh, what a +pleasure for a king!) “get very drunk,” says Byron, in order thoroughly to +enjoy it. You see our author so highly appreciated the pleasures of +illness that he actually advises us to make ourselves ill; and that, too, +in a most vulgar and degrading manner, in order that we may unreservedly +revel in them. But, perhaps, the poet only meant to satirize the excessive +proneness of all human beings—and kings have been noted for this quite as +much as any—to bring pain upon themselves by some wanton or provoked +indiscretion. + +No pleasure can compensate for acute and long-endured suffering; but in +all eases of illness unattended by pain, the pleasure to be derived is +considerably greater than might be imagined. In fact, no one ever thinks +of being able to enjoy an illness, for which reason we shall endeavor to +show our readers not only the practicability of the idea, but how they are +to set about realizing it. Let us take the most common kind of malady +there is unattended by actual pain, a cold; a cold all over you, as +violent as you please—such, in fact, as is “not to be sneezed at,” one +that will confine you to your bed, compel you to take medicine, and +restrict you to broth and barley-water. There you are, then, ill; happy +fellow! very ill! you have not the least conception how much you are to be +envied. The mere fact of being in such a condition, renders you an object +of anxiety and interest. Every body in the house is ready to wait upon +you, and all you have to do is to lie still and enjoy your bed, while +other people are bustling about the house, or out of doors all day, +undergoing the fatigue and irksomeness of their ordinary avocations. You +are ill—you are to do nothing—not even to get up to breakfast, but to have +it brought to you in bed; a luxury which it is probable you may have often +been tempted to enjoy in the winter, though your philosophy enabled you to +overcome it. Now you are not only compelled to indulge in it, but are made +an object of sympathy on that account; it is so very lamentable to see you +propped up with pillows, and cosily encased in flannel around the throat +and shoulders. You are not to be hurried over your breakfast, there is no +office to go to; nothing to be thought of but the enjoyment of your tea +and toast, which you may sip and munch as leisurely as you please, while +reading a magazine or newspaper. At length breakfast is over, and you have +become tired of reading; down go the pillows to their usual position, and +after some gentle hand has smoothed and placed them comfortably, you sink +back upon them, overwhelmed by a most delightful sense of mental and +bodily indolence. What a blessing it is to have escaped the ordeal of +shaving, even for one morning! only think of that; and remember also how +the warmth of the bed will encourage the growth of your beard, compelling +you of course to send for the barber when you have got well enough to +leave your room again. Hark! there’s a knock at the door—somebody you +don’t want to see, probably; “Master’s very poorly, and obliged to keep +his bed.” Ha! ha! Keep his bed, eh?—no such thing; it’s the bed that keeps +him—snug and warm, and in a blessed state of exemption from all +annoyances, and you must not be subjected to any such infliction; no, you +are very ill. You abandon yourself to the idea, nestle your head +luxuriously in the pillow, pull the bed clothes over your chin, and fall +into a delightful dose. You awake feverish, perhaps, and thirsty. Well, +there is some barley-water at your bedside, delicately flavored with a +little lemon juice and sugar; a sort of primitive punch, pleasant to the +palate, and not at all likely to prove provocative of headache. You raise +a tumblerful to your lips, and drink with intense _gusto_. What a pleasure +it is! well worth coming into the world to enjoy, if one was to die the +next minute; but you are not going to die yet, don’t suppose it—you are +only being favored with an opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of +illness. But you are so feverish, you say; so much the better. Now, just +endeavor to recall to mind the wildest fiction, either in prose or poetry +that you have ever read, something very pleasing and highly imaginative—a +fairy tale will be as good as any. Go to sleep thinking of it, and you +will dream—dream, said we? we were wrong, for the fiction will become a +glorious reality; and so it does! but, alas! you awake, once more return +to the vulgar commonplaces of mundane existence. A sharp rap at the +bedroom door makes you farther conscious that you have only been reveling +in what is termed a delusion; but never mind, here comes some one to +console you—another corporeality like yourself, intent on feeding you with +chicken-broth, and batter-pudding; much more substantial fare than the +fairies would have given you, and extremely enjoyable now that you are +ill, though at any other time you would have turned up your nose at it. +Oh, it’s a fine thing is illness for teaching people not to let the palate +become irritated by luxurious living! “Very nice,” eh, “but you would have +liked a basin of mulligatawny better, and some wine-sauce with the +pudding?” Shocking depravity! the pleasures of illness are simple, and you +must learn to enjoy _them_ as well as those of health; it’s all habit. +Many medicines would be found extremely palatable if we were not +prejudiced against them. Now, black draughts, you “can’t bear them;” and +yet they are much nicer than castor-oil. Why, what’s the matter? you’ve +upset all the broth over that beautifully white counterpane! Delicate +stomach, yours, very. Come, try the pudding; and don’t let your +imagination combine any medicinal sauce with it. You have eaten it all; +that’s right. Now, allow us to suggest that a little very ripe fruit will +not hurt you—an orange, or some strawberries if in season. But you must +not lie there and allow your mind to get either into a wearisome state of +vacuity or unpleasant reflection. Send for a book from the library—some +novel that you have never read; and if it is too much trouble to read it +yourself, get some one to read it to you. It is a capital plan always to +endeavor to forget an illness by means of some quiet and absorbing +enjoyment. You are fond of music, for instance; and if you hear any good +band strike up in the street we recommend you by all means to detain them. +You will get up, perhaps, in the evening, and prepare yourself for a +refreshing night’s rest by having your bed made; should a friend drop in +who can give you a game of chess or cribbage be sure to avail yourself of +the opportunity, if you feel inclined for such recreation. Do not sit up +late, or get into any exciting conversation; but go calmly and quietly to +bed, take your basin of gruel, swallow your pills, lay your head on the +pillow, and go to sleep. To-morrow it is most probable that you will be +well, or only sufficiently indisposed to render it prudent that you should +stop at home, when you will indulge in a stronger and more relishing diet; +pass the day in a dreamy state of inactivity, or enjoy yourself +vivaciously in any reasonable manner you may think proper. + +Perhaps, gentle reader, you may have endured prolonged and severe attacks +of bodily suffering—perhaps you will tell us that we have not been +depicting illness at all, but merely indisposition. You would have had us +pick out from the pages of the “Lancet” a thrilling account of torture +under the knife, and then made us rack our ingenuity to discover, if +possible, some pleasure contingent upon that. You might as well expect us +to write an article on the pleasure of being hanged. We will, however, say +this much as regards every degree of illness: that there is scarcely any +that does not admit of some mitigating gratification. The mere +circumstance of being watched and most carefully tended by those we love, +the kindness with which they bear our peevishness, and the desire they +display to do every thing they can either to alleviate our pain or to +conduce to our convalescence, are pleasures such as illness alone can +afford, and must ever merit the highest appreciation, not only because we +either are or ought to be duly impressed with them at the time, but for +the farther and more substantial reason that they become delightful +reminiscences and bonds of affection forever after. It is an excellent +thing, morally and socially, is illness, and only requires that we +endeavor to make the best instead of the worst of it; and therein lies the +whole serious purport of this paper, which we have thought fit to write in +as light a style as possible, knowing that the subject, though interesting +to all, is very far from being generally palatable. + + + + + +OBSTRUCTIONS TO THE USE OF THE TELESCOPE. + + +It has been long known, both from theory and in practice, that the +imperfect transparency of the earth’s atmosphere, and the unequal +refraction which arises from differences of temperature, combine to set a +limit to the use of high magnifying powers in our telescopes. Hitherto, +however, the application of such high powers was checked by the +imperfections of the instruments themselves; and it is only since the +construction of Lord Rosse’s telescope that astronomers have found that, +in our damp and variable climate, it is only during a few days of the year +that telescopes of such magnitude can use successfully the high magnifying +powers which they are capable of bearing. Even in a cloudless sky, when +the stars are sparkling in the firmament, the astronomer is baffled by +influences which are invisible, and while new planets and new satellites +are being discovered by instruments comparatively small, the gigantic +Polyphemus lies slumbering in his cave, blinded by thermal currents, more +irresistible than the firebrand of Ulysses. As the astronomer, however, +can not command a tempest to clear his atmosphere, nor a thunder storm to +purify it, his only alternative is to remove his telescope to some +southern climate, where no clouds disturb the serenity of the firmament, +and no changes of temperature distract the emanations of the stars. A fact +has been recently mentioned, which entitles us to anticipate great results +from such a measure. The Marquis of Ormonde is said to have seen from +Mount Etna, with his naked eye, the satellites of Jupiter. If this be +true, what discoveries may we not expect, even in Europe, from a large +reflector working above the grosser strata of our atmosphere. This noble +experiment of sending a large reflector to a southern climate has been but +once made in the history of science. Sir John Herschel transported his +telescopes and his family to the south of Africa, and during a voluntary +exile of four years’ duration he enriched astronomy with many splendid +discoveries.—_Sir David Brewster_. + + + + + +MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS. + + +The Political Incidents of the past month have been interesting and +important. Congress, after spending eight or nine months in most animated +discussion of the principles, results, and relations of various subjects +growing out of Slavery in the Southern States, has enacted several +provisions of very great importance to the whole country. The debates upon +these topics, especially in the Senate, have been exceedingly able, and +have engrossed public attention to an unusual degree. The excitement which +animated the members of Congress gradually extended to those whom they +represented, and a state of feeling had arisen which was regarded, by many +judicious and experienced men, as full of danger to the harmony and +well-being, if not to the permanent existence, of the American Union. The +action of Congress during the month just closed, concludes the controversy +upon these questions, and for the time, at least, prevents vigorous and +effective agitation of the principles which they involved. What that +action has been we shall state with as much detail and precision as our +readers will desire. + +In the last number of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, we chronicled the action +of the Senate upon several of the bills now referred to. They were sent of +course to the House of Representatives, and that body first took up the +bill establishing the boundary of Texas, and giving her ten millions of +dollars in payment of her claim to the portion of New Mexico which the +bill requires her to relinquish. Mr. BOYD, of Kentucky, moved as an +amendment, to attach to it the bills for the government of Utah and New +Mexico, substantially as they had passed the Senate, both being without +any anti-slavery proviso. He subsequently withdrew that portion of the +amendment relating to Utah; and an effort was made by Mr. ASHMUN to cut +off the remainder of the amendment by the previous question, but the House +refused by a vote of 74 ayes to 107 nays. The subject was discussed with a +good deal of animation for several days. On the 4th of September, a motion +to lay the bill on the table was defeated—ayes 30, nays 169. A motion to +refer the bill to the Committee of the Whole, which was considered +equivalent to its rejection, was then carried—ayes 109, nays 99;—but a +motion to reconsider that vote was immediately passed—ayes 104, nays +98;—and the House then refused to refer the bill to the Committee of the +Whole by a vote of 101 ayes and 103 nays. Mr. CLINGMAN, of North Carolina, +moved an amendment to divide California, and erect the southern part of it +into the territory of Colorado;—but this was rejected—ayes 69, nays 130. +The question was then taken on the amendment, organizing a territorial +government for New Mexico, and was lost—ayes 98, nays 106. The question +then came up on ordering the Texas Boundary bill to a third reading, and +the House refused to do so by a vote of 80 ayes and 126 nays. Mr. BOYD +immediately moved to reconsider that vote, and on the 5th that motion +passed—ayes 131, nays 75. Mr. GRINELL, of Massachusetts then moved to +reconsider the vote by which Mr. BOYD’S amendment had been rejected, and +this was carried by a vote of 106 to 99. An amendment, offered by Mr. +FEATHERSTON, of Virginia, to strike out all after the enacting clause, and +to make the Rio Grande, from its mouth to its source, the boundary of +Texas, was rejected by a vote of 71 in favor to 128 against it. The +amendment of Mr. BOYD was then passed by a vote of 106 ayes and 99 noes; +and the question was then taken on ordering the bill, as amended, to a +third reading. It was lost by a vote of 99 ayes to 107 noes. Mr. HOWARD, +of Texas, who had voted against the bill, immediately moved a +reconsideration of the vote. The Speaker decided that the motion was not +in order, inasmuch as a reconsideration had once been had. Mr. HOWARD +appealed from the decision, and contended that the former vote was simply +to reconsider the vote on the original bill, whereas this was to +reconsider the vote on the bill as amended by Mr. BOYD.—On the fifth, the +House reversed the Speaker’s decision, 123 to 83,—thus bringing up again +the proposition to order the bill to a third reading. Mr. HOWARD moved the +previous question, and his motion was sustained, 103 to 91;—and the bill +was then ordered to a third reading by a vote of 108 to 98. The bill was +then read a third time, and finally passed by a vote of 108 ayes to 98 +nays.—As this bill is one of marked importance, we add, as a matter of +record, the following analysis of the vote upon it:—the names of Democrats +are in Roman letter, Whigs in italics, and members of the Free Soil party +in small capitals:— + +AYES.—INDIANA, Albertson, W.J. Brown, Dunham, Fitch, Gorman, McDonald, +Robinson.—ALABAMA, _Alston_, W.R.W. Cobb, _Hilliard_.—TENNESSEE, +_Anderson_, Ewing, _Gentry_, I.G. Harris, A. Johnson, Jones, Savage, F.P. +Stanton, Thomas, _Watkins, Williams_.—NEW YORK, _Anrews, Bokee, Briggs, +Brooks, Duer, McKissock, Nelson, Phænix, Rose, Schermerhorn, Thurman, +Underhill, White_—IOWA, Leffler.—RHODE-ISLAND, _Geo. G. King_.—MISSOURI, +Bay, Bowlin, Green, Hall.—VIRGINIA, Bayly, Beale, Edmunson, _Haymond_, +McDowell, McMullen, _Martin_, Parker.—KENTUCKY, Boyd, _Breck_, G.A. +Caldwell, _J.L. Johnson, Marshall_, Mason, _McLean, Morehead_, R.H. +Stanton, _John B. Thompson_.—MARYLAND, _Bowie_, Hammond, _Kerr_, +McLane.—MICHIGAN, Buel.—FLORIDA, _E.C. Cabell_.—DELAWARE, _J.W. +Houston_.—PENNSYLVANIA, _Chester Butler, Casey, Chandler_, Dimmick, +Gilmore, _Levin_, Job Mann, McLanahan, _Pitman_, Robbins, Ross, Strong, +James Thompson.—NORTH CAROLINA, _R.C. Caldwell_, _Deherry_, _Outlaw_, +_Shepperd_, _Stanly_.—Ohio, Disney, Hoagland, Potter, _Taylor_, +Whittlesey.—MASSACHUSETTS, _Duncan_, _Eliot_, _Grinnell_.—MAINE, Fuller, +Gerry, Littlefield.—ILLINOIS, Thomas L. Harris, McClernand, Richardson, +Young.—NEW-HAMPSHIRE, Hibbard, Peaslee, _Wilson_.—TEXAS, Howard, +Kaufman.—GEORGIA, _Owen_, _Toombs_, Welborn.—NEW JERSEY, Wildrick. + +NAYS.—NEW YORK, _Alexander_, _Bennett_, _Burrows_, _Clark_, _Conger_, +_Gott_, _Holloway_, _W.T. Jackson_, _John A. King_, PRESTON KING, +_Matteson_, _Putnam_, _Reynolds_, _Ramsey_, _Sackett_, _Schoolcraft_, +_Silvester_.—MASSACHUSETTS, ALLEN, _Fowler_, _Horace Mann_, +_Rockwell_.—NORTH CAROLINA, _Clingman_, Daniel, Venable.—VIRGINIA, +Averett, Holiday, Mead, Millson, Powell, Seddon.—ILLINOIS, _Baker_, +Wentworth.—MICHIGAN, Bingham, SPRAGUE.—ALABAMA, Bowdon, S.W. Harris, +Hubbard, Inge.—MISSISSIPPI, A.G. Brown, Featherston, McWillie, Jacob +Thompson.—SOUTH CAROLINA, Burt, Colcock, Holmes, Orr, Wallace, Woodward, +McQueen.—CONNECTICUT, _Thomas B. Butler_, Waldo, BOOTH.—OHIO, Cable, +_Campbell_, Cartter, _Corwin_, _Crowell_, _Nathan Evans_, GIDDINGS, +_Hunter_, Morris, Olds, ROOT, _Schenck_, Sweetzer, _Vinton_.—PENNSYLVANIA, +_Calvin_, _Dickey_, HOWE, _Moore_, _Ogle_, _Reed_, _Thaddeus +Stevens_.—WISCONSIN, _Cole_, Doty, DURKEE.—RHODE ISLAND, _Dìxon_.—GEORGIA, +Haralson, Jos. W. Jackson.—INDIANA, Harlan, JULIAN, _McGaughey_.—VERMONT, +_Hebard_, _Henry_, _Meacham_, Peck.—ARKANSAS, Robert W. Johnson.—NEW +JERSEY, _James G. King_, _Newell_, _Van Dyke_.—LOUISIANA, La Sere, +Morse.—MAINE, _Otis_, Sawtelle, Stetson.—MISSOURI, Phelps.—NEW HAMPSHIRE, +TUCK. + +This analysis shows that there voted + +For The Bill: +Northern Whigs: 24 +Southern Whigs: 25-49 +Northern Democrats: 32 +Southern Democrats: 27-59 +Total: 108. + +Against The Bill: +Northern Whigs: 44 +Southern Whigs: 1-45 +Northern Democrats: 13 +Southern Democrats: 30-43 +Total: 98. + +The bill thus passed in the House was sent to the Senate; and on the 9th +that body, by a vote of 31 to 10, concurred in the amendment which the +House had made to it; and it became, by the signature of the President, +the law of the land. + +On Saturday the 7th, the House took up the bill from the Senate admitting +California into the Union. Mr. THOMPSON, of Mississippi, moved an +amendment, making the parallel of 36° 30’ the southern boundary of +California, which was rejected—yeas 71, nays 134. The main question was +then taken, and the bill, admitting California, passed—yeas 150, nays +56.—On the same day the bill from the Senate organizing a territorial +government for Utah was taken up, and Mr. WENTWORTH, of Illinois, moved to +amend it by inserting a clause prohibiting the existence of slavery within +the territory. This was lost—ayes 69, nays 78. Mr. FITCH, of Indiana, +moved an amendment, declaring that the Mexican law prohibiting slavery, +should remain in full force in the territory: after some discussion this +was rejected—ayes 51, nays 85. Several other amendments were introduced +and lost, and the bill finally passed by a vote of 97 ayes and 85 nays. + +The bill to facilitate the recovery of Fugitive slaves was taken up in the +Senate on the 20th of August. Mr. DAYTON submitted an amendment providing +for a trial by jury of the question, whether the person who may be +claimed, is or is not a fugitive slave. After some debate, the amendment +was rejected by a vote of ayes 11, nays 27, as follows: + +AYES—Messrs. Chase, Davis of Massachusetts, Dayton, Dodge of Wisconsin, +Greene, Hamlin, Phelps, Smith, Upham, Walker, Winthrop—11. + +NAYS.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Benton, Berrien, Butler, Cass, +Davis of Mississippi, Dawson, Dodge of Iowa, Downs, Houston, Jones, King, +Mangum, Mason, Morton, Pratt, Rusk, Sebastian, Soulé, Sturgeon, Turney, +Underwood, Wales, and Yulee—27. + +On the 22d, Mr. PRATT, of Maryland, submitted an amendment, the effect of +which would have been to make the United States responsible in damages for +fugitive slaves that might not be recovered. This was rejected by a vote +of 10 to 27. Mr. DAVIS, of Massachusetts, offered an amendment extending +the right of _habeas corpus_ to free colored citizens arriving in vessels +at Southern ports, who may be imprisoned there without any alleged offense +against the law. This amendment, after debate, was rejected—ayes 13, nays +25. The original bill was then ordered to a third reading by a vote of 27 +ayes to 12 nays, as follows: + +AYES.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Bell, Berrien, Butler, Davis of +Mississippi, Dawson, Dodge of Iowa, Downs, Foote, Houston, Hunter, Jones, +King, Mangum, Mason, Pearce, Rusk, Sebastian, Soulé, Spruance, Sturgeon, +Turney, Underwood, Wales, and Yulee—27. + +NAYS.—Messrs. Baldwin, Bradbury, Chase, Cooper, Davis of Massachusetts, +Dayton, Dodge of Wisconsin, Greene, Smith, Upham, Walker, and Winthrop—12. + +On the 26th the bill had its third reading and was finally passed. On the +12th of September the House of Representatives took up the bill, and after +some slight debate, passed it, under the operation of the previous +question, by a vote of 109 ayes to 75 nays. + +On the 3d of September the Senate proceeded to the consideration of the +bill abolishing the Slave-trade in the District of Columbia. Mr FOOTE of +Mississippi offered a substitute placing the control of the whole matter +in the hands of the Corporate Authorities of Washington and Georgetown. To +this Mr. PEARCE of Maryland, in committee of the whole, moved an amendment +punishing by fine and imprisonment any person who shall induce or attempt +to induce slaves to run away, and giving the corporate authorities power +to remove free negroes from the District. The first portion of the +amendment was passed, ayes 26, nays 15, and the second ayes 24, nays 18. +Mr. FOOTE then withdrew his substitute.—On the 10th the consideration of +the bill was resumed. Mr. SEWARD moved to substitute a bill abolishing +Slavery in the District of Columbia and appropriating $200,000 to +indemnify the owners of slaves who might thus be enfranchised—the claims +to be audited and adjusted by the Secretary of the Interior: and +submitting the law to the people of the District. The amendment gave rise +to a warm debate and on the 12th was rejected, ayes 5, nays 46. The +amendments offered by Mr. PEARCE, and passed in committee of the whole, +were non-concurred in by the Senate on the 14th, and the bill on the same +day was ordered to be engrossed for a third reading, by a vote of 32 to +19. On the 16th it was read a third time and finally passed, ayes 33, nays +19, as follows: + +AYES.—Messrs. Baldwin, Benton, Bright, Cass, Chase, Clarke, Clay, Cooper, +Davis of Mass., Dayton, Dickinson, Dodge of Wisconsin, Dodge of Iowa, +Douglas, Ewing, Felch, Frémont, Greene, Gwin, Hale, Hamlin, Houston, +Jones, Norris, Seward, Shields, Spruance, Sturgeon, Underwood, Wales, +Walker, Whitcomb, and Winthrop—33. + +NAYS.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Bell, Berrien, Butler, Davis of +Mississippi, Dawson, Downs, Hunter, King, Mangum, Mason, Morton, Pratt, +Sebastian, Soulé, Turney, and Yulee—19. + +It was taken up in the House of Representatives on the 15th and passed by +a vote of 124 to 47. + +By the action of Congress during the past month, therefore, bills have +been passed upon all the topics which have agitated the country during the +year. The bill in regard to the Texas boundary provides that the northern +line shall run on the line of 36° 30’ from the meridian of 100° to 103° of +west longitude—thence it shall run south to the 32d parallel of latitude, +and on that parallel to the Rio del Norte, and in the channel of that +river thence to its mouth. The State of Texas is to cede to the United +States all claims to the territory north of that line, and to relinquish +all claim for liability for her debts, &c., and is to receive from the +United States as a consideration the sum of ten millions of dollars. The +law will, of course, have no validity unless assented to by the State of +Texas. No action upon this subject has been taken by her authorities. +Previous to the passage of the bill, the Legislature of the State met in +special session called by Governor BELL, and received from him a long and +elaborate message in regard to the attempt made, under his direction, to +extend the laws and jurisdiction of Texas over the Santa Fé district of +New Mexico, and to the resistance which he had met from the authorities of +the Federal Government. After narrating the circumstances of the case, he +urges the necessity of asserting, promptly and by force, the claim of +Texas to the territory in question. He recommends the enactment of laws +authorizing the Executive to raise and maintain two regiments of mounted +volunteers for the Expedition. A bill was introduced in conformity with +this recommendation; but of its fate no reliable intelligence has yet been +received.—A resolution was introduced into the Texas Legislature calling +upon the governor for copies of any correspondence he might have had with +other states of the Confederacy, but it was not passed. A letter has been +published from General QUITMAN, Governor of Mississippi, stating that in +case of a collision between the authorities of Texas and those of the +United States, he should deem it his duty to aid the former.—Hon. THOS. J. +RUSK, whose term as U.S. Senator expires with the present session, has +been re-elected by the Legislature of Texas receiving 56 out of 64 votes. +He voted in favor of the bill of adjustment, and his re-election by so +large a majority is looked upon as indicating a disposition on the part of +the authorities to accept the terms proposed.—Both Houses of Congress have +agreed to adjourn on the 30th of September. + +Intelligence from the Mexican Boundary Commission has been received to the +31st of August, on which day they were at Indianola, Texas. There was some +sickness among the members of the corps, but every thing looked +promising.—Hon. WILLIAM DUER, member of Congress from the Oswego District, +New York, has declined a re-election, in a letter in which he vindicates +the bills passed by Congress, and earnestly urges his constituents not to +encourage or permit any further agitation among them of questions +connected with slavery. Hon. E.G. SPAULDING, from the Erie District, and +Hon. GEORGE ASHMUN, of Massachusetts, also decline a re-election.—Captain +AMMIN BEY, of the Turkish Navy, arrived at New York on the 13th, in the +United States ship Erie, being sent out by his Government as special +Commissioner to collect information and make personal observations of the +character, resources, and condition of the United States. He is a +gentleman of ability, education, and experience and has been employed by +his Government on various confidential missions. He was the secret agent +of Turkey on the frontiers of Hungary during the recent struggle of that +gallant people with Austria and Russia. He has been warmly received here, +and enjoys every facility for prosecuting the objects of his mission. +Congress has appropriated $10,000 toward defraying the expenses of his +mission.—Hon. A.H.H. STUART, of Virginia, has been appointed Secretary of +the Interior, to fill the vacancy caused by the resignation of Mr. +M’KENNAN. He has accepted the appointment and entered upon the duties of +the office. Mr. M’KENNAN resigned on finding, from an experience of a day, +that his health was not adequate to the performance of the duties of the +place. Mr. STUART has been a member of Congress, where he was universally +recognized as a man of ability, assiduity, and character.—Mr. CONRAD, of +Louisiana, on accepting the office of Secretary of War, addressed a letter +to his constituents, explaining and justifying the course he had taken in +Congress. He said that opinions on the subject of the extension of slavery +might be classified as follows: 1. There are those who seek, through the +direct agency of the Federal Government, to introduce slavery into this +territory. 2. Those who wish, by the same means, to prevent this +introduction. 3. Those who resist any interference with the question by +the Federal Government, and would leave to the inhabitants of the country +the exclusive right to decide it. He claims to belong to the latter class. +The Union, he says, is too great a blessing to be staked upon any game of +hazard, and the prolongation of the controversy upon the subject of +slavery, he deems in itself a calamity “It alarms the South and agitates +the North; it alienates each from the other, and augments the number and +influence of those who wage an endless war against slavery, and whom this +discussion has raised to a political importance which, without it, they +never could have attained.”—Dr. HENRY NES, member of Congress from the +Fifteenth District of Pennsylvania, died at his residence in York on the +10th.—Several American citizens residing in Paris, having observed in the +London papers an account of a gross insult said to have been offered to +Hon. Mr. BARRINGER, United States Minister at Madrid, by General NARVAEZ +at Naples, wrote to him, assuring him of the cordial response upon which +he might count to such measures of redress as he should choose to adopt. +Mr. BARRINGER replied by declaring the whole story to be false in every +particular. In all his personal and official intercourse with him, he +says, General NARVAEZ had been most courteous and respectful.—An election +for state officers was held in Vermont on the first Tuesday of September, +which resulted in the choice of CHARLES R. WILLIAMS (Whig) for Governor, +and the re-election of Hon. Messrs. HEBARD and MEACHAM to Congress, from +the Second and Third Districts. THOMAS BARTLETT, jun., Democrat, was +elected in the Fourth District, and no choice was effected in the +First.—Professor J.W. WEBSTER was executed at Boston on the 30th of +August, pursuant to his sentence, for the murder of Dr. PARKMAN. He died +with great firmness and composure, professing and evincing the most +heartfelt penitence for his crime.—Intelligence has been received of the +death of the Reverend ADONIRAM JUDSON, D.D., who is known to all the world +as the oldest and one of the most laborious missionaries in foreign lands. +He left the United States for Calcutta in 1812, and has devoted the whole +of his life since that time to making Christianity known in Burmah. He +translated the Bible into the language of the country, besides compiling a +Dictionary of it, and performing an immense amount of other literary labor +in addition to the regular preaching of the gospel and the discharge of +other pastoral duties. He returned to this country in 1847, and married +Miss Emily Chubbuck, with whom he soon returned to his field of labor. His +health for the past few months has been gradually declining, and during +the last spring it had become so seriously impaired that a sea voyage was +deemed essential to its restoration. He accordingly embarked on board the +French bark, Aristide Marie, for the Isle of Bourbon, on the 3d of April; +but his disease made rapid advances, and after several days of intense +agony, he died on the 12th, and his body was committed to the deep on the +next day. Dr. JUDSON was attached to the Baptist Church, but his memory +will be held in the profoundest veneration, as his labors have been +cheered and sustained, by Christians of all denominations. He was a man of +ability, of learning, and of intense devotion to the welfare of his +fellow-men.—Bishop H.B. BASCOM, of the Methodist Episcopal Church South, +died at Louisville, Ky., on the 8th of September, after an illness of some +months’ continuance. He was in many respects one of the most influential +and distinguished members of the large denomination to which he belonged. +He enjoyed a very wide reputation for eloquence and was universally +regarded, by all who ever heard him, as one of the most brilliant and +effective of American orators. His person was large and commanding, his +voice sonorous and musical, and his manner exceedingly impressive. His +style was exceedingly florid, and elaborate, and his discourses abounded +in the most adventurous flights of fancy and imagination. He shared the +merits and the faults of what is generally and pretty correctly known as +the Southern and Western style of eloquence, and always spoke with great +effect. His labors in the service of the church have been long, arduous, +and successful. He has exerted a wide influence and has exerted it in +behalf of the noblest and most important of all interests. His death +occasions profound and universal regret.—JOHN INMAN, Esq., favorably known +to the country as a literary man, and as editor of the New York +_Commercial Advertiser_, died at his residence in New York, on the 30th of +August, after a lingering illness of several months. Mr. Inman was +educated for the bar, and practiced law for some years in New York; but +left the profession for the more congenial labors of literature. He was +engaged for some years upon the New York Mirror, and soon after became +associated with Colonel STONE, in the editorial conduct of the Commercial. +Upon the death of that gentleman in 1847, Mr. Inman became the principal +editor, and held that post, discharging its duties with ability, skill, +and unwearied assiduity, until failing health compelled him to relinquish +it during the last spring. He wrote frequently for the reviews and +magazines, and sustained confidential relations, as critic and literary +adviser, to the house of Harper and Brothers. He was a man of decided +talent, of extensive information, great industry and of unblemished +character. He died at the age of 47. + +The most exciting event of the month has been the arrival of the +celebrated Swedish vocalist, JENNY LIND. She reached New York in the +Steamer _Atlantic_ on the 1st of September, and was received by a +demonstration of popular enthusiasm which has seldom been equaled in this +country. More than twenty thousand people gathered upon the wharf where +she landed, and crowded the streets through which she passed. She gave her +first concert at Castle Garden, in New York, on the evening of the 12th, +and this was rapidly followed by five others at the same place. The number +of persons present on each occasion could not have been less then seven +thousand. The receipts on the first night were about thirty thousand +dollars, and JENNY LIND immediately bestowed ten thousand upon several of +the worthiest charities of New York City. The enthusiasm which she excites +seems fully justified not more by her superiority as an artist than by her +personal qualities and character. Of her life a brief but spirited sketch, +from the graceful pen of her distinguished countrywoman, Miss BREMER, will +be found in another part of this Magazine. Her charities are already well +known and honored wherever there are hearts to glow at deeds of +enlightened benevolence. A young woman, who has not yet seen thirty years, +she has already bestowed upon benevolent objects half a million of +dollars, not inherited or won at a throw, but the fruit of a life of +severe and disheartening toil, and has appropriated to the benefit of her +native country the profits which she will reap from the willing soil of +America. As an artist she has powers which are met with but once or twice +in a generation. Her voice is in itself a wonder, and unlike most wonders +is beautiful to a degree which causes those who come under its influence +to forget surprise in pleasure. It is compared to all things beautiful +under the sun by those whose grateful task it is to set its attractions +forth in detail: to the flood of melody from the nightingale’s throat, to +light, to water which flows from a pure and inexhaustible spring. We shall +be content to say that it appears to us almost the ideal of a beautiful +sound. It would puzzle the nicest epicure of the ear, we think, to say in +what respect he would have its glorious quality modified. He might object +possibly at first to the slightest shade of huskiness which appears +sometimes in its lower tones, or to an equally slight sharpness in the +very highest, but if he listened long he would surely forget to object. +The purely musical quality of JENNY LIND’S voice is its crowning charm and +excellence, in comparison with which its great extent, brilliance, and +acquired flexibility are of but secondary worth. Its lowest tone can be +felt at a distance and above, or rather through, all noisy obstacles and +surroundings, whether they be vocal or instrumental. Another of its chief +charms is its seeming inexhaustibility. It pours forth in a pellucid flood +of sound, and always produces the impression that there is more yet, amply +more, to meet all the demands of the singer. + +M’lle LIND’S vocalization is to the ordinary ear beyond criticism. Her +intended effects are so completely attained, and attained with such +apparent ease and consciousness of power, that the hearer does not think +of questioning whether they could be better in themselves or better +performed, but gives himself up to this unalloyed enjoyment. Her intervals +are taken with a certainty and firmness which can not be attained by an +instrument, so nicely, so rigidly accurate is her ear, and so absolute is +her power over her organ. Her abilities have been best displayed in the +first _aria_ sung by the Queen of Night in MOZART’S _Zauberflöte_, and by +a taking Swedish Herdsman’s Song. In the former she vocalizes freely above +the lines for many bars, and in one passage takes the astonishing note F +_in alt_. with perfect intonation. In the latter, which contains some very +difficult and unmelodic intervals, her performance is marked with the same +ease and accuracy which appear in her simplest ballad, and the effect of +echo which she produces is to be equaled only by Nature herself. M’lle +LIND’S shake is probably the most equal and brilliant ever heard. There +are some critics and amateurs who object to her manner of delivering her +voice and to her unimpassioned style; but although these objections seem +to have no little weight, their consideration would involve a deeper +investigation of questions of pure Art than we are at present prepared +for, and are content to offer our homage, with that of the rest of the +world, to the Genius and Benevolence which are united in her fascinating, +though, we must say, not beautiful person. + +The Gallery of the AMERICAN ART-UNION was re-opened for the season in New +York on the 4th of September, JENNY LIND honoring the occasion by her +presence. The collection is unusually large and excellent. It already +numbers over 300 pictures, several of which are among the best productions +of their authors. The number and variety of works of art to be distributed +among the members at the coming anniversary will be greater than ever +before. The rapid and wonderful growth of this institution is in the +highest degree honorable to the country, and affords marked evidence of +the energy and spirit with which its affairs have been conducted. We +understand that the subscription list is already larger by some thousands +than ever before at the same time. + +The LITERARY INTELLIGENCE of the month is devoid of any features of +startling interest. G.P.R. JAMES, ESQ. has commenced in Boston a series of +six Lectures upon the History of Civilization, and will probably repeat +them in New York and other American cities. The subject is one with which +Mr. JAMES has made himself familiar in the ordinary course of his studies +for his historical novels; and he will undoubtedly bring to its methodical +discussion a clear and sound judgment, liberal views, and his +characteristic felicity and picturesqueness of description and narrative. +The lectures are new, and are delivered for the first time in this +country.—All who are interested in Classical Education will welcome the +appearance of the edition of FREUND’S Lexicon of the Latin Language, upon +which Professor ANDREWS has been engaged for several years. The original +work consists of four octavo volumes, averaging about 1100 pages each, +which were eleven years in passing through the press, viz., from 1834 to +1845. By the adoption of various typographical expedients, such as adding +another column to the page, and using smaller type, the whole will be +comprised in a single volume, an improvement which, while it diminishes +the cost, adds greatly to the convenience with which it may be used. This +Lexicon is intended to give an account of all the Latin words found in the +writings of the Romans from the earliest times to the fall of the Western +Empire, as well as those from the Greek and other languages. The +grammatical inflexions, both regular and irregular, of each word, are +accurately pointed out; and the etymologies are made to embrace the +results of modern scholarship in that department as specifically +applicable to the Latin language, without invading the proper province of +comparative philology. To the definitions, as the most important +department of lexicography, particular attention has been given; and the +primary, the transferred, the tropical, and the proverbial uses of words +are carefully arranged in the order of their development; the shades of +difference in the meanings and uses of synonymous terms are pointed out. +Special attention has been given to the chronology of words, _i.e._, to +the time when they were in use, and they are designated accordingly as +belonging to all periods of the language, or as “ante-classic,” “quite +classic,” “Ciceronian,” “Augustan,” “post-Augustan,” “post-classic,” or +“late Latin,” as the case may be. The student is also informed whether a +word is used in prose or poetry, or in both, whether it is of common or +rare occurrence, &c, &c.; and each of its uses is illustrated by a copious +selection of examples, with a reference in every instance to the chapter, +section, and verse where found. To those familiar with the subject, this +brief description of the work will suffice to show its vast superiority +over every dictionary of the Latin language at present in use among us, +and how much may be expected in aid of the cause of sound learning from +its introduction into our seminaries and colleges. It will appear from the +press of the Harpers very soon.—“The History of the United States of +America, from the adoption of the Federal Constitution to the end of the +Sixteenth Congress, in three volumes,” is the title of a new work by Mr. +HILDRETH, whose three volumes, bringing down the history of the United +States to the adoption of the Federal Constitution are already favorably +known to the public. The present volumes, the first of which is already in +press, are intended to embrace a fully authentic and impartial history of +the two great parties of Federalists and Republicans, or Democrats, as +they were sometimes called, by which the country was divided and agitated +for the first thirty years and upward subsequent to the adoption of the +Federal Constitution. The volume now in press is devoted to the +administration of Washington, a subject of great interest and importance, +since, during that period, not only were all the germs of the subsequent +party distinctions fully developed, but because the real character and +operation of the Federal Government, from that day to this, was mainly +determined by the impress given to it while Washington remained at the +head of affairs. This subject, treated with the candor, discrimination, +industry, and ability which Mr. Hildreth’s volumes already published give +us a right to expect, can hardly fail to attract and reward a large share +of public attention.—An Astronomical Expedition has been sent out by the +United States Government to Santiago, Chili, for the purpose of making +astronomical observations. It is under the charge of Lieut. J.M. GILLIS, +of the Navy, one of the ablest astronomers of his age now living. The +Chilian Government has received the expedition with great cordiality, and +has availed itself of the liberal offer of the United States Government to +admit several young men to instruction in the Observatory, by designating +three persons for that object. Letters from Lieut. G. show that he is +prosecuting his labors with unwearied zeal and assiduity—having, up to the +1st of June, catalogued nearly five thousand stars. HUMBOLDT, in a letter +to a friend, which has been published, expresses a high opinion of Lieut. +GILLIS, and of the expedition in which he is engaged. In the same letter +he speaks in warm terms of the great ability and merit, in their several +departments, of TICKNOR, PRESCOTT, FREMONT, EMORY, GOULD, and other +literary and scientific Americans. + +From CALIFORNIA our intelligence is to the 15th of August, brought by the +steamer _Ohio_, which reached New York on the 22d ult. The most important +item relates to a deplorable collision which has occurred between persons +claiming lands under titles derived from Capt. SUTTER, and others who had +taken possession of them and refused to leave. Capt. Sutter held them +under his Spanish grant, the validity of which, so far as the territory in +question is concerned, is disputed. Attempts to eject the squatters, in +accordance with the decision of the courts, were forcibly resisted at +Sacramento City on the 14th of August, and a riot was the result, in which +several persons on both sides were killed, and others severely wounded. +Several hundred were engaged in the fight. As this occurred just upon the +eve of the steamer’s departure, the issue of the contest is unknown. There +is reason to fear that the difficulties to which it gives rise may not be +very soon or very easily settled. Among those killed were Mr. Bigelow, +Mayor of Sacramento City, Mr. Woodland, an auctioneer, and Dr. Robinson, +the President of the Squatter Association.—The news from the mines +continues to be encouraging. In the southern mines the dry season had so +far advanced that the Stanislaus and Tuolumne rivers were in good working +condition, and yielded good returns. Details are given from the various +localities showing that the gold has been by no means exhausted. From the +northern mines similar accounts are received.—The total amount received +for duties by the Collector at San Francisco from November 12, 1849, to +June 30, 1850, was $889,542.—During the passage of the steamer Panama from +San Francisco to Panama the cholera broke out, and seventeen of the +passengers died. It was induced by excessive indulgence in fruit at +Acupulco.—Rev. HORATIO SOUTHGATE D.D., formerly Missionary Bishop at +Constantinople, has been chosen Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church +for the Diocese of California.—In Sonora the difficulties which had broken +out in consequence of the tax on foreign miners had been obviated, and +order was restored.—Mining operations are prosecuted with the greatest +vigor and energy, and were yielding a good return. Companies were formed +for carrying on operations more thoroughly than has been usual, and new +locations have been discovered which promise to be very fertile. + +From OREGON there is no news of interest, though our intelligence comes +down to the 25th of July. Business was prosperous. Gold is said to have +been discovered on Rogue’s river, and companies had been formed to profit +by the discovery. A treaty of peace has been negotiated with the Indians +by Gov. LANE. + +From JAMAICA we hear of the death of Gen. Herard, ex-President of Hayti, +who has been residing in Jamaica for several years. The season has been +favorable for the crops, and the harvests of fruit were very abundant. +There had been several very severe thunderstorms, and several lives had +been lost from lightning. Efforts are made to promote the culture of +cotton upon the island. + +From NEW MEXICO Major R.H. WEIGHTMAN arrived at St. Louis, Aug. 22d, +having been elected U.S. Senator by the state Legislature. He was on his +way to Washington where he has since arrived. His colleague was Hon. F.A. +CUNNINGHAM. In the popular canvass the friends of a state government +carried every county except one, over those who desired a territorial +organization. A conflict of authority had occurred between the newly +elected state officers and the Civil and Military Governor, the latter +refusing to transfer the authority to the former until New Mexico should +be admitted as a state. A voluminous correspondence upon the subject +between the two governors has been published.—The Indians at the latest +dates were still committing the grossest outrages in all parts of the +country. The crops were fine and promising. + +In ENGLAND the month has been signalized by no event of special interest +or importance. The incident which has attracted most attention grew out of +the visit to England of General HAYNAU, the commander of the Austrian +armies during the war with Hungary, who acquired for himself a lasting and +infamous notoriety by the horrible cruelty which characterized his +campaigns and his treatment of prisoners who fell into his hands. His +proclamations, threatening butchery and extermination to every village any +of whose inhabitants should furnish aid or countenance to the Hungarians, +and the inhuman barbarity with which they were put in execution, must be +fresh in the public memory, as it certainly was in that of the people of +London. It seems that, during his stay in London, General HAYNAU visited +the great brewery establishment of Messrs. Barclay & Co. On presenting +himself, accompanied by two friends, at the door, they were required, as +was customary, to register their names. On looking at the books, the +clerks discovered the name and rank of their visitor, and his presence and +identity were soon known throughout the establishment. The workmen began +to shout after him, and finally to follow and assail him with +denunciations and dirt; and before he had crossed the yard he found +himself completely beset by a mob of coal-heavers, draymen, brewers’ men, +and others, who shouted “Down with the Austrian butcher!” and hustled him +about with a good deal of violence and considerable injury to his person. +Fully realizing the peril of his position, he ran from the mob, and took +refuge in a hotel, concealing himself in a secluded room from his +pursuers, who ransacked the whole house, until the arrival of a strong +police force put an end to the mob and the General’s peril. The leading +papers, especially those in the Tory interest, speak of this event in the +most emphatic terms of denunciation. The Liberal journals exult in the +popular spirit which it evinced, while they regret the disregard of law +and order which attended it. + +Parliament was prorogued on the 15th of August by the Queen in person, to +the 25th of October. The ceremonial was unusually splendid. The Queen +tendered her thanks for the assiduity and care which had marked the +business of the session, and expressed her satisfaction with the various +measures which had been consummated. In approving of the Colonial +Government Act, she said it would always be gratifying to her to extend +the advantages of republican institutions to colonies inhabited by men who +are capable of exercising, with benefit to themselves, the privileges of +freedom: she looks for the most beneficial consequences, also, from the +act extending the elective franchise in Ireland.—Previous to the +prorogation, Parliament transacted very little business of much interest +to our readers. Marlborough House was set apart for the residence of the +Prince of Wales when he shall need it, and meantime it is to be used for +the exhibition of the Vernon pictures. Lord BROUGHAM created something of +a sensation in the House of Lords on the 2d, by complaining that all +savings in the Civil List should accrue to the nation, and not to the +royal privy purse,—as the spirit of the constitution required the +Sovereign to have no private means, but to be dependent wholly on the +nation. His movement excited a good deal of feeling, and was very warmly +censured by all the Lords who spoke upon it, as betraying an eagerness to +pry into the petty details of private expenditures unworthy of the House, +and indelicate toward the Sovereign. Lord BROUGHAM resented these censures +with bitterness, and reproached the Whigs with having changed their +sentiments and their conduct since they had tasted the sweets of office. +This course, he said, showed most painfully that absolute prostration of +the understanding which takes place, even in the minds of the bravest, +when the word “prince” is mentioned in England.—We mentioned in our last +number the presentation of a petition concerning the Liverpool waterworks, +many of the signatures to which were found to be forgeries. The case was +investigated by the Lords, and the presenters of the petition, Mr. C. +Cream and Mr. M.A. Gage, were declared to have been guilty of a breach of +privilege, and sent to Newgate for a fort-night.—Lord CAMPBELL, on the +14th, expressed the opinion, “as one of the judges of the land,” that the +new regulations forbidding the delivery or transit of letters on Sunday, +had a tendency, so far as the administration of justice was concerned, to +obstruct works of necessity and mercy. The regulations have been +essentially modified.—The bill concerning parliamentary voters in Ireland, +after passing the House of Lords with the rate requisite for franchise at +£15, was amended in the Commons by substituting £12;—the amendment was +concurred in by the Lords, and in that form the bill became a law. The +effect of it will be to add some two hundred thousand to the number of +voters in the kingdom.—Lord JOHN RUSSELL, in reply to a question from Mr. +HUME, explained the nature of the British claims on Tuscany for injuries +sustained by British subjects after the revolt of Leghorn, and the +occupation of that city by an Austrian corps acting as auxiliaries to the +Grand Duke. After all resistance was over, it seems, that corps plundered +a number of houses, and among them houses belonging to British residents, +and conspicuously marked as such by the British consul. The amount claimed +was £1530.—Complaint was made in the Commons by Mr. BERNAL, of the +defective state of the regulations for the immigration of Africans into +the West Indies. He said that contracts were now limited to one year, +which often caused serious loss to the employer. He thought the evil might +be remedied by making the contract for three years. He was told in reply +that Lord Grey had already sanctioned contracts for three years in British +Guiana and Trinidad, and would, of course, be quite prepared to do so in +Jamaica. The immigration of free labor from Africa had proved a failure; +but this was not the case with the immigration of Coolies. Many requests +had been made to renew it, and arrangements had been made to comply with +those requests. Arrangements had also been made, in consequence of +communications with Dr. Gutzlaff, for introducing free Chinese immigrants +into Trinidad. The Tenant-right conference of Ireland held its session on +the 6th in Dublin. The attendance of delegates was large. Resolutions were +adopted declaring that a fair valuation of rent between landlord and +tenant was indispensable, that the tenant should not be disturbed so long +as he pays the rent fixed; that no further rent shall be recoverable by +process of law; and that an equitable valuation for rent should divide +between landlord and tenant the net profits of cultivation. A tenant +league is to be formed.—A dinner was given by the Fishmongers’ Company of +London to the Ministers on the 1st. Lord BROUGHAM was present, and excited +attention and mirth by his way of testing the sentiments of the Company on +matters of public reform. If they applauded what he was about to say, they +were reformers, as of old: if not, it would show that they had been +corrupted. He was made a Fishmonger in 1820, and he hoped the Company were +not ashamed of what they did in favor of an oppressed queen against an +aggressive king and his minions of ministers. The remark was not +applauded, whereupon Lord B. drew his fore gone conclusion:—“Ah, I +see;—you are far from having the same feeling you had in 1820. Honors +corrupt manners—being in power is a dangerous thing to public virtue.”—The +report of the Railway Commissioners for 1849 states that in course of the +year the Board had sanctioned the opening of 869 miles of new railway—630 +in England, 108 in Scotland, and 131 in Ireland—making the total extent of +railway communication at the end of the year, 5996 miles, of which 4656 +are in England, 846 in Scotland, and 494 in Ireland.—The Queen left on the +22d for a short visit to the King of the Belgians at Ostend. She was +received with great enthusiasm, and returned the next day—Prince Albert +completed his thirty-first year on the 26th of August. The Queen left town +on the 27th for Scotland.—Sir George Anderson has been appointed Governor +of Ceylon, in place of Lord Torrington, who has been recalled.—The +American steamer _Pacific_ arrived at New York at half-past six P.M., on +Saturday, the 21st ult., having left Liverpool at two P.M. on the 11th. +She thus made the passage in _ten days, four and a half hours:_ this is by +several hours the quickest voyage ever made between the two ports. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +From FRANCE the only news of general interest relates to the tour of the +President through the provinces. The Assembly had previously broken up, +there not being a quorum present on the 9th. It was to re-assemble on the +11th of November. A Committee of _Surveillance_ was to sit during the +recess. On the 12th, the President started on his tour. He had given +several military banquets, which, from their imperial aspect, and the +political spirit manifested by the guests, created a great sensation. On +one of these occasions, a dinner was given to the officers of a portion of +the garrison of Paris; it is told, that after the company left the table, +they adjourned into the garden to smoke their cigars; and there Louis +Napoleon seeing a musket, took it up, and went through the manual exercise +with great dexterity, to the great delight of the sergeants and corporals, +who shouted “Vive le petit Corporal!” (the Emperor’s pet-name among the +soldiers) with great enthusiasm. During his tour, which was unattended by +any very noticeable incident, he made very liberal distribution of crosses +of honor, sometimes accompanied by gratuities to old officers and soldiers +of the imperial army. He had a most brilliant reception at Lyons, where he +spent a day, and was entertained at a grand dinner by the Chamber of +Commerce. At Besançon he had a less gracious reception: at a ball given to +him in the evening a mob broke into the room, shouting “Vive la +Republique,” and creating great confusion. The President left the room, +which was cleared by General Castellane at the point of the bayonet. At +several other places demonstrations were made of a similar character, but +much less violent. + +LOUIS PHILLIPE, late King of France, died on the 26th of August, at +Claremont, England, where he has resided since he became an exile. His +health had gradually failed since he first left France, but it was not +until the 24th, that he became fully sensible of the gravity of his +disease. On that day he was carried out into the open air, and was present +at dinner with his family, although he ate nothing. During the night he +was restless, and was informed by the queen that his medical attendants +despaired of his recovery. The next morning, the doctor, on being asked +his opinion, hesitated. “I understand,” says the king, “you bring me +notice to quit.” To Col. Dumas he dictated a last page of his memoirs, +which terminated a recital in which he had been engaged for the last four +months. The king then sent for his chaplain, with whom he had a long +interview. He repeatedly expressed his readiness for death, which came +upon him at eight o’clock on the morning of Monday, the 26th. Louis +PHILLIPE was born in Paris, Oct. 6, 1773, and was the eldest son of +Phillipe Joseph, Duke of Orleans, known to the world by the _sobriquet_ of +Phillipe Egalité. His education was intrusted to Madame de Genlis, under +whose direction he made himself familiar with the English, German, and +Italian languages, and with the ordinary branches of scientific knowledge. +In 1792, being then Duke de Chartres, he made his first campaign against +the Austrians, fighting at Valmy and Jemappes. His father was executed +January 21, 1793, and he was summoned with Gen. Dumouriez, before the +Committee of Public Safety, seven months after. Both, however, fled, and +escaped to Austria. Retiring to private life, and refusing the offer of +Austria, he was joined by his sister Adelaide and their former +preceptress, and repaired to Zurich, whence, however, he was soon +compelled to make his escape. He became greatly straitened for means, and, +finally, found protection in the house of M. de Montesquion, at +Baumgarten, where he remained until the end of 1794, when he quitted the +place, and resolved to go to the United States. He was compelled to +abandon this project from lack of funds, and traveled on foot through +Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Negotiations were now opened on the part of +the Directory, who had in vain attempted to discover the place of his +exile, to induce him to go to the United States, promising, in the event +of his compliance, that the condition of the Duchess D’Orleans should be +ameliorated, and that his younger brothers should be permitted to join +him. Through the agency of M. Westford, of Hamburg, this letter was +conveyed to the duke, who at once accepted the terms offered, and sailed +from the mouth of the Elbe in the American, taking with him his servant +Baudoin. He departed on the 24th of September, 1796, and arrived in +Philadelphia after a passage of twenty-seven days. In the November +following, the young prince was joined by his two brothers, after a stormy +passage from Marseilles; and the three brothers remained at Philadelphia +during the winter. They afterward visited Mount Vernon, where they became +intimate with General Washington; and they soon afterward traveled through +the western country, and after a long and fatiguing journey they returned +to Philadelphia; proceeding afterward to New Orleans, and, subsequently, +by an English ship, to Havanna. The disrespect of the Spanish authorities +at the Havanna, soon compelled them to depart, and they proceeded to the +Bahama Islands, where they were treated with much kindness by the Duke of +Kent, who, however, did not feel authorized to give them a passage to +England in a British frigate. They, accordingly, embarked for New York, +and thence sailed to England in a private vessel, arriving at Falmouth in +February, 1800. After proceeding to London they took up their residence at +Twickenham, where for some time they enjoyed comparative quiet, being +treated with distinction by all classes of society. Their time was now +principally spent in study, and no event of any importance disturbed their +retreat, until the death of the Duke de Montpensier, on the 18th of May, +1807. The Count Beaujolais soon afterward proceeded to Malta, where he +died in 1808. The Duke of Orleans now quitted Malta, and went to Messina, +in Sicily, accepting an invitation from King Ferdinand. During his +residence at Palermo he gained the affections of the Princess Amelia, and +was married to her in 1809. No event of any material importance marked the +life of the young couple until the year 1814, when it was announced in +Palermo that Napoleon had abdicated the throne, and that the restoration +of the Bourbon family was about to take place. The duke sailed +immediately, and arrived in Paris on the 18th of May, where, in a short +time, he was in the enjoyment of the honors to which he was so well +entitled. The return of Napoleon in 1815, soon disturbed his tranquillity; +and, having sent his family to England, he proceeded, in obedience to the +command of Louis XVIII., to take the command of the army of the north. He +remained in this situation until the 24th of March, 1815, when he resigned +his command to the Duke de Treviso and retired to Twickenham. On the +return of Louis, after the hundred days—in obedience to the ordinance +issued, requiring all the princes of the blood to take their seats in the +Chamber of Peers—the duke returned to France in 1815; and, by his liberal +sentiments, rendered himself so little agreeable to the administration, +that he returned to England, where he remained until 1817. In that year he +returned to France, continuing now in a private capacity, as he was not a +second time summoned to sit in the Chamber of Peers. For some years after +this period the education of his family deeply engaged his attention; and +while the Duke of Orleans was thus pursuing a career apart from the court, +a new and unexpected scene was opened in the drama of his singularly +eventful and changeful life. In 1830 that revolution occurred in France +which eventuated in the elevation of the Duke of Orleans to the throne. +The cause of the elder branch of the Bourbons having been pronounced +hopeless, the king in effect being discrowned, and the throne rendered +vacant, the Provisional Government which had risen out of the struggle, +and in which Laffitte, Lafayette, Thiers, and other politicians, had taken +the lead, turned toward the Duke of Orleans, whom it was proposed, in the +first instance, to invite to Paris, to become Lieutenant-general of the +kingdom, and afterward, in a more regular manner, to become King. The Duke +of Orleans, during the insurrection, had been residing in seclusion at his +country seat, and, if watching the course of events, apparently taking no +active part in dethroning his kinsman. M. Thiers and M. Scheffer were +appointed to conduct the negotiation with the duke, and visited Neuilly +for the purpose. The duke, however, was absent, and the interview took +place with the duchess and Princess Adelaide, to whom they represented the +danger with which the nation was menaced, and that anarchy could only be +averted by the prompt decision of the duke to place himself at the head of +the new constitutional monarchy. M. Thiers expressed his conviction “that +nothing was left the Duke of Orleans but a choice of dangers; and that, in +the existing state of things, to recoil from the possible perils of +royalty was to run full upon the republic and its inevitable violences.” +The substance of the communication having been made known to the duke, on +a day’s consideration he acceded to the request, and at noon on the 31st +came to Paris to accept the office which had been assigned to him. On the +2d of August the abdication of Charles X. and his son was placed in the +hands of the Lieutenant-general, the abdication, however, being in favor +of the Duke of Bordeaux. On the 7th the Chamber of Deputies declared the +throne vacant; and on the 8th the Chamber went in a body to the Duke of +Orleans, and offered him the Crown on the terms of a revised charter. His +formal acceptance of the offer took place on the 9th. From the accession +of Louis Philippe as King of the French, in 1830, his life is universally +known. His reign was marked by sagacity and upright intentions. He +committed the unpardonable error, however, of leaving the people entirely +out of his account, and endeavored to fortify himself by allying his +children to the reigning families of Europe. He married his eldest son +Ferdinand, Duke of Orleans (born 1810) to the Princess Helen of +Mecklenburg-Schwerin; his daughter Louisa (born 1812) to Leopold, King of +the Belgians; his son Louis, Duke of Nemours (born 1814) to the Princess +Victoria of Saxe Coburg Gotha; his daughter Clementina (born 1817) to +Prince Augustus of Saxe Coburg Gotha; his son Francis, Prince of Joinville +(born 1818) to the Princess Frances Caroline, of Brazil; his son the Duke +of Aumale (born 1822) to the Princess Caroline, of Salerno, and his son +Antony, Duke of Montpensier (born 1824) to Louisa, sister and heir +presumptive of the reigning Queen of Spain. But these royal alliances +served him not in the day of his distress. The fatal 24th of February +came, and swept away the throne he had taken so much pains to consolidate, +and he signed his act of abdication, accepting the regency of the Duchess +of Orleans. His subsequent fate is familiar to all. His flight from Paris +to the sea-shore; his escape in disguise to England; his kind reception in +that country, are well known. Claremont was given him as an abode, and +there, with the exception of occasional visits to Richmond and St. +Leonard’s, Louis Philippe continued to reside. There, too, he breathed his +last on Monday morning, the 26th of August, in the 77th year of his age. +His death excited general comment, but was universally regarded as an +event of no political importance.—A very imposing review of the French +fleet at the harbor of Cherbourg, took place on the 7th inst. A great +number of the English nobility and gentlemen were present by special +invitation, and a magnificent display was made of British yachts. An +immense concourse of people was in attendance, and the President, Prince +LOUIS NAPOLEON, was received with distinguished honors. The parting salute +at sunset, when over two thousand pieces of ordnance crashed forth with a +simultaneous roar, was highly effective.—The trade of Paris is said to be +unusually brisk this season. Wheat is abundant and all the harvests yield +good returns, though fears are entertained that the quality of the vintage +may be inferior.—The proceedings of the General Councils of sixty-four of +the eighty-five departments of France are now known.—Forty-seven have +pronounced in favor of the revision of the actual constitution. Seven have +rejected resolutions recommending the revision, and ten have declined the +expression of an opinion upon the subject. Only three have declared +themselves in favor of an extension and continuance of the power now +confided to LOUIS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. Nearly all have expressly desired +that the revision should be effected in the mode and time prescribed by +the constitution itself. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +The LITERARY INTELLIGENCE from abroad lacks special interest. The +Magazines for September contain nothing worthy of mention, which will not +be found in the foregoing pages of this number. BULWER commences a new +novel in Blackwood, the opening chapters of which are here reprinted. It +is in continuation of “The Caxtons,” and promises to be exceedingly +interesting. It will, of course, be given to our readers as rapidly as it +appears. Our opening paper this month is a spirited and eloquent notice of +WORDSWORTH, evidently from the popular and effective pen of GILFILLAN, who +is a constant contributor to the London Eclectic Review from which it is +taken. “David Copperfield” by DICKENS, and “Pendennis” by THACKERAY, draw +toward their end, and our readers may therefore anticipate new productions +from their pens ere long.—The question whether an American can hold a +copyright in England comes up before the English Courts in a suit brought +by Murray for interference with his rights by a publisher who has issued +an edition of Washington Irving. It is stated that Irving has received +from the Murrays the sum of £9767 for the English copyrights of his +various works.—The Gallery of Paintings of the King of Holland has been +sold at auction and the returns are stated at $450,000. The Emperor of +Russia, and the Marquis of Hertford in England, were extensive purchasers. +Two portraits of Vandyke were bought by the latter at 63,000 +florins.—LAMARTINE writes to the _Debats_ from Marseilles, denying, so far +as he is concerned, the truth of statements contained in Mr. CROKER’S +article in the London Quarterly upon the flight of Louis Phillipe. He has +commenced the publication of a new volume of “Confidences” in the +_feuilleton_ of the _Presse_.—The Household Narrative in its summary of +English Literary Intelligence, notices the appearance of an elaborate work +on _Tubular Bridges_ by Mr. Edwin Clark, with a striking folio of +illustrative drawings and lithographs. Also of an Essay in two goodly +octavos on _Ancient Egypt under the Pharaohs_, by Mr. Kenrick, full of +learning, yet full of interest, because grafting on the ascertained old +history all the modern elucidations of travelers and artists, critics and +interpreters. It appears to be but a portion of a contemplated work +comprehending a complete history of those countries of the East whose +civilization preceded and influenced that of Greece; and to our proper +understanding of which, the discovery of the hieroglyphic character, and +such researches as those of Mr. Layard, have lately contributed an entire +new world of information. Another book remarkable for the precision and +completeness of its knowledge, is Doctor Latham’s _Natural History of the +Varieties of Man_, a very important contribution to the literature of +ethnology; and with this is connected in subject, though not in any other +kind of merit, an eccentric fragment on the _Races of Man_, by Dr. Robert +Knox.—Mrs. Jameson has published a second series of her _Poetry of Sacred +and Legendary Art_, in a volume of _Legends of the Monastic Orders_, +similarly illustrated; and nothing can be more graceful than this lady’s +treatment of a subject which has not much that is graceful in itself.—To +biography, a new volume of the _Life of Chalmers_ has been the most +interesting addition. A _Life of Ebenezer Elliott_, by his son-in-law, +possesses also some interest; and, with a little less of the biographer +and more of the biography, would have been yet more successful. In English +fiction, a semi-chartist novel called _Alton Locke_, full of error and +earnestness, and evidently by a University man of the so-called Christian +Socialist school, is the most noticeable work of the kind that has lately +appeared. The other romances of the month have been translations from the +German and French. The _Two Brothers_ is somewhat in the school of Miss +Bremer; and _Stella and Vanessa_ is a novel by a graceful French writer, +very agreeably translated by Lady Duff Gordon, of which the drift is to +excuse Swift for his conduct to Mrs. Johnson and Miss Vanhomrigh. The +subject is curious, and the treatment (for a Frenchman) not less so. +Nothing painful or revolting is dwelt upon, and if it does not satisfy it +fails to offend.—The London _Morning Chronicle_ has an extended and +elaborate review of Mr. TICKNOR’S great “History of Spanish Literature,” +in which it pays the highest possible compliments to the accomplished +author. “The masterly sweep of his general grasp,” it says, “and the +elaborated finish of his constituent sketches, silence the caviller at the +very outset, and enforce him to respectful study, while the unaffected +ease of the style, lively but not flippant, charms the attention, and not +seldom disguises the amount of research and indigation which has been +bestowed upon each stage of the history.” It closes its review with this +emphatic praise: “this History will at once take its position as the +standard book of reference upon Spanish literature, but it will not take +the cold honors of the shelf usually accorded to such volumes, for it will +not only be consulted but read. We cordially congratulate our American +friends upon possessing a compatriot who is able to make such a +contribution to English literature—we are not aware that we are equally +fortunate.”—The third series of SOUTHEY’S Common-Place Book has just +appeared. Unlike the former series, which consisted of selections of rare +and striking passages, and so possessed a general and independent value, +the present volume consists mainly of brief notes or references to +important passages in a great variety of works, bearing upon the subjects +of Civil and Ecclesiastical History, Biography, and Literature in general. +The references are so brief, and the works referred to so rare, that the +book will prove of little service except to those who have access to large +public libraries. Probably not one book in ten of those referred to is to +be found in any library in this country. The volume, however, furnishes +evidence still stronger than the others, of the wonderful extent, variety, +and accuracy of Southey’s reading; it shows that he was a sort of living +library, a walking study; he read almost every thing that appeared, and +methodized, and laid up in his mind all that was worth preserving, of what +he read, and thus gained a super-eminence of information which has rarely +been surpassed. The third volume of his Common-Place Book is not +altogether destitute of those quaint and singular selections which gave so +rare a charm to those that preceded.—The North British Review for the +current quarter, from which we gave some extracts in our September number, +has an article upon the disputed claims of Messrs. Stephenson & Fairbairn +to the credit of having invented the Tubular bridge. If the facts upon +which the reasonings of the reviewer are based, are correctly stated, +there can be no doubt that a large, perhaps the larger share of the credit +due to this greatest triumph of modern engineering, belongs to WILLIAM +FAIRBAIRN, of Manchester, by whom all the experiments were undertaken that +demonstrated the practicability of the undertaking, and proved that a +square form was much stronger than the elliptical one, which was +originally proposed. Mr. Fairbairn, it is stated, showed conclusively by +actual experiment, in opposition to the opinion of Mr. Stephenson, that +suspension chains, as an additional means of support, were not needed, +thus avoiding an outlay of some £200,000. Successful as the experiment has +been in a scientific point of view, the railroad of which this bridge +forms a link, has been most unfortunate in a pecuniary aspect. The stock +consists of two kinds, the original, and preferential. In July, 1850, the +former was selling at a loss of £72 10s., and the latter at a loss of £33 +6s. 8d. on every £100, involving a total loss to the stockholders of +£1,764,000.—The _Barbarigo Gallery_ at Venice, celebrated for ages for its +rich collection, especially of the works of Titian, has been purchased by +the court of Russia for 560,000 francs, or £22,400 sterling. A new singer, +Madame Fiorentini, has appeared at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London, who +attracts considerable attention. She is a native of Seville, and married +to Mr. Jennings, an English officer. She received her musical education in +London, and made her first public appearance at Berlin only twelve months +since.—The telegraphic wires between Dover and Calais, or rather Cape +Grinez, have been laid and got into operation. Dispatches have been +received in this country which were sent from Paris to London by this +means. Thirty miles of wire, incased in a strong coating of gutta percha, +have been imbedded, as far as this could possibly be done, in the bottom +of the channel, by means of leaden weights. It remains now to be seen +whether the precautions taken are sufficient to protect the wire from the +ravages of the ocean’s denizens, the assaults of ships’ anchors, and the +shifting sands which are known to underlie the Straits of Dover.—A duel +took place at Perigueux between MM. CHAVOIX and DUPONT, in which the +latter was killed. The latter was editor of a paper called _Echo de +Vesone_, and had offended M. Chavoix, a wealthy proprietor, by severe +strictures on his conduct. Both were members of the Assembly. They fought +with pistols at twenty-five paces. M. Chavoix won the throw for the choice +of position, and M. Dupont for first fire. Dupont fired and missed. +Chavoix, declaring that he could not see clearly, waited till the smoke of +his adversary’s discharge passed, and fired at an interval of some +seconds. His ball struck the forehead of Dupont, who fell stark dead upon +the plain without uttering a cry or a groan.—The distinguished French +Novelist M. BALZAC died at Paris on the 18th of August, aged 51. He was in +many important respects, the foremost of French writers. He was originally +a journeyman printer at Tours, his native place. His earlier works +obtained a fair measure of success, but it was not until after many years’ +apprenticeship, either anonymously or under assumed cognomens, that he +ventured to communicate his name to the public. And no sooner was the name +given than it became popular—and in a little while famous—famous not in +France alone, but all over Europe. His success was almost as brilliant as +that of Walter Scott himself. In addition to his romances, Balzac wrote +some theatrical pieces, and for a while edited and contributed a good deal +to the _Revue Parisienne_. Since the revolution Balzac published nothing, +but was engaged in visiting the battle-fields of Germany and Russia, and +in piling up materials for a series of volumes, to be entitled _Scenes de +la Vie Militaire._ He leaves behind several MS. works, partially or wholly +completed. His design was to make all his romances form one great work, +under the title of the _Comedíe Humaine_,—the whole being a minute +dissection of the different classes of French society. Only a little while +before his death, he stated that, in what he had done, he had but half +accomplished his task. Next to his great celebrity, the most remarkable +feature in his career is a strong passion which he formed for a Russian +countess, and which, after years of patient suffering, he had the +satisfaction of having rewarded by the gift of the lady’s hand. Shortly +after his marriage—which took place some two years ago—he was attacked +with a disease of the heart, and that carried him off. He and his wife had +only been a few months in Paris when this sad event took place. His +funeral was celebrated with a good deal of ceremony, and an eloquent +funeral oration was pronounced by M. VICTOR HUGO.—Sir MARTIN ARCHER SHEE, +President of the Royal Academy, died at Brighton on the 19th, in his 80th +year. He was elected to the above office in 1830, on the death of Sir +Thomas Lawrence, when he received the honor of knighthood. He retired in +1845 from the active duties of the office, which have been since performed +by Mr. Turner.—The late Sir ROBERT PEEL has left directions in his will +for the early publication of his political memoirs, and has ordered that +the profits arising from the publication shall be given to some public +institution for the education of the working classes. He has confided the +task of preparing these memoirs to Lord Mahon and Mr. Cardwell. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +In the settlement of GERMAN affairs little progress has yet been made by +the Congress at Frankfort. At a meeting on the 8th of August, at which +Count Thun, the Austrian plenipotentiary, presided, it was decided that +Austria should formally invite all the members of the Bund to assemble at +Frankfort on the 1st of September next. A circular note of the 18th of +August, in which the Minister-President reiterates the assurances so +solemnly given in the circular of the 19th July, that it is the earnest +wish of Austria to make such reforms in the Act of Confederation as may be +required by the recent change of circumstances in Germany, and may conduce +to the unity of the common fatherland, was accordingly dispatched with the +Frankfort summons to the different courts on the 15th. It remains to be +seen whether Prussia and the League will accept this proposal.—The third +meeting of the General Peace Congress commenced at Frankfort on the 22d of +August. There were some two thousand delegates in attendance, mostly from +England, France, the United States, and Germany. Gen. Haynau was present +for a time. Resolutions were submitted, discussed, and adopted, +deprecating a resort to arms, and urging the propriety and expediency of +settling all international differences by arbitration. Dr. JAUP presided, +and speeches were made by delegates from every nation. Among the most +prominent representatives from the United States were Elihu Burritt, +Professor Cleaveland, Dr. Hitchcock, and George Copway, an Indian chief; +Mr. Cobden, of England, and Cormenin and Girardin, of France were also in +attendance. The session lasted three days. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +In PIEDMONT a great sensation has been produced by a collision with the +papal power. The Sardinian Minister of Finance, the Cavalière Santa Rosa, +who had supported the ministry in passing the law which rendered the +clergy amenable to the civil courts, being on his death-bed, was refused +the sacrament by the monks, under the direction of Franzoni the Archbishop +of Turin. At his funeral such excitement was manifested by the people, +that to avoid an actual outbreak, the monks were ordered to leave the +city, and the possessions of their order were sequestered. In the search +through their house, documents were found which inculpated the Archbishop +Franzoni himself, and he was consequently arrested and imprisoned in the +fortress of Fenestrelles. Both Austria and France, however, have +interfered; and, in consequence, the editor of _L’Opinione_, a liberal +journal, has been banished from the Sardinian States. It is stated that +Lord Palmerston has addressed to the Court of the Vatican a most energetic +note, in which he cautions it against adopting violent measures toward +Sardinia, and persevering in the system hitherto pursued by the Pope with +regard to that Government. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +A letter from Rome, of the 20th, in the _Constitutionnel_, states that +several persons have been arrested there for a supposed conspiracy to +assassinate the Pope, on Assumption day, by throwing crystal balls filled +with explosive substances into his carriage when on his way to church to +pronounce the benediction. The discovery of the plot prevented all danger. +There was some agitation on the following Sunday, as it was supposed that +there had been a plot against the Austrian Ambassador, on the anniversary +of the birth of the Emperor. A strong armed force was placed near his +palace to protect it, and in the evening some arrests were made. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +A continuance of heavy rain in BELGIUM on the 15th, 16th, and 17th has +produced disastrous inundations in various parts of that country. At +Antwerp there was a tremendous storm of rain, wind, and thunder. The +lightning struck several buildings; many of the streets were under water, +and large trees were uprooted in the neighboring country. At Ghent a large +sugar manufactory was destroyed by lightning, and people were killed by it +in different places. A great part of the city of Brussels and the +neighboring villages were under water for nearly two days; and many houses +were so much damaged that they fell, and a number of persons perished. +Near Charleroi all the fields were submerged, and the injury done to the +crops was immense. At Valenciennes the Scheldt overflowed, inundating the +neighboring country, and causing vast devastation. The damage done to the +crops has produced a rise in the price of flour. Many bridges have been +swept away, and the injury done to the railways has been immense. + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + +From SCHLESWIG HOLSTEIN, we learn that the continued rains have prevented +all renewal of operations in the field. The Danes have established a +permanent camp near Ramstedt, and the marshes in that vicinity have been +completely flooded. The Emperor of Russia has created General KROGH, the +Danish Commander-in-Chief, Knight of the Order of St. Anne of the first +class, for the distinguished bravery and prudence which he displayed in +the engagements of the 24th and 25th of July, at Idstedt. + + + + + +LITERARY NOTICES. + + +_Rural Hours,_ by A LADY, published by G.P. Putnam, is an admirable +volume, the effect of which is like a personal visit to the charming +scenes which the writer portrays with such a genuine passion for nature, +and so much vivacity and truthfulness of description. Without the faintest +trace of affectation, or even the desire to present the favorite +surroundings of her daily life in overdone pictures, she quietly jots down +the sights and sounds, and odorous blossomings of the seasons as they +pass, and by this intellectual honesty and simplicity, has given a +peculiar charm to her work, which a more ambitious style of composition +would never have been able to command. Her eye for nature is as accurate +as her enthusiasm is sincere. She dwells on the minute phenomena of daily +occurrence in their season with a just discrimination, content with +clothing them in their own beauty, and never seeking to increase their +brilliancy by any artificial gloss. Whoever has a love for communing with +nature in the “sweet hour of prime,” or in the “still twilight,” for +watching the varied glories of the revolving year, will be grateful to the +writer of this picturesque volume for such a fragrant record of rural +experience. The author is stated to be a daughter of Cooper, the +distinguished American novelist, and she certainly exhibits an acuteness +of observation, and a vigor of description, not unworthy of her eminent +parentage. + +A new edition of the _Greek and English Lexicon_, by Professor EDWARD +ROBINSON (Harper and Brothers) will be received with lively satisfaction +by the large number of Biblical students in this country and in England +who are under such deep obligations to the previous labors of Dr. ROBINSON +in this department of philology. The work exhibits abundant evidence of +the profound and discriminating research, the even more than German +patience of labor, the rigid impartiality, and the rare critical acumen +for which the name of the author is proverbial wherever the New-Testament +Lexicography is made the object of earnest study. Since the publication of +the first edition, fourteen years since, which was speedily followed by +three rival editions in Great Britain, and two abridgments, the science of +Biblical philology has made great progress; new views have been developed +by the learned labors of Wahl, Bretschneider, Winer, and others; the +experience of the author in his official duties for the space of ten +years, had corrected and enlarged his own knowledge; he had made a +personal exploration of many portions of the Holy Land; and under these +circumstances, when he came to the revision of the work, he found that a +large part of it must be re-written, and the remainder submitted to such +alterations, corrections, and improvements, as were almost as laborious as +the composition of a new Lexicon. The plan of the work in its present +enlarged form, embraces the etymology of each word given—the logical +deduction of all its significations, which occur in the New Testament—the +various combinations of verbs and adjectives—the different forms and +inflections of words—the interpretation of difficult passages—and a +reference to every passage of the New Testament in which the word is +found. No scholar can examine the volume, without a full conviction of the +eminent success with which this comprehensive plan has been executed, and +of the value of the memorial here presented to the accuracy and +thoroughness of American scholarship. The practical use of the work will +be greatly facilitated by the clearness and beauty of the Greek type on +which it is printed, being an admirable specimen of the Porson style. + +_The Berber, or Mountaineer of the Atlas,_ by WILLIAM S. MAYO, M.D., +published by G.P. Putnam, is toned down to a very considerable degree from +the high-colored pictures which produced such a dazzling effect in +_Kaloolah_, the work by which the author first became known to the public. +The scene is laid in Morocco, affording the writer an occasion for the use +of a great deal of geographical and historical lore, which is introduced +to decided advantage as a substantial back-ground to the story, which, in +itself, possesses a sustained and powerful interest. Dr. Mayo displays a +rare talent in individualizing character: his groups consist of distinct +persons, without any confused blundering or repetition; he is not only a +painter of manners, but an amateur of passion; and hence his admirable +descriptions are combined with rapid and effective touches, which betray +no ordinary insight into the subtle philosophy of the heart. The illusion +of the story is sometimes impaired by the introduction of the novelist in +the first person, a blemish which we should hardly have looked for in a +writer who is so obviously well acquainted with the resources of artistic +composition as the author of this volume. + +Harper and Brothers have issued the Fifth Part of _The Life and +Correspondence of_ ROBERT SOUTHEY, which brings the biography down to the +fifty-fifth year of his age, and to the close of the year 1828. The next +number will complete the work, which has sustained a uniform interest from +the commencement, presenting a charming picture of the domestic habits, +literary enterprises, and characteristic moral features of its eminent +subject. Mr. Southey’s connection with the progress of English literature +during the early part of the present century, his strong political +predilections, the extent and variety of his productions, and his singular +devotion to a purely intellectual life, make his biography one of the most +entertaining and instructive records that have recently been published in +this department of letters. His son, Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, by +whom the work is edited, has acquitted himself of his task with admirable +judgment and modesty, never obtruding himself on the notice of the reader, +and leaving the correspondence, which, in fact, forms a continuous +narrative, to make its natural impression, without weakening its force by +superfluous comment. The present number contains several letters to our +distinguished countryman, GEORGE TICKNOR, Esq., of Boston, which will be +read with peculiar interest on account of their free remarks on certain +American celebrities, and their criticisms on some of the popular +productions of American literature. + +Among the late valuable theological publications, is _The Works of Joseph +Bellamy, D.D., with a Memoir of his Life and Character_, by TRYON EDWARDS, +issued by the Doctrinal Tract and Book Society, Boston, in two volumes. As +models of forcible reasoning, and of ingenious and subtle analysis, the +theological disquisitions of Dr. Bellamy have seldom been surpassed, and +their reproduction in the present form will be grateful to many readers +who have not been seduced by the excitements of the age from their love of +profound and acute speculation. The memoir prefixed to these volumes gives +an interesting view of the life of a New England clergyman of the olden +time. + +_Adelaide Lindsay_, from the prolific and vigorous pen of Mrs. MARSH, the +author of “Two Old Men’s Tales,” “The Wilmingtons,” &c, forms the one +hundred and forty—seventh number of Harper and Brothers’ “Library of +Select Novels.” + +_Popular Education; for the Use of Parents and Teachers_ (Harper and +Brothers), is the title of a volume by IRA MAYHEW, prepared in accordance +with a resolution of the Legislature of Michigan, and discussing the +subject, in its multifarious aspects and relations, with a thoroughness, +discrimination, and ability, which can not fail to make it a work of +standard authority in the department to which it is devoted. The author +has been Superintendent of Public Instruction in the State of Michigan; +his official position has put him in possession of a great amount of facts +and statistics in relation to the subject; he is inspired with a noble +zeal in the cause of education; and in the production of this volume, has +given a commendable proof of his industry, good sense, and thorough +acquaintance with an interest on which he rightly judges that the future +prosperity of the American Republic essentially depends. + +C.S. Francis and Co. have published _The Poems of Elizabeth Barrett +Browning_ in a beautiful edition of two volumes, including “The Seraphim, +with other Poems,” as first published in England in 1838, and the contents +of the previous American edition. This edition is introduced with a +Critical Essay, by H.T. TUCKERMAN, taken from his “Thoughts on the Poets,” +presenting in refined and tasteful language, a discriminating view of Mrs. +BROWNING’S position among the living poets of England. Mr. Tuckerman makes +use of no extravagant encomium in his estimate of her powers; his remarks +are less enthusiastic than critical; and, indeed, the more ardent admirers +of Mrs. Browning would deem them of too subdued a tone, and deficient in +an adequate appreciation of her peculiar boldness, originality, and +beauty. The edition now presented to the public will be thankfully +accepted by the wide circle which has learned to venerate Mrs. Browning’s +genius, and will serve to extend the healthful interest cherished by +American readers in the most remarkable poetess of modern times. + +_The Companion; After Dinner Table Talk_, by CHETWOOD EVELYN, Esq. (New +York: G.P. Putnam), is the title of a popular compilation from favorite +English authors, prepared with a good deal of tact and discrimination, and +forming an appropriate counterpart to _The Lift for the Lazy_, published +some time since by the same house. + +George P. Putnam has just issued _The Deer Slayer_, by J. FENIMORE COOPER, +being the first volume of the author’s revised edition of _The Leather +Stocking Tales_. + +Among the swarm of Discourses and Funeral Orations, occasioned by the +death of the late President Taylor, we have seen none of a more striking +character than _The Sermon delivered at the Masonic Hall_, Cincinnati, by +T.H. STOCKTON. It presents a series of glowing and impressive pictures of +public life in Washington, of the tombs of the departed Presidents, of +eminent American statesmen now no more, of the progress of discovery in +this country, and of the march of improvement in modern times. The too +florid character of some portions of the Discourse is amply redeemed by +the spirit of wise patriotism and elevated religion with which it is +imbued, while it has the rare merit of being entirely free from the +commonplaces of the pulpit. In a note to this discourse, it is stated that +the author is desirous of forming a collection of Sermons, Orations, +Addresses, &c., on the death of General Taylor, and that editors and +speakers will confer a favor on him by forwarding him a copy of their +several publications. + +_The Relations of the American Scholar to his Country and his Times_ +(Baker and Scribner), is the title of an Address delivered by HENRY J. +RAYMOND, before the Associate Alumni of the University of Vermont, +maintaining the doctrine that educated men, instead of retiring from the +active interests and contending passions of the world, to some fancied +region of serene contemplation, are bound to share in the struggle, the +competition, the warfare of society. This is argued, with a variety of +illustrations, from the character of the education of the scholar, as +combining theory and practice, and from the peculiar tendencies of +American society, now in a state of rapid fermentation and development. +Mr. Raymond endeavors to do justice both to the Conservative and Radical +elements, which are found in our institutions and national character, and +to discuss those difficult problems in a spirit of moderation, and without +passion. Of the literary character of this production, the writer of the +present notice can speak with more propriety in another place. + +_The Recent Progress of Astronomy_, by ELIAS LOOMIS (Harper and Brothers), +exhibits the most important astronomical discoveries made within the last +ten years, with special reference to the condition of the science in the +United States. Among the topics treated in detail, are the discovery of +the planet Neptune, the addition to our knowledge of comets, with a full +account of Miss Mitchell’s comet, the new stars and nebulae, the +determination of longitude by the electric telegraph, the manufacture of +telescopes in the United States, and others of equal interest both to men +of science and the intelligent reader in general. Professor LOOMIS +displays a singularly happy talent in bringing the results of scientific +investigation to the level of the common mind, and we predict a hearty +welcome to his little volume, as a lucid and delightful compendium of +valuable knowledge. The author states in the Preface, that “he has +endeavored to award equal and exact justice to all American astronomers; +and if any individual should feel that his labors in this department have +not been fairly represented, he is requested to furnish in writing a +minute account of the same,” and he shall receive amends in a second +edition of the work. + +Professor LOOMIS’S _Mathematical Course_ has met with signal favor at the +hands of the best instructors in our higher institutions of learning. New +editions of his _Algebra_ and the _Geometry_ have recently been issued; +and a new volume on _Analytical Geometry_, and the _Calculus_, completing +the course, will soon appear. + +_Truth and Poetry, from my own Life, or the Autobiography of Goethe_, +edited by PARKE GODWIN, is issued in a second edition by George P. Putnam, +with a preface, showing the plagiarisms which have been committed on it in +a pretended English translation from the original, by one John Oxenford. +This enterprising person has made a bold appropriation of the American +version, with only such changes as might serve the purpose of concealing +the fraud. In addition to this felonious proceeding, he charges the +translation to which he has helped himself so freely, with various +inaccuracies, not only stealing the property, but giving it a bad name. +The work of the American editor has thus found a singular, but effectual +guarantee for its value, and is virtually pronounced to be a translation +incapable of essential improvement. With the resources possessed by Mr. +GODWIN, in his own admirable command both of the German and of the English +language, and the aid of the rare scholarship in this department of +letters of Mr. CHARLES A. DANA and Mr. JOHN S. DWIGHT, to whom a portion +of the work was intrusted, he could not fail to produce a version which +would leave little to be desired by the most fastidious critic. It is +unnecessary to speak of the merits of the original, which is familiar to +all who have the slightest tincture of German literature. As a history of +the progress of literary culture in Germany, as well as of the rich +development of Goethe’s own mind, it is one of the most instructive, and +at the same time, the most entertaining biographies in any language. + +Daniel Adee has republished, in a cheap form, the twenty-first part of +_Braithwaite’s Retrospect of Practical Medicine and Surgery_, a work +richly entitled to a place in every physician’s library. + +_Domestic History of the Revolution_, by Mrs. ELLET (Baker and Scribner), +follows the thread of the Revolutionary drama, unfolding many agreeable +and often touching incidents, which have not been brought to light before, +and illustrating the manners and society of that day, in connection with +the great struggle for national life. The researches of the author in +collecting materials for “The Women of the Revolution,” have put her in +possession of a variety of domestic details and anecdotes, illustrative of +the state of the country at different intervals, which she has used with +excellent effect in the composition of this volume. Without indulging in +fanciful embellishment, she has confined herself to the simple facts of +history, rejecting all traditional matter, which is not sustained by +undoubted authority. The events of the war in the upper districts of South +Carolina, are described at length, as, in the opinion of Mrs. Ellet, no +history has ever yet done justice to that portion of the country, nor to +the chivalrous actors who there signalized themselves in the Revolutionary +contest. + +D. Appleton and Company have published an interesting volume of American +biography, entitled _Lives of Eminent Literary and Scientific Men_, by +JAMES WYNNE, M.D., comprising memoirs of Franklin, President Edwards, +Fulton, Chief Justice Marshall, Rittenhouse, and Eli Whitney. They are +composed in a tone of great discrimination and reserve, and scarcely in a +single estimate come up to the popular estimation of the character +described. Doctor Franklin and President Edwards, especially, are handled +in a manner adapted to chill all enthusiasm which may have been connected +with their names. Nor does the scientific fame of Robert Fulton gather any +new brightness under the author’s hands. This cool dissection of the dead +may not be in accordance with the public taste, but in justice to the +author, it should be borne in mind that he is a surgeon by profession. + +The same house has issued an edition of _Cicero’s Select Orations_, with +Notes, by Professor E.A. JOHNSON, in which liberal use has been made of +the most recent views of eminent German philologists. The volume is highly +creditable to the industry and critical acumen of the Editor, and will +prove a valuable aid to the student of the classics. + +_Lady Willoughby’s Diary_ is reprinted by A.S. Barnes and Co., New +York—the first American edition of a volume unrivaled for its sweetness +and genuine pathos. + +_The Young Woman’s Book of Health_, by Dr. WILLIAM A. ALCOTT, published by +Tappan, Whittemore, and Co., Boston, is an original summary of excellent +physiological precepts, expressed with the simplicity and distinctness for +which the author is celebrated. + +_Songs of Labor and Other Poems_ is the title of a new volume by JOHN G. +WHITTIER, published by Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, Boston, containing the +spirited lyrics which have already gained a large share of favor in the +public journals. + +_Poems of the Heart_, by GEORGE W. NICHOLSON, (G. S. Appleton, +Philadelphia), is the “last production of the author’s boyhood,” and +exhibits the most decided marks of its origin. + +_The Mariner’s Vision_ is the title of a Poem by T.L. DONNELLY, +Philadelphia, evidently written with little preparation, but showing some +traces of poetic talent, which may ripen into excellence at a future day. + +A beautiful reprint of _Æsop’s Fables_, edited by Rev. THOMAS GARNES, with +more than Fifty Illustrations from TENNIAL’S designs has been issued by +Robert B. Collins, New York, in a style of superb typography, which can +not fail to command the admiration of the amateur. + +The volume before us awakens recollections of “by-gone days,” in the +Publishers of this Magazine, upon which we love to dwell. Æsop’s Fables +was among the first books which passed through our press. Some thirty +years since, we printed an edition of it for the late EVERT DUYCKINCK, +Esq. (father of the present accomplished editors of the _Literary World_), +one of the leading booksellers and publishers of his day, and, in every +sense, “a good man and true,” as well as one of our earliest and best +friends. His memory to us is precious—his early kindness will ever live in +our recollection. + +The name of COLLINS (publisher of the present edition), has been so long +and closely associated with the book trade in this country, that we +apprehend the public may feel some interest in a short sketch of the rise +and progress of this most respectable publishing firm. ISAAC COLLINS, a +member of the Society of Friends, was the founder of the house. He +originally came from Virginia, and commenced the printing and bookselling +business in the city of Trenton, New Jersey, about the close of the +Revolutionary War, where he printed the first quarto Bible published in +America. This Bible was so highly esteemed for its correctness, that the +American Bible Society was at some pains to obtain a copy, from which to +print their excellent editions of the Scriptures. It would take too much +space to follow the various changes in the firm, under the names of Isaac +Collins, Isaac Collins & Son, Collins, Perkins & Co., Collins & Co., down +to the establishment of the house of Collins & Hannay, about the close of +the last war. This concern was composed of BENJAMIN S. COLLINS (the son of +Isaac), and SAMUEL HANNAY, who had been educated for the business by the +old house of Collins & Co. The enterprise, liberality, and industry of +this firm soon placed them at the head of the book trade in the city of +New York, where they are still remembered with respect and esteem by the +thousands of customers scattered all over our immense country, and with +affection and gratitude by many whose fortunes were aided, and whose +credit was established, by their generous confidence and timely aid. Mr. +BENJAMIN S. COLLINS is now living in dignified retirement, on his farm in +Westchester County. Several other members of the family, formerly +connected with the bookselling business, have also retired with a +competency, and are now usefully devoting their time and attention to the +promotion of the various charitable institutions of the country. Mr. +HANNAY died about a year since—and here we may be permitted to record our +grateful memory of one of the best men, and one of the most enterprising +booksellers ever known in our country. His exceeding modesty prevented his +marked and excellent qualities from being much known out of the small +circle of his immediate friends—but by them he is remembered with feelings +of love and veneration. The house of Collins & Hannay became subsequently +B. & S. Collins; Collins, Keese, & Co.; Collins, Brother, & Co.; and +Collins & Brother; now at last ROBERT B. COLLINS, the publisher of the +work under notice. We trust he may pursue the path to fortune with the +same honorable purposes, by the same honorable means, and with the same +gratifying result, which signalized the efforts of his worthy +predecessors. Nor are the names of the printer and stereotyper of the +present volume without a fraternal interest. The printer, Mr. VAN NORDEN, +one of our early and highly esteemed associates, may now be termed a +typographer of the old school. The quality of his work is good evidence +that he is entitled to the reputation, which has been long accorded to +him, of being one of the best printers in the country. The stereotyper of +this work, our old friend SMITH, is by no means a novice in his +department. We are glad to see that he, too, so ably maintains his +long-established reputation. May the publisher, the printer, and the +stereotyper of this edition of Æsop, ever rejoice in the sunshine of +prosperity, and may their shadows never be less! + +Geo. P. Putnam has published a work entitled _New Elements of Geometry_, +by SEBA SMITH, which can not fail to attract the notice of the curious +reader, on account of the good faith and evident ability with which it +sustains what must be regarded by all orthodox science as a system of +enormous mathematical paradoxes. The treatise is divided into three parts, +namely, The Philosophy of Geometry, Demonstrations in Geometry, and +Harmonies of Geometry. In opposition to the ancient geometers, by whom the +definitions and axioms of the science were fixed, Mr. SMITH contends that +the usual division of magnitudes into lines, surfaces, and solids is +without foundation, that every mathematical line has a breadth, as +definite, as measurable, and as clearly demonstrable as its length, and +that every mathematical surface has a thickness, as definite, as +measurable, and as clearly demonstrable as its length or breadth. The +neglect of this fact has hitherto prevented a perfect understanding of the +true relation between numbers, magnitudes, and forms. Hence, the +barrenness of modern analytical speculation, which has been complained of +by high authorities, the mathematical sciences having run into a luxuriant +growth of foliage, with comparatively small quantities of fruit. This evil +Mr. SMITH supposes will be avoided by adopting the principle, that as the +measurement of extension is the object of geometry, lines without breadth, +and surfaces without thickness, are imaginary things, of which this rigid +and exact science can take no cognizance. Every thing which comes within +the reach of geometry must have extension, must have magnitude, must +occupy a portion of space, and accordingly must have extension in every +direction from its centre. Hence, as there is but one kind of quantity in +geometry, lines, surfaces, and solids must have identically the same unit +of comparison, and must be always perfect measures of each other. The unit +may be infinitely varied in size—it being the name or representative of +any assumed magnitude to which it is applied—but it always represents a +magnitude of a definite form, and hence a magnitude which has an extension +in every direction from its centre, and consequently represents not only +one in length, but also one in breadth, and one in thickness. One inch, +for example, in pure geometry, is always one cubic inch, but when used to +measure a line, or extension in one direction, we take only one dimension +of the unit, namely, the linear edge of the cube, and thus the operation +not demanding either the breadth or the thickness of the unit, geometers +have fallen into the error of supposing that a line is length without any +breadth. These are the leading principles on which Mr. SMITH attempts the +audacious task of rearing a new fabric of geometrical science, without +regard to the wisdom of antiquity or the universal traditions of the +schools. To us outside barbarians in the mysteries of mathematics, we +confess that the work has the air of an ingenious paradox; but we must +leave it to the professors to decide upon its claims to be a substitute +for Euclid, Playfair, and Legendre. Every one who has a fondness for +dipping into these recondite subjects will perceive in Mr. SMITH’S volume +the marks of profound research, of acute and subtle powers of reasoning, +and of genuine scientific enthusiasm, combined with a noble freedom of +thought, and a rare intellectual honesty. For these qualities, it is +certainly entitled to a respectful mention among the curiosities of +literature, whatever verdict may be pronounced on the scientific claims of +the author by a jury of his peers. + +Little and Brown, Boston, have issued an interesting work by the Nestor of +the New England press, JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, entitled _Specimens of +Newspaper Literature, with Personal Memoirs, Anecdotes and Reminiscences_, +which comes with a peculiar propriety from his veteran pen. The personal +experience of the author, in connection with the press, extends over a +period of more than fifty years, during a very considerable portion of +which time he has been at the head of a leading journal in Boston, and in +the enjoyment of a wide reputation, both as a bold and vigorous thinker, +and a pointed, epigrammatic, and highly effective writer. In this last +respect, indeed, few men in any department of literature can boast of a +more familiar acquaintance with the idiomatic niceties of our language, or +a more skillful mastery of its various resources, than the author of the +present volumes. His influence has been sensibly felt, even among the +purists of the American Athens, and under the very droppings of the Muses’ +sanctuary at Cambridge, in preserving the “wells of English undefiled” +from the corruptions of rash innovators on the wholesome, recognized +canons of language. His sarcastic pen has always been a terror to evil +doers in this region of crime. In the work before us, we should have been +glad of a larger proportion from the author himself, instead of the +copious extracts from the newspapers of old times, which, to be sure, have +a curious antiquarian interest, but which are of too remote a date to +command the attention of this “fast” generation. The sketches which are +given of several New England celebrities of a past age are so natural and +spicy, as to make us wish that we had more of them. Materials for a third +volume, embracing matters of a more recent date, we are told by the +author, are not wanting; we sincerely hope that he will permit them to see +the light; and especially that the call for this publication may not be +defeated by an event, as he intimates, “to which all are subject—an event +which may happen to-morrow, and must happen soon.” + +A new edition of EDWARD EVERETT’S _Orations and Speeches_, in two large +and elegant octavos, has been published by Little and Brown, including in +the first volume the contents of the former edition, and in the second +volume, the addresses delivered on various occasions, since the year 1836. +In an admirably-written Preface to the present edition, Mr. Everett gives +a slight, autobiographical description of the circumstances in which his +earlier compositions had their origin, and in almost too deprecatory a +tone, apologizes for the exuberance of style and excess of national +feeling with which they have sometimes been charged. In our opinion, this +appeal is uncalled for, as we can nowhere find productions of this class +more distinguished for a virginal purity of expression, and grave dignity +of thought. As a graceful, polished, and impressive rhetorician, it would +be difficult to name the superior of Mr. Everett, and had he not been too +much trammeled by the scruples of a fastidious taste, with his singular +powers of fascination, he would have filled a still broader sphere than +that which he has nobly won in the literature of his country. We +gratefully welcome the announcement with which the preface concludes, and +trust that it will be carried into effect at an early date. “It is still +my purpose, should my health permit, to offer to the public indulgence a +selection from a large number of articles contributed by me to the North +American Review, and from the speeches, reports, and official +correspondence, prepared in the discharge of the several official stations +which I have had the honor to fill at home and abroad. Nor am I wholly +without hope that I shall be able to execute the more arduous project to +which I have devoted a good deal of time for many years, and toward which +I have collected ample materials—that of a systematic treatise on the +modern law of nations, more especially in reference to those questions +which have been discussed between the governments of the United States and +Europe since the peace of 1783.” + +_Echoes of the Universe_ is the title of a work by HENRY CHRISTMAS, +reprinted by A. Hart, Philadelphia, containing a curious store of +speculation and research in regard to the more mystical aspects of +religion, with a strong tendency to pass the line which divides the sphere +of legends and fictions from the field of well-established truth. The +author is a man of learning and various accomplishments; he writes in a +style of unusual sweetness and simplicity; his pages are pervaded with +reverence for the wonders of creation; and with a singular freedom from +the skeptical, destructive spirit of the day, he is startled by no mystery +of revelation, however difficult of comprehension by the understanding. +The substance of this volume was originally delivered in the form of +letters to an Episcopal Missionary Society in England. It is now published +in a greatly enlarged shape, with the intention of presenting the truths +of religion in an interesting aspect to minds that are imbued with the +spirit of modern cultivation. Among the Echoes that proceed from the world +of matter, the author includes those that are uttered by the solar system, +the starry heavens, the laws of imponderable fluids, the discoveries of +geology, and the natural history of Scripture. To these, he supposes, that +parallel Echoes may be found from the world of Spirit, such as the +appearance of a Divine Person, recorded in Sacred History, the visitations +of angels and spirits of an order now higher than man, the apparitions of +the departed spirits of saints, the cases recorded of demoniacal +possession, and the manner in which these narratives are supported and +explained by reason and experience. The seen and the unseen, the physical +and the immaterial, according to the author, will thus be shown to +coincide, and the Unity of the Voice proved by the Unity of the Echo. This +is the lofty problem of the volume, and if it is not solved to the +satisfaction of every reader, it will not be for the want of a genial +enthusiasm and an adamantine faith on the part of the author. + +The same house has published a neat edition of Miss BENGER’S popular +_Memoir of Anne Boleyn_. + +A new work by W. GILMORE SIMMS, entitled _The Lily and Totem_, (Baker and +Scribner, New York) consists of the romantic legends connected with the +establishment of the Huguenots in Florida, embroidered upon a substantial +fabric of historical truth, with great ingenuity and artistic effect. The +basis of the work is laid in authentic history; facts are not superseded +by the romance; all the vital details of the events in question are +embodied in the narrative but when the original record is found to be +deficient in interest, the author has introduced such creations of his own +as he judged in keeping with the subject, and adapted to picturesque +impression. It was his first intention to have made the experiment of +Coligny in the colonization of Florida, the subject of a poem; but +dreading the want of sympathy in the mass of readers, he decided on the +present form, as more adapted to the popular taste, though perhaps less in +accordance with the character of the theme. With his power of graphic +description, and the mild poetical coloring which he has thrown around the +whole narrative, Mr. SIMMS will delight the imaginative reader, while his +faithful adherence to the spirit of the history renders him an instructive +guide through the dusky and faded memorials of the past. One of the +longest stories in the volume is the “Legend of Guernache,” a record of +love and sorrow, scarcely surpassed in sweetness and beauty by any thing +in the romance of Indian history. + +_Reminiscences of Congress_, by CHARLES W. MARCH, (Baker and Scribner, New +York), is principally devoted to the personal and political history of +DANIEL WEBSTER, of whom it relates a variety of piquant anecdotes, and at +the same time giving an analysis of his most important speeches on the +floor of Congress. The leading statesmen of the United States, without +reference to party, are made to sit for their portraits, and are certainly +sketched with great boldness of delineation, though, in some cases, the +free touches of the artist might be accused of caricature. Among the +distinguished public men who are introduced into this gallery are John Q. +Adams, Clay, Calhoun, Benton, Jackson, and Van Buren, whose features can +not fail to be recognized at sight, however twisted, in some respects, +they may be supposed to be by their respective admirers. Mr. MARCH has had +ample opportunities for gaining a familiar acquaintance with the subjects +he treats; his observing powers are nimble and acute; without any +remarkable habits of reflection, he usually rises to the level of his +theme; and with a command of fluent and often graceful language, his +style, for the most part, is not only readable but eminently attractive. + +A new and greatly enlarged edition of _Mental Hygeine_, by WILLIAM +SWEETSER, has been published by Geo. P. Putnam—a volume which discusses +the reciprocal influence of the mental and physical conditions, with +clearness, animation, and good sense. It is well adapted for popular +reading, no less than for professional use. + + + + + +AUTUMN FASHIONS. + + + [Illustration.] + + Fig. 1. Evening Costume. + + +Evening Dresses. White is generally adopted for the evening toilet. +Muslin, _tulle_, and _barege_ form elegant and very beautiful textures for +this description of dress. They are decorated with festooned flounces, cut +in deep square vandykes; the muslins are richly embroidered. A _barege_, +trimmed with narrow _ruches_ of white silk ribbon, placed upon the edge, +has the appearance of being pinked at the edge. Those of white _barege_ +covered with bouquets of flowers, are extremely elegant, trimmed with +three deep flounces, finished at the edge with a _chicoree_ of green +ribbon forming a wave; the same description of _chicoree_ may be placed +upon the top of the flounces. Corsage _a la_ Louis XV., trimmed with +_ruches_ to match. For dresses of _tulle_, those with double skirts are +most in vogue. Those composed of Brussels _tulle_ with five skirts, each +skirt being finished with a broad hem, through which passes a pink ribbon, +are extremely pretty. The skirts are all raised at the sides with a large +moss rose encircled with its buds, the roses diminishing in size toward +the upper part. These skirts are worn over a petticoat of a lively pink +silk, so that the color shows through the upper fifth skirt. As to the +corsage, they all resemble each other; the Louis XV. and Pompadour being +those only at present in fashion. + + [Illustration.] + + Fig. 2. Morning Costume. + + +A very beautiful evening dress is represented by fig. 1, which shows a +front and back view. It is a pale lavender dress of striped satin; the +body plaited diagonally, both back and front, the plaits meeting in the +centre. It has a small _jacquette_, pointed at the back as well as the +front; plain sleeve reaching nearly to the elbow, finished by a lace +ruffle, or frill of the same. The skirt is long and full, and has a rich +lace flounce at the bottom. The breadths of satin are put together so that +the stripes meet in points at the seams. Head dress, with lace lappets. + +Fig. 2 represents an elegant style of body, worn over a skirt of light +lavender silk, with three flounces, each edged with a double _rûche_, +trimmed with narrow ribbon. The body is of embroidered muslin, the small +skirt of which is trimmed with two rows of lace; the sleeves are wide; +they are three-quarter length and are trimmed with three rows of lace and +rosettes of pink satin ribbon. This is for a morning costume. + +Another elegant style of morning home dress, is composed of Valenciennes +cambric; the corsage plaited or fulled, so as to form a series of crossway +fullings, which entirely cover the back and front of the bust, the centre +of which is ornamented with a _petit décolletté_ in the shape of a +lengthened heart; the same description of centre-piece is placed at the +back, where it is closed by means of buttons and strings, ingeniously +hidden by the fullings. The lower part of the body forms but a slight +point, and is round and stiffened, from which descends a _châtelaine_, +formed by a wreath of _plumetis_, descending to the edge of the dress, and +bordered on each side with a large inlet, gradually widening toward the +lower part of the skirt. + +Fashionable Colors. It is almost impossible to state which colors most +prevail, all are so beautifully blended and intermixed; those, however, +which seem most in demand are maroon, sea-green, blue, _pensée,_ &c. + + + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + + 1 Now it is fate. _July_, 1850. + + 2 ——From swaddling-clothes, + Dying begins at birth. + + 3 The honest and uncompromising spirit in which these papers oppose + the sanitary movement, has led some people to imagine that there is + satire meant in them. The best way to answer this suspicion, is to + print here so much as we can find space for of the speech of + Alderman Lawrence, reported in the “Times” one Saturday. It will be + seen that the tone of his eloquence, and that of ours, differ but + little; and that the present writer resembles the learned Alderman + (who has succeeded, however, on a far larger scale) in his attempt + _miscere stultitiam consiliis brevem_. The noble city lord remarked: + “The fact was, that the sanitary schemes were got up; talk was made + about cholera, and people became alarmed. Now, it was said that + burial-grounds were highly injurious to health, and a great cry had + been raised against them. He did not know such to be the fact, that + they were injurious to health. He did not believe one word about it. + There were many persons who lived by raising up bugbears of this + description in the present day, and those persons were always + raising up some new crotchet or another.” After giving his view of + the new interments bill, he asked, “Was it likely that the public + would put up with the idea even of thus having the remains of their + friends carried about the country? Was it likely that the Government + would be permitted thus to spread perhaps pestilence and fever?” + There! If you want satire, could you have a finer touch than that + last sentence? There is a bone to pick, and marrow in it too. + + 4 In the ventilation of large buildings destined to admit a throng, it + may be also advantageous to the ægritudinary cause if heat be at all + times considered a sufficient agent. + + 5 Calcutta, 1848. This report is also published in the “Journal of the + Agricultural and Horticultural Society of India,” vol. vi. part 2. + + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, NO. V, OCTOBER, 1850, VOLUME I.*** + + + +CREDITS + + +August 17, 2010 + + Project Gutenberg TEI edition 1 + Produced by David King and the Online Distributed Proofreading + Team at <http://www.pgdp.net/>. + + + +A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG + + +This file should be named 33452‐0.txt or 33452‐0.zip. + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + + + http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/3/4/5/33452/ + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one — the old editions will be +renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one +owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and +you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission +and without paying copyright royalties. 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